Page 42 of The Trouble With Dukes
“I want to stand outside Sir Fletcher’s house and shout rude taunts,” Megan said, accepting a plain linen square from the duke. “I never shout.”
“And you’re never rude,” Murdoch replied, his hand glossing over Megan’s hair, “but when you’ve broken a siege you thought would never end, only rude shouting will do—or worse.”
For an odd moment, Megan had the sense that the embrace had become mutual, as if she’d lashed her arms around Murdoch in an excess of emotion and provoked some answering sentiment in him. She eased her grip, but did not let him go.
“Rosecroft claims the sieges were awful,” she said, “and what followed was even worse. I can understand a little bit why. I have my letters, and now I want to steal something from Sir Fletcher to get back the rest of what he tried to take from me.”
Murdoch stepped away. “Brutality in victory would only give you cause for regret, Miss Meggie. I’d rather endure the march to Corunna all over again, than live two minutes of the aftermath of Badajoz.”
Megan could hardly reconcile that gently spoken admonition with the handsomely attired gentleman before her. Murdoch’s eyes said he knew all about brutality in victory, and in captivity, and every place in between, and she hated that more than she hated Sir Fletcher Pilkington.
The duke’s embrace had said other things—sweet, precious sentiments Megan wanted to savor as much as she wanted to enjoy besting Sir Fletcher.
“Please sit with me,” she said, choosing the bench behind the highest hedge. “You must count the letters for me, because my hands are shaking.”
Murdoch scooped up the packet from the bench where Megan had tossed it, and produced a flask from an inside pocket.
“A wee dram to steady your nerves.”
The flask was warm from his body heat, and embossed with a rampant unicorn wreathed in thistles.
Megan unscrewed the cap and passed the open container under her nose. “This is whisky.” Soldiers drank whisky.
“Colin owns a fine distillery. Don’t stop to admire the flavor or get acquainted. Just down the hatch.”
“Slàinte!” Megan muttered, tipping the flask up. She hadn’t tried whisky since she and Charlotte had got hold of Papa’s hunting flask ten years ago. After one sip, Charlotte had pronounced all men mad. Megan had been coughing too hard to speak.
“Do dheagh shlàinte,” Murdoch rejoined.Your good health.
Megan took the tiniest sip, and braced herself for fire and mayhem but got only … warmth. Lovely, delicious, bracing warmth. A kiss from within, a hint of brilliant sunshine and scouring sea breezes with the barest traces of heather and spice beneath.
“Lovely,” she said, patting the place beside her. “Read me the dates of the letters and I’ll keep a count.”
Murdoch helped himself to a dram, put the flask away, then lowered himself gingerly to the bench.
“You took more than a tumble, Your Grace. First we’ll count the letters, then you’ll tell me exactly what happened.”
He read over a series of dates, thirty-one in all, and as the total climbed closer to the number that had haunted Megan since Sir Fletcher had first threatened her, the day shifted from pretty, to promising, to glorious.
“They’re all there,” she said. “Every one, present and accounted for. You have done the impossible, and made short work of it. Anything you could possibly ask of me is yours to command, Murdoch.”
Though what had she, a shortsighted, retiring, redhaired spinster-in-training, to offer a titled, wealthy, seasoned soldier?
He patted her knee and passed her the letters, which Megan set aside rather than hold in her hand one moment longer than necessary.
“I’m off to Scotland tomorrow,” he said. “I’d be most obliged if you’d keep an eye on Ronnie and Eddie in my absence. They are new to fancy society and might not see the ambushes they’re riding into. They’ll need friends, and you know what you’re about when it comes to the London season.”
More rude words popped into Megan’s head, for she did not want her friend and champion leaving for the north now, when she was finally free to be his friend too.
“You ask nothing for yourself,” she said. “Your sisters did not retrieve these awful letters, you did. Have you no wishes or wants of your own that I might aid before you travel on?”
He shifted, suggesting a hard bench was an uncomfortable perch—or that he was preparing to prevaricate.
“I have wishes and wants,” he replied, “and my family’s happiness figures prominently among them. You understand about wanting family to be safe and happy, else those letters would not have been a problem, Miss Meggie.”
True.“I want you to be safe and happy too.” And she didnotwant him to be hundreds of miles away in Scotland. “Was it difficult to retrieve the letters?”
Another shift. “I made the acquaintance of the youngest Pilkington, a wee lass by the name of Geneva. In about ten years, she’ll set the town on its ear, but she was hospitable enough to a bumbling footman who hadn’t any livery yet. Unfortunately, I also made the acquaintance of Lady Pamela’s cat, who did his best to knock over the hearth set and myself as well.”
