Page 28 of The Trouble With Dukes
Murdoch assumed the problem was with Megan’s cousins. How she treasured him for his reasoning.
“I won’t ask my cousins to confront Sir Fletcher because he’ll call them out, of course,” Megan said, scooting on her perch, though finding a comfortable seat on cold, hard stone was a hopeless undertaking. “I couldn’t bear that, and a duel would ruin my reputation anyway, bring scandal down upon my sisters, and disappoint my parents. For two years after Rosecroft mustered out, he had to consume spirits to endure thunderstorms. The idea of subjecting him to gunfire or swordplay, for any reason, is beyond me.”
“What was Sir Fletcher doing for those two years and more, and why is he only now making a pest of himself to you?”
His Grace asked a shrewd question.
“I’ve concluded I’m Sir Fletcher’s fiancée of last resort.” Another hurt, to be any man’s last resort. “First, he paid his addresses to a banker’s daughter, but her family’s fortunes declined sharply and they no longer come to Town. Then, he became devoted to a sugar heiress, who moved to the West Indies. I was relieved to see him pursuing other women, when it became clear he wasn’t at all as interested in me as I had been in him. I considered I’d had a near miss, a bitter but important lesson.”
“Rotten luck, that he still has your letters.”
“I don’t think it’s luck, Your Grace. I think Sir Fletcher is that good at scheming. He’s turned the entire season into enemy territory for me. I never know when he’ll accost me at the punch bowl, demand a dance, or inflict himself on me at a musicale. I understand better now, why Rosecroft was so unsettled when he came home from Waterloo.”
His Grace took a seat on the rim of the fountain, his evening glove peeking from his jacket pocket like a white flag. He brushed his fingers over the wool of his kilt, drawing attention to a pale male knee.
Oh, for spectacles and blazing torches by which to appreciate the picture he made.
“Soldiers generally don’t discuss their peacetime challenges,” His Grace said, “but Rosecroft is not the only man in England having difficulty—or in France, Germany, Spain, Poland, Portugal. Thunderstorms, nightmares, and stupid duels too, of course. We all have near misses, Meggie Windham, and they haunt us.”
He clearly included his own history in that category. Such a past would bedevil a commanding officer long after the war ended.
“I can’t tell my cousins about these letters,” Megan said. “I’ve thought of telling Uncle Percy, but he’s the worst of the lot when it comes to protectiveness, save for my own papa. Uncle Percy might not call Sir Fletcher out, but he’d ruin him all the same, and it would still be a scandal. A ruined man has no reason to keep his mouth shut.”
Murdoch rose, and Megan felt tears threatening all over again. He’d bow, he’d tell her Sir Fletcher wasn’t the worst option, and she had to marry somebody, after all.
She’d told herself some version of those same lies many times.
Murdoch crouched before her and took her hand. “You can’t marry Pilkington, Miss Meggie. He has a cruel side; ask any man who served under him. Sir Fletcher delighted in lifting the lash, even on boys whose only crime was stupidity. The scandal of a few passionate letters would provide you sanctuary from a life tied to such a man.”
Megan’s free hand went to her middle. “I want to say you’re exaggerating, that you don’t like him because he’s English, and golden, and did not fall into French hands.”
Though had Sir Fletcher fallen foul of the French, he’d have done so in uniform. Charlotte had reported that Murdoch had been capturedoutof uniform, which accounted for him having been handed over to a French officer notorious for his skills at … interrogation.
“Sir Fletcher is golden and English,” Murdoch said, rising and remaining before her. “I don’t like him, I never have, and I won’t lie about that. Other people would say he’s a good catch.”
Megan closed her eyes. “Other people would be wrong. If Sir Fletcher will take advantage of me, he’s not a gentleman. He cannot be trusted to protect those weaker than he, if he instead exploits them when it’s to his advantage.”
She was revealing more than she’d intended to, brushing up against memories she’d sworn she’d never revisit.
A foot scraped on the flagstone, the scent of wool and heather came closer, then warmth, then an embrace so gentle, so enveloping and secure, adoration was too tame a word for the emotion that inspired Megan to rise, slip her arms around Murdoch’s waist, and rest her forehead against his chest.
Sanctuary, indeed. Blessed, heather-scented, impregnable sanctuary.
Chapter Seven
War was so damned seductive. Nobody warned a lad as he took the king’s shilling that he was risking not only his life, but also part of his soul, his sanity, and certainly his heart.
As Hamish held a weeping Megan Windham in his arms, his emotions lurched close to grief, for all he’d left on the battlefields of Spain and France.
Camaraderie without limit.
Affection for his men and even for some of his fellow officers.
Shared memories of valor, squalor, violence, victory, and everything in between.
Bad rations that had tasted ambrosial.
Haggard women who should have been canonized for their part of the war effort.
