Pistols at Dawn (5 page)

Just how he had come to be thinking of their intriguing color took him aback for an instant. He shook away such distracting thoughts and quickly parried her cut with a thrust of his own.

"You deliberately misinterpret my words, Miss Kirtland. If you would temper your anger with a modicum of reason, you would see your accusations are unjust. My nephew has offered marriage. If that is not acceptable, I am simply trying to find some other way to offer amends for the damage that has been done."

"Nothing can make amends for that!"

He met her fiery words with an icy stare. "Then what is it you would like?"

Eliza pointed at Lucien. "To see him suffer! To see him transported or swinging from the gibbet for what he has done."

"No, I cannot allow that." Marcus's jaw set in an intractable line. "Lucien is willing to abide by what honor demands and give your sister the protection of his name. I will not ask more than that from him."

"I could press charges."

"Don't be a fool," he snapped. "We both know it would only further harm your sister." His eyes avoided Meredith. "No magistrate would act on such a charge. My nephew could always claim that she was... willing. Do you doubt that his word would be accepted over hers?"

"I—"

Meredith laid a hand on Eliza's arm. "I know you mean well, but I do not wish to argue anymore. Lord Killingworth and his nephew have offered to take responsibility for what has happened. It is, I imagine, a generous offer. Though not one we wish to accept. The matter is finished."

"But—"

"Please, Eliza. It is what I wish."

The trill notes of a robin's song wafted from the garden, an incongruous counterpoint to the harsh words still echoing in the grim silence.

"Very well. If that is what you wish." Eliza looked away. "Good day, gentlemen."

Lucien fell back a step, but then hesitated, hands clenched tightly at his side. "I... didn't mean to hurt you," he stammered. "Never have I done such a..." Words seemed to elude him. "I—I am so very sorry."

The earl rather expected another round of invectives, but as Eliza turned and met the haunted look in his nephew's eyes, she heaved a sigh. "Aren't we all?"

It was impossible to make out Meredith's expression for she had retreated into the flickering shadows.

He took hold of Lucien's sleeve and started him toward the door. "You know where to find us if you have a change of mind." He left the purse where it lay.

"Oh yes, I certainly do, Lord Killingworth." Eliza spoke just loudly enough for him to hear her parting shot.

"But Hell is where the likes of you and your nephew belong."

Chapter 4

Meredith knelt down and began to gather up the herbs from the floor. "I had better start on Mama's tisane," she said softly, her features still hidden from any scrutiny. Without waiting for a response, she took up her basket and hurried toward the kitchen.

It took a moment for Eliza to realize that her hands were so tightly clenched that her nails had drawn blood. Looking down, she quirked a rueful grimace and forced herself to relax. It would seem that the term "seeing red" was not merely old wives' expression for a fit of blinding anger. Such a display of raw emotion left her feeling both stunned and a little shaken.

Strong, steady, unbending. A female with deeply rooted notions of principles and purpose. And one as unlikely to snap in the face of a storm as the towering oak behind the village tavern.

Now
that
was the Eliza Kirtland most people would recognize, including herself. Though, to be honest, there were others—people to whom she had stood up over the years—who would no doubt use less flattering adjectives. Stubborn and strong-willed were among the first to come to mind.

Well, whatever the nuance of language, something had broken her self-control as if it were naught but a twig. The crime against her sister had been a monstrous one, to be sure, but was it that alone which had sparked such passion? For along with anger and a desire for revenge was another powerful emotion she couldn't put a name to.

Or didn't dare to.

Her nails nearly dug fresh furrows in her palms. The brutal truth was, her heart had nearly skipped a beat on seeing the Earl of Killingworth in the doorway of the parlor. In daylight, his shoulders looked even more sculpted, his height even more imposing, his profile even more handsome...

No!
It simply could not be possible that she felt any attraction to one of the most notorious libertines in the land. Much less one that was so intensely... physical.

Even in her youth she had never been foolish enough to fall into girlish raptures over an attractive face or casual compliment. So surely she was not now, at such an advanced age, succumbing to sheer lunacy.

And yet it was hard to deny that he aroused feelings that defied mere words.

A shiver shuddered through her.

She took a deep breath. It was not as if she disliked men in general. Not really. There were several of her acquaintances who merited her regard. However, the trouble was that most of them seemed lacking in any of the qualities that engendered real respect. And those shortcomings were only exacerbated by the fact that they were accorded authority by virtue of their plumbing rather than their brains.

The utter unfairness of it elicited another grimace. One had only to look at the earl to realize the justness of her anger. By all accounts Killingworth was naught but a drunkard and rake. Talk of his outrageous luck at the gaming tables had reached even so small a village as Chertwell. As had word of his prowess in the boudoirs of Town. And yet, he was the one who had the power to decide what justice was. Why, with no more than a curt word, he could affect the course of their lives and—

Eliza stopped herself from such pointless railing. There would be time enough later to dwell on the shortcomings of the earl and his ilk. Right now she had best go in to her sister.

Meredith was bent over a large iron kettle. "Are they gone?" she asked softly as she stirred a mixture of chopped herbs into the boiling water.

"Yes." Eliza brushed a lock of a hair from her sister's cheek. "And I doubt very much whether they shall return."

Meredith essayed a smile. "You certainly raked His Lordship over the coals. Though I'm not sure it was quite wise to risk igniting his ire. After all, since he owns the living to the parish, he does have the power to turn us out from this cottage if he so chooses."

"Let him try," she muttered.

Another handful of greens went into the brew. "You needn't be so worried about me, you know. I am not quite so fragile as you think." Meredith added a crumble of willowbark. "I—I imagine it will take some time before the nightmares fade, or before I can see a man approach without flinching. But I shall get over it." She forced her chin up. "Something of value may have been stolen from me, but I shall not let anyone take away what is really important—my self-respect."

Eliza's voice caught in her throat. "I shall take care never to underestimate you again, Merry. Thank heaven that your special gift for healing people extends to yourself as well." She shook her head. "How is it that you are so wise beyond your years?"

"Perhaps because I have been listening to you for so long."

They exchanged fierce hugs, then Meredith dabbed at her eyes with the sleeve of her gown. "Let us bring Mama her tisane."

"I'll do it, if you would rather lie down." Eliza touched her sister's swollen eye.

"I—I would rather keep busy. And you needn't worry that Mama is going to be upset by my appearance. I already told her that I fell along the riverbank while foraging for cress."

"Brave girl," murmured Eliza. "Come then, we'll go together."

* * *

"Well, it appears you have more luck than you deserve." The earl waved a brusque signal to his coachman. "You may escape this sordid business without any consequences. Though I warn you, the lady may well change her mind on thinking the matter over. If she does, I shall still expect you to do your duty." He clamped his high crowned beaver hat back on his head. "In the future," he added harshly, "I shall also expect you to control your drinking and to sheath your sword in naught but willing scabbards. If anything like this happens again, I'll see you shipped off to some godforsaken plantation in Jamaica, do you understand me?"

Lucien's only reply was a stifled groan as he grabbed for the carriage door. His fingers slipped on the latch and he fell heavily against the lacquered wood. "Sweet Jesus," he groaned. "Did you see that poor girl's face? And the way she looked at me as if I were some sort of depraved... monster?" His fist hit the paneling. "I can't believe I could ever have done such a horrible thing to another person. I—"

A violent retching cut off his words. It was several moments before the young man managed to gain control of his heaving stomach.

Marcus's expression, though unchanged, seemed to soften slightly. He took a handkerchief from his pocket and thrust it into Lucien's hand before helping him into the carriage. Once inside, his nephew turned away and slumped back against the squabs, eyes closed, the silk square pressed to his lips.

The earl was not unhappy with the prospect of silence for the journey home. He, too, shifted to face the glass, but the fields of spring wheat and flocks of sheep passed by in a blur.

Hell's teeth.
Things had gone much worse than he had imagined—as if that was possible.

He massaged at his brow. Given the circumstances, what, exactly, had he expected? Anger, certainly, and hurt. That was only natural. But he had also thought to see just a glimmer of gratitude as well, for the willingness to offer a country girl of modest means something that few gentlemen would have felt obliged to give.

Gratitude?
Ha! There had been nothing but scorn and loathing in Miss Eliza Kirtland's flashing green eyes. It was hard to blame her, of course. The deed had been a dastardly one, and she looked rather young to be bearing sole responsibility for her family. And it didn't help matters that gossip about his own past apparently had as little trouble circulating through the countryside of Devonshire as it did through the drawing rooms of Mayfair.

Still, he had made every attempt to act honorably and it piqued him that she had dismissed his efforts so out of hand.

The devil take it.
She was certainly unlike any other female of his acquaintance. The sharpness of her claws and the fierceness of her words reminded him once again of a tiger. Why, even her hair had a hint of russet highlights.

She had a tiger's courage as well, he admitted grudgingly, to go along with her protective instincts. How many young ladies would dare to march into a titled lord's library brandishing a pistol? Not to speak of hurling such deliberate insults in his face. He rubbed at his jaw. And how many females would be so stubbornly principled as to reject the offer of status and a tidy fortune?

Yes, the snappish, snarling Miss Kirtland was indeed unique.

Would that she remained so, and didn't change her mind about this blasted mess. He would be as well pleased as the young lady if their paths never crossed again. The last thing he needed at the moment—besides a troublesome ward—was a troublesome female in his life. He had more than enough difficulties cope with as it was.

Yet some odd stirring of his body refused to acknowledge the admonitions of his brain.

Distracting himself from such disturbing thoughts, Marcus slanted a quick glance at Lucien. His anger had slowly been replaced by exasperation, and even a touch of sympathy. Perhaps he deserved some of the blame for what had happened. It could not have been easy for the young man to lose loving parents at a tender age, only to find them replaced by an aloof guardian. One who, admittedly, showed little interest in his very existence, much less his wellbeing.

Damnation.
The earl acknowledged his own shortcomings with a silent oath. He should have made more of an effort to get to know his ward and offer some counsel. After all, Lucien was his heir, and that alone should have demanded that he pay some attention to the young man's development.

His lips compressed in a tight line. At least it appeared that his nephew was not a hardened scoundrel, despite the lack of any fatherly guidance. That the girl's condition had elicited such gut-wrenching remorse only confirmed that Lucien did indeed possess a conscience. And a rather tender one at that.