“Oh what a beautiful little pistol!” Faith exclaimed when she saw it. “Look at this engraving—and the inlay work on the handle is exquisite. I assumed it would be a plain weapon, not something so pretty.”
“It’s a weapon, and its value is in its effectiveness, not its decoration,” Nick said in a dampening tone. Truth to tell, he was embarrassed to have selected such a pretty little pistol. He was a soldier, not a dandy. “This was the smallest, most accurate, and easy-to-use weapon available. The fact that it is pretty is neither here nor there.”
She gave him a mischievous look from under her lashes. “Don’t you like pretty things?”
The minx was teasing him. Nick did his best to ignore it, though the way those soft lips pouted was enough to drive a man wild. He forced his mind back to the matter at hand: giving a lesson in handling a weapon. “It’s designed to be carried in a reticule or a fur muff. Now, let me show you how to use it.”
“Oh, but I—”
“It’s not difficult.”
“No, I didn’t think it would be but—”
“Just listen and watch. Questions later. First the powder…just this much…” He demonstrated as he spoke. She watched obediently. “Then the ball along with the paper wadding. Now, you will need a ramrod, and in this model it is here, specially concealed.”
“Oh how ingenious!”
“And now it is loaded. Now to learn to prime, cock, aim, and fire it.” He handed it to her, saying in a reassuring tone. “It is perfectly safe at the moment.”
She gave him a wide-eyed look and took it from him with extreme care.
“Prick the touchhole—that bit there—to make certain it is clear. Place a few grains of priming powder into the pan—not more than a third full, a little less is best.”
Frowning with concentration, she did what he told her. “Now, close the frizzen.”
“The what?”
“This bit here. That’s right. Now, carefully, cock the hammer. Pull it all the way back—don’t be frightened—yes, that’s it.”
“And now I’m ready to fire?” She gave him a big smile and aimed at a nearby rock, squinting down the barrel.
“Not like that!” He came around behind her, placed one hand on her waist and the other on her shoulder and positioned her so she was facing the rock directly. “It’s all very well for duelists and soldiers to stand side-on—that’s to make themselves a smaller target. Your situation is different. Your advantage will be surprise and accuracy. Now, brace both feet apart and hold the gun with both hands if possible.”
“But it’s so light I’m sure I could—”
“Yes,” he said patiently. “But for now, you need to learn to shoot straight. Both hands make for a steadier aim. Besides, there will be a slight recoil.” The pistol threw a little to the left, but he doubted it would make any difference to her.
He brought his arms around and guided her hands to the correct position. The brisk breeze stirred her freshly washed golden curls so that they tickled his jaw and chin. It was most distracting. He’d instructed many a young soldier in how to fire a pistol, but none of them had golden curls that smelled of roses.
“Oh, yes, I see.” She leaned back against him a little.
Nick stiffened. “Now, brace yourself for the recoil, and squeeze the trigger. It will make a very loud noise, so try not to be alarmed.”
There was a report and a puff of fumes. The recoil was slight, but she fell back hard against him, gasping. “Oh, that was a very loud bang, wasn’t it? But utterly thrilling! How soon can we do it again?” She turned in the circle of his arm, her eyes lit with excitement, the pistol in one hand, the other clutching his arm. There was a small smudge of gunpowder residue on her cheek, and without thinking, he brushed it off. She smiled into his eyes, and suddenly Nick realized she was close, too close. Her mouth was just inches from his. She licked her lips.
He stepped back, trying to picture her as a sixteen-year-old newly commissioned lieutenant, and said firmly, “Before you load it again, you must brush the pan free of all residue from the last shot, using this pan brush. I will show you how to clean it properly when we have finished, but for the moment, this will do.”
She gave him a brisk, mischievous salute. “Yessir!”
Nick scowled as she wielded the little brush obediently—almost too obediently. He explained, “You must keep your pistol clean at all times—otherwise you will get what’s known as a flash in the pan—the initial flash and then nothing!”
When the pan was clean, he said, “Now, show me how you load it.”
She loaded it exactly as he had shown her before, perfectly and without the slightest hesitation. Then she looked at him with wide eyes. “Was that correct?”
He nodded. “Very good. Now, see if you can hit that rock.”
She turned and aimed, but the gun wavered in a most unsoldierly fashion. Nick endured as much as he could and then stepped forward and put his arms around her again, to show her how to aim properly. This time she leaned back comfortably against his chest, her head tucked under his jaw.
“Will it make the same big loud bang?” she breathed and rubbed her cheek against him.
A sudden suspicion crossed Nick’s mind. He dropped her hand, stepped back, and regarded her through narrowed eyes. She turned with a look of innocent inquiry. Too innocent for words.
“You’ve shot a pistol before, haven’t you, minx?”
She laughed. “Why yes, quite often, sir. I told you—my mother had one that my sister uses now. Prudence taught each of us how to use it—and to clean it thoroughly, too.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
She gave him a reproachful look. “I tried—twice!—but you wouldn’t listen. And then you were so enjoying giving me instruction, I didn’t like to interrupt. I must say, you make a lovely officer.”
Nick folded his arms and gave her a severe look. She’d led him merrily down the garden path, and he had no one to blame but himself. “Dare I suppose you can hit that big rock without too much trouble?”
She nodded. “Too easy. See that small piece of wood sticking up out of the sand?” She raised the pistol, squinting against the wind, which was becoming quite gusty, and shot. It bit into the sand just left of the piece of wood. She frowned.
“I forgot to warn you,” Nick said, quashing an ignoble feeling of smugness. “It throws slightly to the left. That is enough practice for today. I think a storm is brewing.”
She glanced up at the gathering clouds. “I hope you are wrong.”
Nick had bespoken two bedchambers for several nights at the inn, the same inn where his horses had been stabled since they’d arrived. Only one of the rooms had been used the previous night; Stevens had slept at the inn while Faith’s room remained empty. Nick hadn’t been able to tear himself away from sleeping under the stars.
But for his wedding night Nick planned to use Stevens’s room and send Stevens back to camp. He had no intention of sharing a bed with his bride; he would not have that on his conscience, and he’d given his word.
By the time he and Faith returned to the camp, the wind had picked up, and black storm clouds began to build, and they were greeted with the news that Stevens and Mac had decided to pack up the camp and remove to the inn as well. Nick had no objection.
However, when they reached the inn, they found it was crowded. The storm had come after several days of windless weather, and ships had been stranded in port for days. As a result many of the inns in town were full. As some ships raced into port ahead of the storm, the Dover packet, which had set out earlier, turned back, and now every inn in the town was filled with stranded passengers clamoring for a bed.
As Faith and Nicholas entered, the innkeeper came hurrying up. “Bonjour, monsieur. As you can see, we have a problem. I was wondering, would your good lady perhaps care to share her bedchamber with these two English ladies? Very genteel they are, monsieur, of a respectability unquestioned—the finest quality leather bagages,
a majordomo who will share the attic room with my son, and a superior maid who will sleep with my daughter. But these two grand ladies, they have no place to stay, and all my other chambres, they are filled to bursting point. All that remains are the two rooms you have paid for, and since you did not use both last night, I thought, perhaps…” He spread his hands in an eloquent gallic shrug.
Nick had no objection. He would share the other room with Stevens and Mac. He turned to Faith. “Whatever you decide, my dear.” As he spoke, a clap of thunder shook the building, and the heavens opened. Wind and rain buffeted the inn furiously. Windows and doors rattled. Faith shivered and clutched his arm convulsively.
“Madame?” the innkeeper prompted.
She gave a shiver and straightened. “Of course I don’t mind shar—” she began, turning to smile in welcome at the two fashionably dressed ladies the innkeeper had pointed out. Her smile froze, and she tightened her grip on his arm.
“What is it?” Nicholas asked in a quiet voice.
Deliberately she loosened her fingers and said in as relaxed a tone as she could manage, “It’s nothing. Yes, innkeeper, I don’t mind—”
A cool, upper-class English voice cut across her. “Look, Mama, isn’t that the beggar gel we saw in town the other day—the one who speaks English?”
The older lady turned and swept Faith with a disdainful look. “You mean the strumpet who had the temerity to accost us? I see she has found…protectors. Unfortunately, my dear Lettice, men, even so-called gentlemen, have lower standards than we!”
She turned to the innkeeper and said in a carrying voice, “Innkeeper, I trust that creature will not be staying here. I thought this was a respectable inn.”
Faith’s earlier happiness shriveled, but Nicholas’s grip on her tightened. He said coldly, “I will need both rooms, innkeeper. My wife stayed last night in the care of Marthe Dubois, in the home of Monsieur le Curé, but she is well again now. Thus I will need both rooms, one for my wife and myself, the other for my men.”
“But monsieur—”
Nicholas arched an eyebrow and said in a voice of faint hauteur that carried just as well as the English lady’s, “My good man, I really can’t ask my wife to give up her privacy and comfort for the sake of a couple of stray females of dubious background.”
“Well really!” The older lady drew herself up. “I’ll have you know that—”
“Madam, I do not believe we have been introduced, so kindly refrain from badgering me or my wife,” Nicholas said in an icy voice that carried all the sting of a whiplash. “I was addressing the innkeeper.”
Faith blinked. She knew he’d been a soldier; she’d seen the fighter in action on the beach two nights ago. She thought she’d met the officer, but now she knew she hadn’t. Not fully.
The lady flushed and set her teeth. The daughter’s jaw dropped to see her mother so casually and effectively silenced.
Ignoring them, Nicholas took Faith’s hand in a firm grip. “Come, my dear, let us retire to our bedchamber and compose ourselves before dinner.”
The English lady recovered her poise and pounced on the hapless innkeeper, “This is an outrage! How dare you prefer that little slut and that man before us! I will have you know that I am Lady Brinckat of Brinckat Hall in Cheshire, and I demand you provide us with a bed.”
Nicholas ignored her and walked steadily up the stairs, Faith on his arm. Just before the turn, Nicholas paused and said casually, “Oh, innkeeper.”
The man hurried to the foot of the stairs, his face hopefully upturned. “Oui, monsieur?”
In a cold, slow drawl, Nicholas said, “Those English women can sleep in my second bedchamber if they wish.”
“You will turn your men out for the English miladies after all? Oh, merci, monsieur,” the innkeeper began joyfully.
Nicholas’s brows rose in faint incredulity. “Turn my men out? For a pair of unknown females? I should think not.” He added silkily, “The women can bunk in with them. My men won’t mind sharing.”
“I had no idea you had such a wicked sense of humor!” Faith exclaimed as they entered the small, well-scrubbed chamber. A crooked, whitewashed ceiling sloped unevenly to meet a casement window set into the wall. The shutters rattled in the storm.
He arched an eyebrow sardonically. “What makes you think I was joking?”
“Oh, you could not possibly have meant such a dreadfully improper thing!” she declared blithely. She crossed the room to check that the windows and shutters were firmly fastened. “When you said that about your men not minding sharing, I thought Lady Brinckat would explode!”
“That would account for the rumblings I heard as we mounted the stairs.” Nicholas began to open a bottle of wine that had been placed, along with glasses and an opener, on a side table. “Would you care for a glass of wine?”
“She was positively gobbling with fury, the horrid old trout! No, thank you, I don’t much care for wine.” Faith laughed again and bounced onto the high bed. It was very high and wonderfully soft, with a deep, thick eiderdown quilt in pink. And then she froze.
The bed. One bed.
She looked around to see whether there was perhaps a truckle bed, or a pallet on which she could sleep. The room was minimally furnished. A chair, a small table, a cupboard, a bed. A lantern burned on a plain oak bedside table. She opened the cupboard, hoping a pallet might be stowed there. No pallet. She pretended to fiddle with her shoes and glanced under the bed, hoping to find a truckle bed.
No truckle bed. No pallet. Only one bed.
Faith glanced at Nicholas. Her husband. He drank his wine, unaware of her concern.
“To future victory over all such harridans, Mrs. Blacklock.” He raised his glass and waited. “Nothing at all to drink?”
“No, I’ll have a cup of tea later. Thank you for standing up to Lady Brinckat and her daughter for me,” she said shyly. “I—I seem to be not very good at st-standing up to that sort of thing. I’m very grateful for your support.” And she was. More than she could say.
He gave her an intense look and said quietly. “No thanks needed. You’re my wife, Faith. I’ll support you against all comers in all situations.”
Faith’s eyes prickled with emotion, but before tears could spill down and embarrass her, he added, “Besides, it was a pleasure. I can’t stand puffed-up, bossy old bats like that. And the daughter was just as bad. You’d run into them before, I gather.”
“Yes, the other day, in town. I could see they were English ladies, so I asked them to help me.” She felt the humiliation rising again and fought it back down. “But they thought I was a—a—”
He made a scornful sound. “I can imagine. Add stupidity to their list of crimes. And you were still ready to share a room with them?”
“Oh, well, that was before they were so horrid to me. I thought perhaps I could explain—I can understand how they misunderst—” She broke off at his sardonic look and added lamely, “They had nowhere to sleep, and the storm was so awful…I know what it is to have no place to stay.”
“You are very forgiving, Mrs. Blacklock. Be warned: I am not!” He drained the glass.
Mrs. Blacklock. Again. As if she were in truth his wife. He’d assured her it would be un mariage blanc. But legally they were married, and husbands had rights. And there was only one bed. She swallowed.
Outside the storm raged. There was a small enameled stove and in it kindling was set, ready to light. Faith found the tinderbox and lit it, glad to have a reason to keep busy.
She would try not to think about the bed until it was time to sleep. It was cowardly, she knew, to put it off, but at the moment things were pleasant and easy between them, and she wanted to savor it while it lasted.
They sat for a moment in silence, listening to the storm. “Would you like to play chess?” he asked.
She grimaced, remembering the agony of childhood lessons where Grandpapa, confined to a sickbed, had forced them all to learn, in order to entertain himself. Only they
were all too frightened of his temper to be able to concentrate. “I know the moves, but I’m not very good at it. But if you would like…”
“No, don’t worry.” He rose and paced around the room.
He filled the small room with his presence. It was terribly distracting, the storm howling outside and the silent pacing within. In an effort to break the growing tension, she blurted out the first thing that came to mind. “Stevens told me your father forced you into the army.”
He went still, then shrugged. “I was young. My father understood me better than I did myself. The army suited my nature more than I understood at the time.”
His words, for all their apparent acceptance, were said with bitterness and a thread of self-disgust. She recalled Stevens’s words about how the army—or was it war?—had affected him. “Changed him. Killed something inside him.”
“In what way did it suit you?” she prompted gently.
He turned abruptly and went to the door. “If you don’t mind, I’d better check on Wulf and the horses. That dog of Mac’s goes crazy in thundery weather, and Mac doesn’t take nearly the care that he should. He will not believe that his blasted dog gets frightened. He said he would shut him in an empty stall, but if he hasn’t, the blasted dog will frighten the horses to bits.”
“I don’t mind,” she lied. Oh, she didn’t mind him checking on the dog; that was perfectly understandable. It was the feeling of having a door slammed in her face she minded.
“I’ll be back at seven to take you down to dinner.”
It was foolish to mind, she told herself as he left. Married or not, they were still relative strangers. It was none of her business what he’d thought about his father sending him into the army. He was entitled to his privacy.
She’d kept secrets back from him, after all.
She shivered as the wind and rain buffeted the building. Adding coal to the fire, she fetched her writing materials and sat down at the small table to write to her family. Her twin, Hope, first, then Prudence, then Great Uncle Oswald and Aunt Gussie.
Anne Gracie - [Merridew Sister 03] Page 11