Page 25 of The Trouble With Dukes
Hamish’s French, like that of most British military officers, was proficient.
“Murdoch has such a brutal air,” a woman said in titillated Parisian accents. “One can’t help but wonder, given all the talk …”
“He was taken captive, you know,” a bored male voice replied in the same language. “His men never said exactly how that happened. Not held prisoner for very long, by all accounts. Perhaps the French haven’t your appreciation for savagery, my dear.”
Somebody was speaking—in English—but Hamish could not grasp the words. He was under another moonlit sky, in the foothills of the Pyrenees, exhausted, furious, his heart pounding in time with the blows falling on him from all directions.
Go down fighting. You’ve the blood of a hundred generations of warriors … the blood of a hundred generations of warriors … a hundred generations of warriors….
Self-defense begged for expression. A compulsion to destroy panicked its way past the part of Hamish that watched from a vantage point above his head.
This again, this mindless surrender to despair. This clamoring demand to salvage a shred of honor with a tidal surge of violence.
This loss of all control, of all hope, and he’d been doing so well …
While the Hamish choking in his evening finery raised a hand to strike out at the next fool who sought to subdue him. His ears roared, his vision misted red, his breathing came in great, soughing bellows.
He knew what was happening, and yet he could not preserve himself from the disgrace bearing down from all sides.Go down fighting. Die hard … make them die harder.
“There you are.” The soft words came from Hamish’s right. “I’m so glad I found you. Our dance approaches, and I’ve been looking forward all evening to my waltz with you.”
Between the part of Hamish preparing to wreak havoc without mercy and the part of Hamish collapsing in defeat at the hands of violent memories, a rational thought emerged, like the ringing of church bells over a battlefield.
Gently spoken Englishwomen did not participate in moonlit ambushes.He could trust that conclusion as a fact grounded in a soldier’s experience.
Hamish lowered the fist that had been raised to the level of his heart, while the tittering couple moved away, and the violins lilted along, spreading gracious melody over the tramping of the dancers’ feet and the pounding of Hamish’s heart.
Keswick’s watchful stillness suggested Hamish might have been a horse beaten too many times, crowded against the walls that had prevented flight to safety. The animal could strike out at the very person who sought to tend its wounds and lead it to freedom.
“Miss Megan,” Keswick said, not taking his gaze off Hamish. “Good evening. Is it time for the supper waltz?”
The scent of lilacs came to Hamish as a gentle grip wrapped around his elbow.
“The next set should be the supper waltz,” she said. “You may entrust me to His Grace’s care, Keswick, and find your countess.”
Saved.Saved not by Keswick’s fist plowing into Hamish’s jaw, not by Colin tackling his older brother and slamming his head against the paving stones. Saved, not even by a certain baroness storming onto the dueling grounds and hurling scolds in all directions.
Savedby a quiet question and a hand on Hamish’s arm. He nearly collapsed at Miss Megan’s feet, as a man will when battle-madness eases its stranglehold on reason.
“Murdoch,” Keswick said. “Shall I leave you and Miss Megan to find your own way back to the ballroom?”
Hamish managed a nod. “Aye.”
“Thank you, Joseph,” Miss Megan added. “I’m sure Louisa is looking for you.”
After another pointed visual inspection, Keswick bowed to the lady and departed.
“Joseph is fierce out of habit,” Miss Megan said, leading Hamish to a shadowed bench. “His children take shameless advantage if he doesn’t put up a show of gruffness, but he is a much loved man. Louisa, of all people, was smitten to her toes and remains in that blessed state to this day.
“Do sit down,” she went on. “I overheard Lady Viola’s speculations, Your Grace. She’s a tart, of course, and you’re not to spare her a moment’s thought. My feet ache, by the way. We’re sitting out the supper waltz. Please say something, for I’m babbling.”
The sound of Megan’s voice, with its hints of Wales and heart-deep goodness, soothed Hamish. Her proximity, her invitation to sit with her beneath the torches, to rest for a moment in the shadows, calmed his spirit, like a well-aged dram on a bitter night.
Hamish said the first words that came to mind. “I’m glad you found me too, Miss Meggie. Very glad.”
Megan’s heart was still pounding, her belly was in an uproar, and all she could think was that with the Duke of Murdoch, she’d find sanctuary. He was a good man, honest, honorable, all the things Sir Fletcher was not. For the length of an entire minuet, Megan had endured Sir Fletcher’s smiling, bowing assurances of ruin, should she fail to yield to his proposal posthaste.
“We can waltz if you insist,” Megan said. “It’s not that I’m ashamed to be seen with you.” Though she was very ashamed of herself.
