Page 95 of The Trouble With Dukes
Hamish knew what it was to be without allies, at the end of his resources, with nothing to lose. He could not bear to see Megan in the same position. He turned for the stairs, but Moreland stopped him.
“Wait,” the duke said. “Megan is not finished with Pilkington, and I am not finished with you.”
Megan could not see who all was standing by, eagerly watching this altercation with Sir Fletcher. Her family was among the crowd, likely scandalized by her actions.
If I’m to be ruined, let it be on my terms.
“Megan, dearest,” Sir Fletcher purred. “You are overset. Perhaps a surfeit of her ladyship’s excellent punch is to blame, or perhaps your nerves have grown delicate waiting for me to offer for you.”
He circled Megan, as if she were some inanimate sculpture, helpless even to move.
“No offer from you will meet with my acceptance, Sir Fletcher, unless it’s an offer for you to leave the country permanently. You are a disgrace to your gender.”
Sir Fletcher came close enough to whisper. “At least I didn’t pen my torrid sentiments in lurid detail, madam. It’s time for you to drop into a convincing swoon.”
“Get away from me.” Megan drew her foot back, which should have been undetectable beneath her skirts. Sir Fletcher, though, like most predators, had sufficiently sound instincts that he stepped away.
“Are you throwing me over for that kilted barbarian?” he asked—loudly. “I could tell you tales about the Duke of Murder, Miss Megan, that would give you nightmares.”
Such scorn dripped from Sir Fletcher’s words that Megan gave up her last hope that this encounter could be blamed on nerves, fatigue, female hysteria, or—society’s favorite explanation for dramatic scenes—a misunderstanding.
“If Murdoch will have me,” she said, raising her voice for all to hear, “I will gladly become his duchess.”
Sir Fletcher guffawed. “You’d marry that, that beast in plaid? He disgraced his command by disobeying orders, got captured by the French, barely knows how to waltz—”
Megan could not see the expressions of Sir Fletcher’s audience—for this was skilled performance—but she didn’t need to see who believed Sir Fletcher to know the truth.
“Waltzing would not have saved Lord Colin MacHugh’s life, when you told him there were fresh horses to be purchased five miles north of camp in the Spanish hills. There were no horses, but there were French patrols.”
“You know nothing about it,” Sir Fletcher retorted. “French patrols were a fact of life. We were at war with the French, hence, French patrols. We traded them bread for brandy between battles. Would you expect to find Egyptian patrols, for God’s sake?”
Somebody tittered, then fell silent.
“When Lord Colin didn’t return to camp,” Megan went on, “Hamish MacHugh went after him, and because Hamish had left camp without permission, he went out of uniform. His men were excessively loyal, so a dozen of them went searching for Lord Colin with him.”
The story had upset Megan when Colin had relayed it in the park, and it upset her now. “Your directions were the merest fancy,” she went on, “the sort of practical joke with which you amused yourself when not avoiding actual combat. So you left a dozen good soldiers stumbling about under the noses of the French, and the French found them.”
The silence in the ballroom was absolute, and Megan made sure her voice carried to every corner.
“Such is war,” she said, “that soldiers captured out of uniform are subject to torture. Fortunately for Hamish MacHugh’s men, they found Colin. Unfortunately for Hamish MacHugh, so did the French. There was a battle, and there was a bridge.”
She had to fight for her composure, but in this, she would not fail Hamish.
“On one side of the bridge, we have the soldiers you sent on a goose chase in time of war,” Megan said. “On the other, the French, who realize exactly what treasure they’ve come across, courtesy of your dubious sense of honor. A dozen British soldiers out of uniform, exhausted, on maneuvers against orders, and ripe for capture. The man you malign so easily, the man you call abarbarian, ordered everybody else to retreat and get back to camp.
“Hamish MacHugh held that bridge,” Megan said, hurling her words at Sir Fletcher. “He fought against impossible odds, knowing his fate would be death or worse. He forbid his men to admit they’d disobeyed orders with him, lest they be court-martialed. Lord Colin and the others reached safety, while Murdoch was taken prisoner by the most notorious interrogator in the French army.”
Megan turned to the faceless crowd surrounding her and Sir Fletcher. “Who is the barbarian? The officer who nearly gave his life for his brother and his men, or the scoundrel whose carelessness precipitated the danger? Or maybe”—she swallowed past a lump the size of a fist—“the worst barbarism is perpetrated by ladies and gentlemen who spread gossip and spite for their own entertainment. Who think because a man is handsome and charming and looks like them, he must be good, but if he’s different, then he must be a stranger to honor.”
Sir Fletcher backed away from her, his footsteps on the chalked dance floor the only sound. He tripped over Megan’s glove, turned, and scuttled away. The crowd parted as if even touching his sleeve would have resulted in a dreadful contamination.
Megan swiped at her cheek with the one glove she still wore. The silence grew until movement on the steps to the minstrel’s gallery caught her eye. The crowd turned as three men descended. One of them—a tall auburn-haired man—wore a kilt.
Hamish. Megan knew his bearing, knew his step, knewhim—and he’d heard her every word. He stopped at that distance where Megan could make out his features clearly. Keswick and Rosecroft were at his sides, and his expression was thunderous.
Hamish was such a private man, and Megan had turned his worst nightmare into grist for the gossip mill.
“Don’t be angry,” Megan said. “Please, Hamish, don’t be angry.”
