The buzzing in Farrell’s head forbade the penetration of his sister’s words. Paralyzed by the scene that slowly unfolded in his mind, he saw only the gaping bore that had threatened him that early morn, heard only the thunderous beating of his own heart, felt only the gut-wrenching terror that now tormented his waking hours. On that chilly morn the sting of sweat had been in his eyes, but he had been too frightened even to blink, afraid that the slightest movement would bring a deathbound ball to slay him. The splintering panic had saturated him and torn at his nerve ends until with a bellow of helpless rage and frustration, he had raised his arm and hurled the empty weapon at his foe, never realizing that the sights of the other’s pistol were already lifting to a point above his head.
Another explosion of sound had shattered the silence of that early dawn and buried it beneath an avalanche of echoes, turning Farrell’s bellow of rage into a shriek of agony. The tearing shock that had seared through his arm had left a burst of white-hot pain throbbing in his brain. Before the smoke had cleared, he had fallen to the chilled, dew-laden greensward and there had writhed and moaned in utter torment and defeat. A tall, silhouetted shape had approached to stand just behind the kneeling form of the surgeon attending his arm. Through the haze of pain he had recognized his tormentor framed against the misty light of the rising sun. Christopher Seton’s composure had done much to shame him, for the man calmly attempted to stem the flow of his own blood with a cloth tucked inside the shoulder of the coat.
Farrell had realized in the midst of his pain that by taking an unfair shot he had lost far more than the duel. It was a devastating blow to have one’s reputation ruined so completely. No one would accept a coward’s challenge, and he found no safe haven from the condemnation of his own mind.
“ ’Twas the lad’s own foolishness that caused the wound.” Seton’s words came back to plague him, drawing a whimper of despair from his lips. The man had stated it out boldly. “If he hadn’t thrown his pistol, mine would not have discharged.”
The judge had replied in a similarly distant and hollow tone. “He fired before I gave the signal. You could have killed him, Mr. Seton, and no one would have questioned it.”
Seton had growled his answer. “I’m not a slayer of children man.”
“I assure you, sir, you are blameless in this matter I can only suggest that you hie yourself from here before the boy’s father arrives and causes more trouble.”
To Farrell’s way of thinking, the judge had been too forgiving. The desire to make it understood that he was not of the same gracious mood had roiled through him, and he had screamed a string of foul curses, venting his helpless rage on the man rather than face the truth of his own cowardice. Much to his chagrin, the insults had produced nothing more than a bland smile of contempt from his opponent, who had strode away without giving him further heed, as if he were a child to be ignored.
The torturous vision retreated, and reality returned with its hard facts. Farrell faced the full glass before him, but his trembling knees could scarcely bear his weight, and he could not afford to give up the support of his good arm long enough to lift the whiskey to his lips.
“You mourn your terrible loss.” Erienne’s words finally claimed his attention. “And you’re ready to count your life done at two years short a score. You’d be far better off had you left the Yankee alone instead of playing the outraged rooster.”
“The man’s a liar, and I called him out for it, I did.” Farrell cast about for a haven and saw a welcome chair nearby. “ ’Twas Father’s honor and good name I sought to defend.”
“Defend, bah! You’re crippled for your effort, and Mr. Seton has not retracted one word of his accusation.”
“He will!” Farrell blustered. “He will, or I’ll…I’ll…”
“You’ll what?” Erienne questioned angrily. “Lose the use of your other arm? You’ll get yourself killed believing you can go against a man with Christopher Seton’s experience.” She threw up a hand in disgust. “Why, the man is nearly twice your age and sometimes I think twice your wit. You were foolish to go after him, Farrell.”
“The devil take ye, wench! Ye mus’ think the sun rises and sets for yer lordly Mr. Seton.”
“What do you say?!” Erienne cried, aghast at his accusation. “I’ve never even met the man! The most I know about him is some gossip I’ve heard, and I can’t very well rely on that for accuracy.”
“Oh, I’ve heard it, too,” Farrell sneered. “Every li’l gatherin’ o’ twitterin’ females is abuzz ’bout the Yankee an’ his money. You can see the gleam o’ it in their eyes, but without it, he’s no better’n anybody else. An’ experience? Huh! I’ve probably had as much.”
“Don’t you dare brag about those two you nicked,” she snapped back in irritation. “No doubt they were more scared than hurt and in the long run just as foolish as you are.”
“Foolish, am I?” Farrell tried to straighten himself to display his outrage at such an insult, but a loud belch seemed to deflate his purpose, and he slumped toward the table again, mumbling in self-pity. “Leav’ me be, wench. Ye’ve attacked me in an hour o’ weakness an’ exhaustion.”
“Hah! Drunkenness, you mean,” she corrected acidly.
Farrell stumbled to the chair and fell into it. He closed his eyes and rolled his head on the padded back. “Ye take ’at rogue’s side agin yer own brother,” he moaned. “If Father could only hear ye.”
Erienne’s eyes flared with bright sparks of indignation. In two steps she was before his chair, catching the lapels of his coat. Braving the rank fumes that issued from his sagging mouth, she bent toward him.
“You dare accuse me?” She shook him until his eyes rolled in confusion. “I will tell you simply, Brother!” Her words were spat out in a half-hissed, half-snarled torrent of verbiage. “A stranger sailed into these northern climes, setting everyone’s eyes agog with the size of his merchant ship, and the third day after his arrival in port,” she jerked the coat and Farrell in it to underscore her facts, “he accused our Father of cheating at cards. Whether true or false, he had no need to bleat it aloud for all to hear, causing such a panic among the merchants of Mawbry and Wirkinton that even now Father fears they’ll throw him into debtor’s prison for the notes he cannot pay. Aye, and ’tis for the ease of this predicament that he seeks to marry me off. The wealthy Mr. Seton can hardly care about the havoc he has brought upon this family. I will indeed hold the man responsible for all he’s done. But you, my dear brother, are an equal fool, for a heated denial and a failure to enforce it only strengthen the other’s cause. Such men are better dealt with in calm deliberation, not youthful bravado.”
Farrell stared at his sister in stunned amazement for this attack on his person, and Erienne realized he had heard nothing of what she had said.
“Oh, what’s the use!” She pushed him back in disgust and turned away. There seemed to be no effective argument that would point out the folly of his ways.
Farrell eyed the brimming glass of whiskey and licked his lips, wishing she would bring him the drink. “You may be a couple years older’n me, Erienne.” He was extremely weary. His mouth was cotton thick, and it took an effort to speak. “But tha’s no cause to rant at me as if I were a child.” Tucking in his chin, he mumbled glumly to himself, “Tha’s what he called me…a child.”
Erienne paced before the fireplace, seeking that elusive rationale with which she could affect her brother’s reason, until a soft sound halted her, and she turned to find Farrell’s head lolling limply on his chest. The first low snore quickly deepened into a rich, sonorous example of the art, making her crushingly aware of her blunder in not seeing him directly to his room. Silas Chambers could arrive momentarily, and her pride would pay a heavy toll beneath his scornful smirk. Her only hope would be her father’s speedy return, but that too might prove to be a double-edged sword.
In the next halting moment, it dawned on Erienne that the leisurely clip-clop of hooves that had sounded outsi
de for the past moment or two had ceased in front of the cottage. Erienne waited tensely for some indication of the rider’s whereabouts, and doom descended when a heel grated on the step, closely followed by a loud rap on the door.
“Silas Chambers!” Her mind leaped apace with her nerves. Glancing wildly about, she wrung her hands in distress. How could his arrival be so ill-timed?
In frantic haste she ran to Farrell and tried to rouse him, but her best effort failed even to interrupt his measured snores. She caught him under the arms and attempted to haul him up, but alas, it was like trying to hoist a loose bag of heavy stones. He slumped forward and slid to the floor, sprawling in a limp, disorganized heap as the room echoed again with the caller’s insistent knock.
Erienne had no choice but to accept the obvious. Perhaps Silas Chambers was not worth her concern, and she’d even be grateful for the blighting presence of her brother. Still, there was a reluctance to lend herself and her family to the ridicule that would surely follow his visit. Hoping at least to hide her brother from the casual eye, she pulled a chair around in front of him and spread a shawl over his face to soften the snores. Then with calm deliberation she smoothed her hair and gown, trying to squelch the anxieties that remained. Somehow it would all work out for the best. It just had to!
The persistent summons came again as she reached the door. She laid her hand on the latch, a cool vision of poised womanhood, and swung open the portal. For a brief moment the space seemed entirely filled by a tall expanse of darkly wet cloth. Slowly her gaze traveled up from expensive black leather boots, over a long length of redingote, to the face beneath the dripping brim of his beaver hat, and then her breath halted. It was a man’s face, and far and away the most handsome she had seen in many a year. When a slight frown marked the brow, as when she first glimpsed it, the features appeared awesomely stern and foreboding. There was a tense, almost angry look to the crisp, chiseled line of his jaw, the taut cheeks, and the slightly aquiline profile that would have been well at home at sea. Yet humor came quickly, flitting about the features and compressing the tiny wrinkles of mirth at the corners of the eyes. The grayish-green eyes were totally alive, as if searching out every last note of joy in life. They openly and unabashedly displayed his approval as his gaze ranged over the full length of her. The slow grin that followed and the sparkle in his translucent eyes combined to a most disarming degree to sap the strength from her knees.
This was no doddering ancient or swaggering fop, Erienne realized, but a man alive and virile in every fiber of his being. That he greatly exceeded her expectations was undeniably an understatement. Indeed, she wondered why such a man had to resort to seeking a bride by way of barter.
The stranger swept off his hat in gallant haste, revealing a short, thick crop of dark, russet-brown hair. His rich, masculine voice was as pleasing as his good looks. “Miss Fleming, I presume?”
“Um, yes. Oh, Erienne. Erienne Fleming.” Her tongue seemed unusually clumsy, and she began to fear that it would stumble and betray her. Her mind had begun to race, forming thoughts totally counter to what they had been earlier. The man was nearly perfect! Without visible flaw! Yet the question persisted. If the man was willing to wed, how could he reach a mature age without being entrapped by at least a dozen women?
There must be a flaw! her common sense raged. Knowing Father, there is a flaw!
Race as it might, her mind was fairly outdistanced by her suddenly active tongue. “Do come in, sir. My father said you would be coming.”
“Indeed?” He seemed to digest her statement with a certain amount of amazement. The quirk in his lips deepened into an amused, one-sided grin as he peered at her inquiringly. “Do you know who I am?”
“Of course!” She laughed brightly. “We’ve been expecting you. Please come in.”
As he stepped across the threshold, a faint frown of perplexity furrowed his brow, and he seemed almost reluctant to yield her his hat, riding crop, and gloves. Tucking the latter into the crown of the hat, Erienne laid the articles aside.
“You surprise me greatly, Miss Fleming,” he commented. “I had expected to be greeted with resentment, not kindness.”
Erienne mentally cringed at the implication of his words. She had not considered that her father would be so tactless as to reveal her unwillingness to wed. How could her parent have even thought that she would resent such a handsome suitor when he was so far above the rest who had come seeking her hand?
Responding with a feigned laugh of gaiety, she carefully expressed her concern. “I suppose Father told you of my reluctance to meet you.”
The man grinned knowingly. “No doubt you thought me some horrid beast.”
“I am much relieved to see that you are not,” she replied, then worried that she had spoken with too much enthusiasm. She gritted her teeth, hoping he wouldn’t think her a forward filly, but what she had said was almost an understatement.
Hiding her pinkening cheeks, she reached past him to close the door. A gentle cologne mixed with the pleasant smell of horse and man touched her senses with an acute awareness that left her almost giddy. Certainly no imperfection here!
His long fingers were deft and quick as he unfastened the buttons of his redingote. He swept the garment off, and try as she might, Erienne could find no flaw in those wide shoulders, lean waist, and long limbs. The ample swell of manhood beneath the snugly fitting breeches gave bold evidence of his masculinity, and remembering the cause of his visit, she was suddenly aflutter, as if already a bride.
“Let me take your coat,” she offered, trying to steady her trembling voice. The impeccably tailored clothes were to be admired nearly as much as the man who wore them. Yet on someone of less impressive stature, they might have lost much of their flair. The waistcoat, worn beneath a dark green coat, was fashionably short and of a light buff hue that matched the breeches. The leather boots were made to mold the lean, muscular shape of his calves and were turned down at the tops to reveal cuffs of tan. Though the garments were stylish and costly, he wore them with a manly ease that held no hint of a foppish demeanor.
Erienne turned aside to hang the redingote on a peg beside the door. Stirred by the contrast of chilly wetness on the outside and the warmth on the inside, she paused to smooth the raindrops from the rich fabric, then faced him with a comment. “It must have been a miserable ride on a day like this.”
The green eyes lightly swept her and catching her own, held them with a smiling warmth. “Miserable perhaps, but with such beauty to greet me, easily borne.”
Perhaps she should have warned him about standing so close. It was most difficult to subdue the deepening blush of pleasure while appearing nonchalant. She berated her mind for its spring-halt inadequacy, but her thoughts had become mired in the fact that she was actually entertaining a man who, for once, seemed to fulfill every letter of her desire. Surely there was a flaw. There had to be!
“My father should be back any moment now,” she informed him demurely. “Would you care to wait in the parlor?”
“If it would not inconvenience you,” he replied. “There is a matter of importance I wish to discuss with him.”
Erienne swept around to lead the way but almost froze when she entered the adjoining room. Farrell’s shoe jutted obtrusively from behind the chair where she had left him. She was appalled at her own foolishness but realized it was too late to redirect their guest. In an attempt to distract the man, she gave him her prettiest smile as she crossed to the settee. “I saw you coming over the river from the north.” She sank to the cushion and silently gestured for him to take a chair. “Do you live somewhere nearby?”
“Actually, I have a town house in London,” he responded. He swept back the tails of his dark green coat, revealing its buff lining, and took a seat in the very chair that partially hid Farrell.
Erienne’s composure faltered slightly when she considered how ridiculous she would feel if he chanced to spy the undignified heap behind him. “I…ah…was about t
o brew some tea,” she stated in a nervous rush. “Would you care for some?”
“After such a wet and chilly ride, I would enjoy that immensely.” His voice was smooth as velvet. “But, please, don’t trouble yourself on my account.”
“Oh, ’tis no trouble, sir,” she hastened to assure him. “We have precious few guests here.”
“But what of his one?” To her overwhelming chagrin he swept a hand toward Farrell. “A rejected suitor, perhaps?”
“Oh, no, sir! He’s only…I mean…he’s my brother.” She shrugged helplessly. Her mind was too numb to allow a quick riposte. Besides, now that her secret was out, it was probably best to be completely honest, since there was no other logical explanation. “He…um…imbibed a trifle heavily last night, and I was trying to get him up to his room when you knocked.”
Subdued amusement played on his face as he rose from his chair. Dropping to a knee beside her brother, he tossed aside the shawl and lifted a limp eyelid. The snores continued undisturbed, and when the man glanced up at her, his humor had grown more obvious. Strong white teeth sparkled behind a broadening grin. “Would you have need of assistance toward that end?”
A Rose in Winter Page 2