Dair Devil

by Lucinda Brant

  EIGHTEEN

  ‘M R. WATKINS! Release my hand and stand up this instant!”

  Rory looked about for her walking stick, but it was not against the wall where she had left it. It must have fallen into the grass while she and the Major were preoccupied. With Mr. Watkins determined to keep hold of her hand, gripping the wall with her free hand to remain upright was all she was capable of to stop herself toppling off to join her stick in the grass.

  “Miss Talbot—Aurora—Please listen—”

  “You do not have permission to use my name, sir. Again, I say, stand up! No good will come of this.”

  Balancing on the balls of his feet, and calf muscles aching from such an unnatural posture, William Watkins felt the sweat of uncertainty beginning to bead at his temples. Miss Talbot’s reaction was not what he had expected. She was no shaking maiden, no terrified spinster, grateful for his interference, relieved to be rescued from the brutish arms of her seducer. Yet, he convinced himself she was not herself. That fiend had drugged her. It was the alcohol talking. And it was his own alcohol intake that fuelled his natural conceit, urging him to declare himself immediately or lose the opportunity. If he persisted and she was to hear him with a clear mind, she would jump at the chance to be Mrs. William Watkins. And so he persevered with his declaration, however unorthodox the delivery. This, despite the growing loss of sensation in his right leg.

  “Miss Talbot, my greatest desire on this earth is to have you as my wi—”

  “No! No, do not say it, Mr. Watkins,” Rory demanded. “This is neither the time, and it certainly is not the place, for such a declaration. If you ask me, I shall be truthful, and I have no wish to embarrass you.”

  “Miss Talbot, when you are sober, you will see the merit in my proposal and give me the answer I want from—”

  “When I am—when I am sober?” Rory gasped, affronted. “Mr. Watkins, clearly it is you who have been drinking or you would not dare suggest such an improbability! You have insulted me, and if you apologize, let go of my hand, and remove yourself from my presence, then perhaps I will forgive you.”

  “Forgive me?” His fingers tightened about her slender wrist as he rose up, unaware his right leg had gone to sleep. “Miss Talbot, I stand before you with an honest proposal of marriage. I will not remove myself until I have secured my present and future happiness, and that requires you to say yes, you will be my wife.”

  “Your…? Your present and future happiness…?”

  Rory decided Mr. William Watkins was drunk, very drunk, and her anxiousness increased tenfold. Not so much for herself. She did not feel in any personal danger. If need be, she would slap his cheek, certain that would bring him to a sense of his surroundings, if not the impropriety of his behavior. What she feared for was the secretary’s safety, should Major Lord Fitzstuart turn his shoulder from his conversation with Old Bert and catch the scene that presented itself. She was certain the nobleman would react first and deal with the consequences later.

  If she had learned anything from her chair, as an enforced observer at functions, it was that gentlemen adhered to two fundamental types, to varying degrees. One was phlegmatic, given to drawling, and sauntering, and, no matter what the occasion, they appeared bored beyond tolerance. They were no doubt well-versed in sword play, but the preferred weapon of choice was the scathing verbal put-down, guaranteed to wither an opponent with maximum impact and minimum physical effort. The second type was not given to verbiage, and was far more tactile in every sense. Conversation in company was loud and uninhibited. Everything was done to excess—drinking, dancing, flirting, and no doubt whoring. Type Two relished every minute in the bright candlelight, and such was their infectious sense of fun that they attracted admirers as a flame did a moth. The Major most definitely belonged to this second group, and as actor and spy he had a knack of exaggerating these traits to his advantage. But there was no exaggeration in his physical size and agility. What made matters worse for Mr. William Watkins was that as well as being a warm-blooded vigorous male, the Major was fearless. He was also a trained killer.

  Had Mr. William Watkins been any gentleman accosting her, she would not have hesitated to alert the Major to her situation and allow him to deal with him accordingly. But Mr. Watkins was her grandfather’s trusted secretary. He was also Silla’s brother, and that made him her brother’s brother-in-law, thus he was part of the family. She did not want this episode to come between them and make life uncomfortable. He would also continue to come in contact with her, if not daily, then several times a week. It would be awkward from now on since he had made known his intentions toward her. Having the Major involved would vastly complicate matters, and if she were honest with herself, not knowing his feelings for her, she felt inadequate to the task of answering her grandfather’s questions.

  And so she tried one last time to reason with Mr. William Watkins.

  “Mr. Watkins, please, I beg of you, release me and stand up.” Adding with a bright smile she hoped looked genuine, “If you do as I ask I will listen to what you have to say, but not today. Tomorrow. When you have had time to reflect upon your intentions. Agreed?”

  “Miss Talbot, tomorrow, or the day after that, or the day after that one, will not change my determination. I must and will marry you.”

  She did not doubt he was sincere, and for the barest of moments curiosity got the better of her. She put aside her anxiety, stopped struggling to tug her hand free, and allowed herself to engage with him.

  “Why?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Why do you wish to marry me?”

  William Watkins blinked, sodden brain scrambling to remember and put into coherent sentences all the reasons he had formulated and written up in his diary as to why Miss Aurora Talbot, granddaughter of an earl, sister of a future earl, goddaughter of a duchess, would make him the perfect wife. But while his brain floated in alcohol and his bottom lip quivered, the only substance that came forth was a drool of spittle.

  “Three little words, Mr. Watkins. No more. No less. Just three.”

  When he looked at her queerly, with no idea as to what those three words could be, Rory smiled crookedly. And when he thrust a hand into his frock coat pocket in search of his handkerchief to wipe his wet mouth, Rory saw her chance.

  She gripped the edge of the stone wall so as not to topple backwards, then tugged hard. Her hand came free, but she was not free of William Watkins. Her sudden movement caught him unawares. He loosened his grip, but his alcohol consumption made him slow to react and take appropriate counter-action. Instead of staggering backwards, away from the wall, his unresponsive right leg stayed where it was. This meant his left leg over-compensated for this uncooperativeness by overcorrecting, and after taking a step away, he stumbled forward.

  This sudden change in direction made the secretary dizzy. With no control over his limbs, Mr. William Watkins pitched forward, right leg collapsing under him so that he landed heavily on his knee, arms flapping, and in search of anchorage. His chin came down hard against the corner of Rory’s knee, and such was the force with which he landed that he bounced up and he came down again, face first, into the lap of Rory’s disheveled petticoats. Here he remained in a state of paralyzed disbelief.

  RORY’S KNEE was struck so hard she gave an involuntary yelp of pain, almost lost her balance, and cried out again, this time with fright, as she toppled backwards into thin air before quickly lurching forwards to remain seated on the wall. She gasped her relief. But startled and in pain, she was shocked beyond words when Mr. William Watkins landed face down in her lap and there remained. She was torn between a desire to push him off and scramble along the wall to put space between them, and wondering if he were seriously hurt. She had no opportunity to do either.

  As if by sorcery, William Watkins rose up, head and limbs hanging limp, and there he momentarily floated in front of her, before flying through the air to land, crumpled, amongst the wildflowers.

  DAIR HAD W
ILLIAM WATKINS by the scruff of the neck. With a strength fuelled by unmitigated wrath, he hauled the secretary out of Rory’s lap so high his buckled shoes left the ground. For a matter of moments William Watkins levitated. Dair wanted to throw the weasel into oblivion. Failing that, he would get him as far away from Miss Aurora Talbot as he was physically capable. He wanted to punish him, badly. Never again would William Watkins so much as put a fingernail to Aurora Talbot without fear of serious harm befalling him.

  In the past he had resisted the urge to rearrange the secretary’s supercilious smile, now he would not only rearrange it, he would permanently remove it. Nothing and nobody was going to stop him. But then, just as he made a fist and spun William Watkins to face him, he chanced to glance at Rory. He saw the distress writ large in her eyes, and he knew he could not do it, not here, not now, not in front of her. The last thing he wanted was to add to her anxiety. So he forced the violence back down within him and slowly unclenched his fist, flexing his fingers wide and straight.

  He turned the secretary away from him, put a boot hard into the middle of his back, and shoved him into open ground, where William Watkins stumbled about, arms flapping wildly as he tried unsuccessfully to stay upright before falling, face first, into the grass.

  Dair retrieved Rory’s straw hat, dusted it off and came over to her. Whereupon, he gently settled it over her blonde coiffure and straightened out the blue silk ribbons, leaving them trailing either side of her face for her to tie. He then lifted her chin to look at her under the straw brim, gaze full of concern.

  “Are you all right?”

  She nodded, despite being close to tears, only because she was embarrassed to be caught up in such a piece of nonsense, and he there to witness it. What was William Watkins thinking? She had never given him the slightest encouragement, and he had never shown her any signs that he cared for her above the ordinary. What if the Major thought her a flirt, that she had somehow encouraged William Watkins? Surely not. Then again, she had kissed him, willingly and without restraint.

  “Yes. Yes, I am fine,” she added brightly, when he continued to stare hard at her. Adding, to put him at his ease, yet realizing after the fact she had probably made him uncomfortable when his response was brisk, “It must be the novelty of being accosted that has me flustered, unaccustomed as I am to such attention.” She gave a little nervous laugh, a hand to her mouth. “There must be something in the fermentation of wine this Spring to make normally sober gentlemen drunk beyond reason. Hopefully Mr. Watkins will wake with a sore head and with no recollection of events.”

  “Did he hurt you?”

  “I may have a large bruise to my knee, that is all. Though I wish he had hit my left knee rather than my right. That poor leg has enough to contend with without being knocked about! But it’s nothing to worry about, truly, and-and—thank you,” she added with a bright smile, because his frown of concern had dropped into a scowl. “Thank you for not hitting him. I know his drunkenness isn’t an excuse for his behavior. He must have thought alcohol would give him courage. Though I have no idea where he got the notion I would ever—that he and I could ever—It’s utterly absurd! And if I weren’t so shocked—no gentleman ever looked at me sideways—that to receive the unwanted attentions from such a man as Mr. Watkins, my grandfather’s secretary… Well, I dare say if my knee wasn’t throbbing and he hadn’t drooled all over my petticoats, I could find some humor in his behavior—”

  She cut herself off, knowing she was babbling, but she hadn’t been able to help it. The Major’s scowl cleared as she babbled, and he was now looking at her in an odd sort of way, and with an odd sort of smile that she could not interpret, and which made her uncomfortably hot.

  He raised an eyebrow in surprise she would know he wanted to put his fist into Weasel’s face, but made no comment. What interested him more was the reason Watkins needed courage. He was about to ask her if the man had had the audacity to ask her to marry him. Why else would the Weasel need to guzzle wine, be on bended knee, and forcing his attentions on her? But he got no further than addressing her, and then her frankness truly surprised him.

  “Miss Talbot—”

  “Rory. It’s Aurora, but nobody calls me that. I think we’ve gone beyond the formalities, don’t you?”

  He chuckled and was bashful. “Yes, I suppose we have—Rory. Rory. I like it. Aurora is quite lovely but Rory suits you. Rory…”

  She felt a rush of heat to her face. The way he said her name in his deep rich voice, in an almost caressing lilt, sent a shiver across her shoulder blades. Yet, she surprised herself by managing to keep her tone steady and light.

  “And you? I’d like to address you as something other than Major. Too stuffy.”

  “My friends and family call me Dair.”

  “Yes, but I would like to call you Alisdair.”

  He frowned at that, far from pleased.

  “No one but her Grace of Rox—her Grace of Kinross, calls me that. I don’t like her using it, but you know who she is, she is not to be denied. And she is my closest cousin; I would not refuse her.” He smiled and tugged playfully at a silk ribbon of her hat. “Everyone calls me Dair.”

  But Rory did not want to be everyone. She wanted to be the only one to have permission to call him by his first name. She realized only mothers and wives, and beloved sisters, addressed their male relatives by their Christian names, and even then the practice was not universal, particularly if the husband had a title. Major Lord Fitzstuart might be the eldest son of a nobleman and inherit an earldom one day, but he permitted Lily Banks to call him Al. So if the mother of his son could be on such intimate first name terms with him, then she, who had now kissed him and had every intention of giving herself to him, could call him Alisdair. And if he refused her, then he was not as attracted to her as his kisses suggested. Her fingers tingled in anticipation of his response, but she was determined to find out one way or the other.

  “Everyone calls you Dair. I prefer Alisdair. It suits you. So does—so does the beard…”

  He let go of the ribbon and glanced over his shoulder, momentarily diverted by the sound of groaning. It was the secretary, attempting to pick himself up out of the grass. He turned back to Rory, and said more sharply than he intended,

  “My father was the only one who called me Alisdair. I detest the man. I hate the name—have hated it since I was ten.”

  “Oh?” Rory was unperturbed, but her heart started to beat hard that he had confided this in her. “Then perhaps it’s about time someone you like, other than the Duchess of Kinross, called you Alisdair? If you give me permission to call you by your name, then you give permission to lay those bad memories, or whatever it is you dislike about your father, to rest. So instead of thinking of your detestable father when you are addressed as Alisdair, you can instead think of—think about—”

  “—kissing you?” He took the two silk ribbons dangling from her hat and slowly tied them in a bow under her chin, taking his time, as if thinking over her proposal. “I wish it were that simple… I will never change my opinion of my father.” He shrugged. “Perhaps, in time, I may be able to lay those bad memories to rest, as you suggest.” His mouth twitched with the hint of a smile. “Though… Hearing you address me as such, I cannot promise I won’t grimace to begin with. It is an instinctive response after all.”

  “Thank you. No doubt, after a little while, you will stop frowning and learn to like your name as much as I do.”

  “I hope you are right. I know a way you can help guarantee I won’t frown when you say my name.”

  Rory blinked. He could tell she had no idea to what he was referring and it broadened his smile into a grin.

  “If you were to kiss me each time you said it.”

  Rory gasped, then laughed. Impulsively, she touched the embroidered front of his frock coat.

  “Do you wish me to kiss you before or after I say your name? If it is before, I doubt I will get to say it, and that, I fear, is your intent, is i
t not? To stop me saying your name by kissing me? But I won’t be tricked!”

  “You, Rory, are too clever for your own good. I would like to kiss you again, now…” He looked into her eyes. “And I am not drunk…”

  Rory swallowed and lost her smile. “That’s different… You’re different… I want—I want you to kiss me.”

  “Then say it. Say my name.”

  “Alisdair.”

  “Again.”

  “Alisdair.”

  He leaned in to kiss her.

  “Again,” he murmured, mouth a hair’s breadth from hers. “Say it, Rory.”

  “Alisdair… Alisdair!”

  Her lips had barely brushed his when she jerked back, and repeated his name, this second time cried out in warning.

  Dair’s eyes opened wide. Seeing her safe, but with one hand at full stretch past his shoulder, as if to stave off evil, he knew there was danger at his back. Instantly, he swiveled on a boot heel. William Watkins loomed an arm’s length away. His left arm was raised diagonally across his body over his right shoulder, both hands hard about the end of Rory’s Malacca walking stick, its carved ivory pineapple-shaped handle high in the air. The secretary was wielding the stick like an axe, and in an act of sheer drunken stupidity, he was about to use this metaphorical axe to fell his nemesis across the back of the head.

  Dair gave the man no quarter. He delivered one swift punch to the face.

  NINETEEN

  ‘Z OUNDS! What a splendid facer! And brilliantly executed, my friend! Quick. Precise. Perfect. Never in all my days did I expect to witness such a sight! By Jove, Dair, you could teach Jack Broughton a thing or two!”

  It was the over-exuberant Lord Grasby. Such was his excitement at bearing witness to his best friend planting his fist into Weasel Watkins’ face he hardly noticed his sister, mute and as still as a piece of ornamental statuary atop the stone wall. And he certainly did not gauge the mood of his best friend, who did not react to his presence, or turn his head to look at him, but kept his focus on William Watkins while flexing his fingers, knuckles smarting from the blow.