“I want you to tell me,” she ground out.
Fear took him then, like rushing water in the spring thaw. He closed the space between them, sliding his arms under her own, stifling a groan that pushed against his closed throat. “Please don’t make me. You already know.”
“Can’t we run away?”
He choked. “I can’t run.”
“Can you shoot?”
“Yes.” If he was lucky.
Her face, when she brought it to his, was wet, though some of the tears might have been his own. His leg ached and his head swam, heavy with the knowledge that he might not get to keep her. Two days left.
“Is there another way?” she asked.
“He’s not going to trouble you,” he said.
“I hate this,” she said—or at least, he thought so. Her face was half in his shoulder, half in the pillow.
“No more crying,” he said, to himself and to her, as he laced his fingers together behind her back. He wouldn’t be able to bear it else. It was all right now, when he was drunk and tired, but tomorrow he must think only about shooting straight, and where wanted to put his bullet.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Friday morning Griggs arrived to dress him before dawn. “I thought the black coat today, Captain,” he said, holding it out.
“What did you do to the buttons?” Alistair asked.
“Must be this damp air. They’ve tarnished,” Griggs lied. He’d clearly blacked them. Alistair was about to ask for another coat, unwilling to humble himself before Frederick Morris, but then he caught Anna’s shadowed eyes, peering at him over the edge of the sheet. The blacked buttons were her and Griggs’s doing. Steadying himself with a hand against the bed, Alistair bent down to kiss her forehead. “Thank you.” He’d wear the black coat and sacrifice pride. He was a husband and a father. No need to make Frederick’s aim easier.
“I’ll be back soon. Don’t forget that I love you,” he said. He downed a cup of coffee and ordered Griggs to move a sleeping Henry into bed with Anna. Better if she had a warm body to hold. He’d asked her not to get out of bed.
Griggs came with him when he stepped outside, waiting for Cyril. He arrived in fine style, driving a well-sprung gig.
“Lord knows what it will cost me, but I won’t have you bounced from here into Hades,” Cyril said.
“Where did you find it?” Alistair asked, accepting Cyril’s hand and Griggs’s shoulder.
“Some fellows helped me borrow it. They wish you their best.”
“I hope we won’t have an audience,” Alistair said.
“They know we’re just going for a drive,” Cyril said.
They drove from the town, winding down the hill, passing a pinched-looking boy and his gathering of goats—too few to call a flock. A stand of bare trees clustered in the low ground. On the other side was the chosen field, a flat space screened from the town by the trees.
“Lovely spot,” Alistair said.
“I’m glad you think so.” Cyril settled the horses, then helped Alistair with his awkward descent, keeping hold of Alistair’s shoulders even after he was on the ground. “You’re certain I can’t do this? I’d consider it a great honor.”
Alistair wiped a drip from the end of his nose. The air was cold. “I’ll always remember you offered. And that you meant it.”
Alistair found himself a convenient tree to lean on, wanting to spare his arms. Cyril paced back and forth across the grass. “They’ll be late,” he said.
The air felt sharp and chill and clean, with only a hint of distant smoke. Alistair swung his arms, working blood into his flexing fingers, shaking out the tightness in his shoulders. He breathed long and slow, watching the sun blunt the frosty edges of the grass until he felt languid and easy. These things didn’t take long. He didn’t want to kill Morris and wasn’t entirely sure he could. Perhaps blowing a hole in his shoulder would be enough. It would be, in most cases, but there was a fortune at stake. If the Morris’s were as profligate with Henry’s money as Alistair suspected, giving Frederick a wound in the shoulder was only raising the stakes. If Frederick didn’t kill him today, the idea of paying someone to do the job for him would soon cross Frederick’s mind, if it hadn’t already—his own fault again. He should never have mentioned killing back in London. Such threats could never be unsaid or forgotten. He hadn’t thought, back then, as he’d prodded Morris, that it would lead to today, to Anna’s scared eyes.
Alistair waited until the sound of rattling wheels stopped before turning his head. Morris, buttoned up and determined, jumped down from a rackety cart. Alistair swung his arms again, waiting for Cyril to say the necessary things to Morris’s seconds.
Should tell Cyril I’m glad he’s standing up with me.
They examined the case of pistols, their motions scrupulous and refined, their low voices a pleasant rumble. There was something about this air, Alistair thought, drawing it in slowly. He wanted more and more of it, as if inflating his chest enough would float him up into the pale sky. He shut his eyes and smiled, letting the sun wash over his face. He was an eye and an arm and a ball of lead, nothing more, with one task only: shoot straight. He’d aim for the shoulder. They were reasonable men. Morris just needed a reminder not to trifle with him.
Cyril came back, carrying one of the pistols.
“They like ’em. No reason not too. Cost a nice round sum, as I recall.”
“I never thanked you for the lovely present,” Alistair murmured.
“Save it for later,” Cyril said, his mouth drawing tight.
“You have the other one?”
Cyril nodded, confirming he had Alistair’s army pistol concealed under his greatcoat.
“Keep it ready. Just in case he doesn’t stick to his ground. He might try to run.”
“Don’t let him shoot first,” Cyril began.
“I like to take my time,” Alistair said. He preferred to load his own gun, but today he had to leave it to the seconds. No matter. Cyril had shot with him enough this week to do a proper job. A fellow couldn’t allow any qualms—if he fretted about one thing, he’d invite in a host of worries. You couldn’t shoot straight with fear piled on your back. Planting his left crutch with care—he’d left the other one in the gig—Alistair angled himself away from Morris, presenting his right side. He squinted at Morris, who was shaking his hands, squaring his hips.
Alistair imagined his foot, his knee, his crutch planted in the earth, steady as stone. He stared a moment at the backdrop of branches, outlined in the sunlight.
“Ready?”
Alistair nodded, picking a point on Morris’s chest. He wore a dark coat too, with dull silver buttons, denying him an easy target. Alistair stood with his hand relaxed at his side, reminding himself to be perfectly still. From the corner of his eye, he saw one of Morris’s seconds raise his hand, lifting a handkerchief into the air. It waved up, then fell, instantly succeeded by a sharp retort. Alistair flinched, his stomach clenching, his heart instinctively galloping forward before he could rein it back. No time to examine himself or his surroundings, to think where the shot may have gone.
“Give me my shot!” he barked, as Morris began to move. The other seconds jerked in surprise, Cyril shouting for Morris to hold to his ground. Morris was coming for him, leaving wet footprints on the frosty grass. Alistair raised his arm. “Give me my shot!” he shouted again. Much harder to hit a moving target. Morris reached behind his back, but by then Alistair already knew. Morris was closing the distance because he had another pistol.
The other seconds were shouting now, but no one wanted to step into the line of fire. Morris wore an ugly snarl and now Alistair could see the glint of his second gun. His own shot got easier, the closer Morris came, but if he waited until Morris raised his gun—
One breath in. Let it halfway out. Pull.
His pistol cracked, jumping in his hand, the sound splintering their little drama.
“Damn it!” Morris said, clapping a hand to the corner
of his neck. He hadn’t killed him. A scratch on the skin and a torn neckcloth when he’d been aiming for the chest. Cyril seized his chance, rushing to Alistair’s side, yelling at Morris to back away, waving his pistol ineffectively, but still managing to look threatening. As Cyril slid his free arm around him Alistair realized he was listing sideways.
Was he shot? He didn’t feel anything. He probed his stomach, finding nothing.
“Give me that,” he said, holding out a hand for the other pistol and adjusting his crutch. Morris might still use his second gun. He’d clearly given up any of his remaining scruples. Alistair watched warily, not raising the pistol yet. He didn’t want to tire his arm. Morris was still holding his shoulder, spitting out curses.
“You all right?” Cyril asked. Alistair probed his stomach again. It seemed he was. All he felt was the urge to vomit.
“Let me,” Cyril said, moving his arm under Alistair’s shoulder, helping him step aside.
“Nicked me is all,” Morris said, to no one in particular, letting go of his shoulder and raising his gun. But halfway Morris frowned, looking down at his shoulder and then at his hand. It was washed red, and something was dripping off the end of his gun. His dark coat was shining. Alistair raised his own gun, just in case, but he no longer feared Frederick’s fire, watching the way he stepped, lurching a little in the knees.
“Good God,” Morris said, half cursing, half in wonderment. He took another step, but his fingers were lax, his head swaying.
“Frederick!” One of the seconds came running, mouthing a steady stream of disbelieving recriminations. Morris swam into the fellow’s arms, his legs too soft to keep him standing.
“Staunch it quick,” shouted the other second, falling to his knees and clapping his hand over Morris’s wound. Together Alistair and Cyril stumbled across the grass.
“Here!” Cyril said, throwing down a wad of lint and a roll of cotton from his greatcoat pocket. These were snatched up and swiftly applied, but Alistair knew from the way they drank up blood that it wouldn’t be long. Morris’s eyes were wide, searching the sky. His breath dipped quick and shallow, a stone skipping across water for a few exhilarating seconds before it sinks and falls.
Alistair shut his eyes. “God, I’m sorry.” It was the wrong thing to say, a terrible lie that was painfully true—all week he’d meant to kill Morris, until this morning, when he’d decided to shoot for the shoulder. Then, with Morris advancing, he’d unthinkingly aimed for the chest and gotten him between the neck and the shoulder instead. Strangely enough, it was a killing shot. He wanted to leave, to get away from the smell of blood, but he must wait for Morris’s steaming blood to spread over the grass, and for his breaths to finally rattle to a stop. And then for Cyril to help Morris’s seconds carry his body to the cart. He knew how it would happen, but it didn’t make it go any faster or quiet the thudding in his ears.
He and Cyril drove back, fighting silence.
“It was a lucky shot,” Cyril said.
Alistair supposed it was. Unlucky for Morris though. They had blood on their boots and brown crusts under their fingernails. Alistair hadn’t been able to help the futile attempts to stop the blood, or to compose the corpse. He’d put a hand on the ground though, still surprised to see so much blood. It mingled with the melting frost, staining the dead grass.
“You won’t have to worry now. That’s a good thing,” Cyril said, guiding the horses round the last curve on the hill.
“True.” He watched as the gate came nearer. “Do you think Griggs can bring me clean clothes?” He could, of course, but how to get word to him without alerting Anna? Impossible. She was probably making herself sick, waiting for his return. He wanted to see her, just not stained with Frederick Morris’s blood.
“Don’t get maudlin,” Cyril said. “Ghastly business, but it had to be done. I’m just thankful we didn’t load you in the wagon. Hungry?”
“Enormously,” Alistair said. How lowering.
“We’ll get you a drink, some breakfast, and let your wife weep over you. You’ll feel better then.”
Of course he would. Ten years of campaigning had already proven so. One remembered the chill of watching a life expire, but one didn’t always shiver. Thank God. He had time to let warmth work its way into his fingertips again.
Anna burst onto the step before he’d been extracted from carriage. She fell upon him, crying and scolding, clinging to him and feeling for hurts. Henry hung back on the step, troubled and silent.
“Henry is worried,” Alistair whispered into Anna’s ear.
She rubbed off her tears, clamped her lips shut, forced her face into a trembling smile. Draping his arm over her shoulders, they made shaky progress to the door.
“Are you all right?” Alistair asked Henry, leaning down, steadying himself on the door frame.
“Mama was afraid you wouldn’t come back,” he said.
Alistair slid his hand through the boy’s soft falls of hair. Perhaps there was no excuse for what he’d done, but right now, Henry seemed like a good one. Anna too, could be quite compelling.
“Were you?” Alistair asked.
“A little.” Henry bit his lip.
“I’m well, Henry. As well as may be, but I would like my breakfast. Are you hungry?” Alistair knew him well enough by now to know he always was.
Tears came, when he saw Anna had laid out breakfast in the sitting room, though he gave only cursory attention to the tablecloth, the smell of warm bread and the evergreen branches gathered in a glass on the table. The threadbare cushion she’d procured last week was waiting for him in the sturdiest chair. Two more places were set, one on each side.
“I didn’t think,” she sniffed. “I’m so stupid this morning. I never laid a place for Cyril.”
There were times when looks had to suffice for words. Alistair gave Anna one, hoping it could spare him from having to think too much about what he was feeling. It was too painful to hold. “You better get another plate.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Anna said little over breakfast, brimming with too many watery emotions to speak. Miser-like, she quietly stored every moment: his hands dabbing his napkin to his mouth and spooning up egg for Henry, his tired smile and his shadowed eyes, the weary look that silenced Cyril when he began talking about their morning.
“We can tell it another day,” Alistair said.
Anna didn’t mind. She’d lived through his death so many times this week all she could do now was cling to his hand and look at him.
“You haven’t eaten,” Alistair said, when Mrs. Orfila came to clear the plates.
“I can’t,” she said, amazed his own breakfast was gone. His hand had hardly left hers, because each time it did, she felt a spurt of panic that didn’t fade until his fingers slid back into her own. Somehow though, he must have managed his fork, for only crumbs and smears of butter remained. Anna hovered at her husband’s side as he maneuvered his way into the sitting room, steering him to the sagging sofa. It would be a struggle for him to get out of it, but that suited her purposes. She had no intention of letting him move beyond her reach anytime soon. Later, when she wasn’t trembling inside. Perhaps.
They slid in one warm lump to the hollow in the middle of the seat, nudged together by the sofa’s worn velvet and decrepit springs. Alistair winced as Henry clambered aboard, bumping his left leg, but kept him close.
“Let’s stay here and never move,” Anna said, too exhausted to do more than tether herself to her family through touch and listen to their breathing.
“Never?” Henry asked.
Anna shut her eyes, knowing he was wondering how they’d manage without a chamber pot. “Maybe once in a while,” she conceded.
“Señora Orfila doesn’t allow food in here,” Henry added.
“We’ll just stay for a little while then,” Alistair said. “We’ll get up in time for supper.”
That satisfied him. Anna moved her cheek away from Alistair’s coat buttons. Cyril lit
a fire and found himself a chair. He and Alistair were talking, but Anna couldn’t open her eyes, couldn’t even follow the words. All she could hear was the cadence of their talk, the regular thump of Henry’s feet waggling against the sofa. The room grew warmer, the sounds smoother, until they stopped her ears.
When she woke, the sitting room was dim and quiet. She was curled into Alistair’s side. He was stretched out half-beside, half-beneath her, his head resting on one arm of the sofa, his good leg propped up on the other.
“What time is it?” she asked, sitting quickly and wiping a hand across her lips.
“No idea.” He picked up her hand and brought it to his cheek. “Are you all right?”
“I will be, since you are.” He didn’t seem uncomfortable, despite the sofa’s shortcomings, so she wriggled back into the narrow space she’d just left. Might as well. It was still warm. She didn’t sleep though, just lay beside him while he toyed with a wisp of her hair. The knot she’d twisted on the back of her head this morning was squashed and listing toward her shoulder. “What happens now?” Anna asked.
Alistair didn’t immediately answer. “Frederick Morris is dead, Anna.” She wanted to squeeze his hand, but one of hers was caught between their chests. She couldn’t reach his with her other, never mind her instinct that it would be wrong to arrest the idle movements of his fingers, winding and unwinding her loose hair. She burrowed her chin closer and waited.
“I didn’t want to kill him. Probably couldn’t have done it if I tried, but—” His words came quickly now, a muddy rush of confession, both guilty and painfully glad. Frederick Morris wouldn’t trouble them again. Wouldn’t trouble anyone. No more wrangles over Henry and his money, no more slurs hurled at Anna. They were free, so long as she could stand to live with him.
Incognita (Fairchild Book 2) Page 30