Incognita (Fairchild Book 2) (40 page)

“Morris insists on going through with this,” Cyril said, gingerly lifting out the second pistol. Squelching the thought that one of these guns might kill him, Alistair found a spot approximately the right distance from a slanting tree that had almost managed to survive the latest assault on the town.
 

“Friday, you said?”
 

“Yes.”
 

“And pistols.”
 

Cyril groaned. “If his seconds hadn’t talked him out of it, he’d have insisted on swords! He means to kill you.”
 

“He’s not the first one to try,” Alistair said mildly.
 

“You never stood still for the French.”
 

“No, but I did when I faced Renton. And Galloway.”
 

“You met him?” Cyril said, turning in surprise.
 

“My temper was quicker back then.”
 

Cyril grunted. “What did you do?”
 

“Watched him shoot first. Then I told him to hold up his hand. Shot the pistol right out of it.”
 

Cyril laughed. “No wonder he avoids me.”
 

“You should avoid him. Bad lot. Doesn’t do to mix with those.”
 

“I daresay,” Cyril said, mocking him.
 

“I mean it. You’d save yourself a lot of trouble if you cut yourself free of that bunch. If you’re going to be looking after Anna, you’ll have to—”
 

“You’re going to win, remember? Want this?” he asked, holding out Alistair’s camp stool.
 

“Not yet.” He would eventually, but he must practice standing for as long as he could.
 

“Where’s Morris?” Cyril asked, as Alistair positioned his crutch and aimed.
 

“Right there,” Alistair said, and fired. “Damn. Missed him.” He’d have to adjust his stance.
 

“Did Morris shoot you?” Cyril asked.
 

“Nope. Missed by a yard. He will, you know. See my sideway stance? He’s got a narrow target.”
 

“Yes, and it wobbles.”
 

“I won’t by Friday,” Alistair said.
 

An hour later he wasn’t so sure. He’d have fallen today, if Cyril hadn’t been close by. He shot Morris in the chest perhaps four times in ten—not nearly enough. He was tired.

Anna was pale and unsmiling when he returned, and mute until they sat down to dinner.
 

“I noticed you got out your pistols,” she said, with frightening calm.
 

“Just to keep in practice. Something to do,” interjected Cyril.
 

“I see,” said Anna. The anger pulsing through the air was bad enough, but the hurt in her eyes was intolerable.
 

“I need to speak to Griggs,” Alistair said, rising from the table and fleeing the house, knowing he’d find Griggs at the tavern across the square. Griggs listened, nodding seriously as Alistair emptied two bottles of wine and instructed him on the necessary preparations for their journey home.
 

“Thank you, Captain, I’m sure I’ll manage,” said Griggs, keeping a straight face. “Just as I have a time or two before.”
 

Alistair blinked, his scowl late in coming. “Dash it, Griggs, you aren’t supposed to let me play the fool.”
 

“And when did you ever listen to me?” Griggs sighed. “Let me help you to bed.”
 

Anna was there, huddled under the blankets. Waving away Griggs, Alistair lowered himself onto the bed. The door clicked shut. Anna lurched another foot away from him, no small feet in a bed this narrow, hauling the blankets with her and leaving him to wiggle his five toes in the cold. Impossible to sleep in this charged silence. Even her breathing made no sound. Tentatively, Alistair rested his hand against the wall of her back.
 

“I want you to tell me,” she ground out.
 

Fear took him then, like rushing water in the spring thaw. He closed the space between them, sliding his arms under her own, stifling a groan that pushed against his closed throat. “Please don’t make me. You already know.”
 

“Can’t we run away?”
 

He choked. “I can’t run.”
 

“Can you shoot?”
 

“Yes.” If he was lucky.
 

Her face, when she brought it to his, was wet, though some of the tears might have been his own. His leg ached and his head swam, heavy with the knowledge that he might not get to keep her. Two days left.
 

“Is there another way?” she asked.
 

“He’s not going to trouble you,” he said.
 

“I hate this,” she said—or at least, he thought so. Her face was half in his shoulder, half in the pillow.
 

“No more crying,” he said, to himself and to her, as he laced his fingers together behind her back. He wouldn’t be able to bear it else. It was all right now, when he was drunk and tired, but tomorrow he must think only about shooting straight, and where wanted to put his bullet.
 

Friday morning Griggs arrived to dress him before dawn. “I thought the black coat today, Captain,” he said, holding it out.
 

“What did you do to the buttons?” Alistair asked.
 

“Must be this damp air. They’ve tarnished,” Griggs lied. He’d clearly blacked them. Alistair was about to ask for another coat, unwilling to humble himself before Frederick Morris, but then he caught Anna’s shadowed eyes, peering at him over the edge of the sheet. The blacked buttons were her and Griggs’s doing. Steadying himself with a hand against the bed, Alistair bent down to kiss her forehead. “Thank you.” He’d wear the black coat and sacrifice pride. He was a husband and a father. No need to make Frederick’s aim easier.
 

“I’ll be back soon. Don’t forget that I love you,” he said. He downed a cup of coffee and ordered Griggs to move a sleeping Henry into bed with Anna. Better if she had a warm body to hold. He’d asked her not to get out of bed.
 

Griggs came with him when he stepped outside, waiting for Cyril. He arrived in fine style, driving a well-sprung gig.
 

“Lord knows what it will cost me, but I won’t have you bounced from here into Hades,” Cyril said.
 

“Where did you find it?” Alistair asked, accepting Cyril’s hand and Griggs’s shoulder.
 

“Some fellows helped me borrow it. They wish you their best.”
 

“I hope we won’t have an audience,” Alistair said.
 

“They know we’re just going for a drive,” Cyril said.
 

They drove from the town, winding down the hill, passing a pinched-looking boy and his gathering of goats—too few to call a flock. A stand of bare trees clustered in the low ground. On the other side was the chosen field, a flat space screened from the town by the trees.
 

“Lovely spot,” Alistair said.
 

“I’m glad you think so.” Cyril settled the horses, then helped Alistair with his awkward descent, keeping hold of Alistair’s shoulders even after he was on the ground. “You’re certain I can’t do this? I’d consider it a great honor.”
 

Alistair wiped a drip from the end of his nose. The air was cold. “I’ll always remember you offered. And that you meant it.”
 

Alistair found himself a convenient tree to lean on, wanting to spare his arms. Cyril paced back and forth across the grass. “They’ll be late,” he said.
 

The air felt sharp and chill and clean, with only a hint of distant smoke. Alistair swung his arms, working blood into his flexing fingers, shaking out the tightness in his shoulders. He breathed long and slow, watching the sun blunt the frosty edges of the grass until he felt languid and easy. These things didn’t take long. He didn’t want to kill Morris and wasn’t entirely sure he could. Perhaps blowing a hole in his shoulder would be enough. It would be, in most cases, but there was a fortune at stake. If the Morris’s were as profligate with Henry’s money as Alistair suspected, giving Frederick a wound in the shoulder was only raising the stakes. If Frederick didn’t kill him today, the idea of paying someone to do the job for him would soon cross Frederick’s mind, if it hadn’t already—his own fault again. He should never have mentioned killing back in London. Such threats could never be unsaid or forgotten. He hadn’t thought, back then, as he’d prodded Morris, that it would lead to today, to Anna’s scared eyes.
 

Alistair waited until the sound of rattling wheels stopped before turning his head. Morris, buttoned up and determined, jumped down from a rackety cart. Alistair swung his arms again, waiting for Cyril to say the necessary things to Morris’s seconds.
 

Should tell Cyril I’m glad he’s standing up with me.
 

They examined the case of pistols, their motions scrupulous and refined, their low voices a pleasant rumble. There was something about this air, Alistair thought, drawing it in slowly. He wanted more and more of it, as if inflating his chest enough would float him up into the pale sky. He shut his eyes and smiled, letting the sun wash over his face. He was an eye and an arm and a ball of lead, nothing more, with one task only: shoot straight. He’d aim for the shoulder. They were reasonable men. Morris just needed a reminder not to trifle with him.
 

Cyril came back, carrying one of the pistols.
 

“They like ’em. No reason not too. Cost a nice round sum, as I recall.”
 

“I never thanked you for the lovely present,” Alistair murmured.
 

“Save it for later,” Cyril said, his mouth drawing tight.
 

“You have the other one?”
 

Cyril nodded, confirming he had Alistair’s army pistol concealed under his greatcoat.
 

“Keep it ready. Just in case he doesn’t stick to his ground. He might try to run.”
 

“Don’t let him shoot first,” Cyril began.
 

“I like to take my time,” Alistair said. He preferred to load his own gun, but today he had to leave it to the seconds. No matter. Cyril had shot with him enough this week to do a proper job. A fellow couldn’t allow any qualms—if he fretted about one thing, he’d invite in a host of worries. You couldn’t shoot straight with fear piled on your back. Planting his left crutch with care—he’d left the other one in the gig—Alistair angled himself away from Morris, presenting his right side. He squinted at Morris, who was shaking his hands, squaring his hips.
 

Alistair imagined his foot, his knee, his crutch planted in the earth, steady as stone. He stared a moment at the backdrop of branches, outlined in the sunlight.
 

“Ready?”
 

Alistair nodded, picking a point on Morris’s chest. He wore a dark coat too, with dull silver buttons, denying him an easy target. Alistair stood with his hand relaxed at his side, reminding himself to be perfectly still. From the corner of his eye, he saw one of Morris’s seconds raise his hand, lifting a handkerchief into the air. It waved up, then fell, instantly succeeded by a sharp retort. Alistair flinched, his stomach clenching, his heart instinctively galloping forward before he could rein it back. No time to examine himself or his surroundings, to think where the shot may have gone.
 

“Give me my shot!” he barked, as Morris began to move. The other seconds jerked in surprise, Cyril shouting for Morris to hold to his ground. Morris was coming for him, leaving wet footprints on the frosty grass. Alistair raised his arm. “Give me my shot!” he shouted again. Much harder to hit a moving target. Morris reached behind his back, but by then Alistair already knew. Morris was closing the distance because he had another pistol.
 

The other seconds were shouting now, but no one wanted to step into the line of fire. Morris wore an ugly snarl and now Alistair could see the glint of his second gun. His own shot got easier, the closer Morris came, but if he waited until Morris raised his gun—

One breath in. Let it halfway out. Pull.
 

His pistol cracked, jumping in his hand, the sound splintering their little drama.

“Damn it!” Morris said, clapping a hand to the corner of his neck. He hadn’t killed him. A scratch on the skin and a torn neckcloth when he’d been aiming for the chest. Cyril seized his chance, rushing to Alistair’s side, yelling at Morris to back away, waving his pistol ineffectively, but still managing to look threatening. As Cyril slid his free arm around him Alistair realized he was listing sideways.
 

Was he shot? He didn’t feel anything. He probed his stomach, finding nothing.
 

“Give me that,” he said, holding out a hand for the other pistol and adjusting his crutch. Morris might still use his second gun. He’d clearly given up any of his remaining scruples. Alistair watched warily, not raising the pistol yet. He didn’t want to tire his arm. Morris was still holding his shoulder, spitting out curses.
 

“You all right?” Cyril asked. Alistair probed his stomach again. It seemed he was. All he felt was the urge to vomit.
 

“Let me,” Cyril said, moving his arm under Alistair’s shoulder, helping him step aside.
 

“Nicked me is all,” Morris said, to no one in particular, letting go of his shoulder and raising his gun. But halfway Morris frowned, looking down at his shoulder and then at his hand. It was washed red, and something was dripping off the end of his gun. His dark coat was shining. Alistair raised his own gun, just in case, but he no longer feared Frederick’s fire, watching the way he stepped, lurching a little in the knees.
 

“Good God,” Morris said, half cursing, half in wonderment. He took another step, but his fingers were lax, his head swaying.