Tristan checked the gun and strode back to the tent. He set the pistol in the case and turned toward Felicity.
“I wasn’t going to give him the chance to shoot at my bride,” Tristan said.
Felicity approached him, her hands shaking as she set them on his shoulders. His eyes searched hers warily. “Are you all right?”
“I might be. Eventually. My ears are ringing, and I feel like I could sleep for a week.”
He kissed her forehead.
Alston whistled. “Was that intentional or pure luck like last night?”
“That was skill. A boyhood of mischief and hunting and military training.” He put his arm around Felicity, and she put her hand to his chest where his heart bounded like a scared rabbit. He was not as calm as he seemed, but he wore an expert mask. He looked down at her and smiled. “It just so happened Lady Luck was there with me last night.”
Mrs. Dove-Lyon snorted. “Enough. Someone take that useless sack of piss flour back where he came from.”
“Madam,” her father approached, “it seems I am to face my daughter in his stead. Isn’t that the rule?”
Everyone froze.
“No.” Mrs. Dove-Lyon declared. “He’s already proven his dishonor.No duel needed.”
Felicity sagged against Tristan. Her father turned to her. He took off his hat and ran it between his fingers. He smoothed back his thin, wispy white hair.
“Girl, it would seem you’ve found yourself a suitable husband. As long as you marry him and restore your sisters’ honor, you may have your inheritance.”
“And my sisters,” Felicity said.
He frowned. “Those are my charges.”
“Those are your daughters, and if you care for them at all, you will let me dower them and get them out of that dying village. There are no young men there.” She looked over her shoulder to where Chadwick still lay on the ground. Weeping now. “Not anyone worthy of them. Unless he leaves Winter’s Well, they won’t be safe.”
He scrunched his nose and stuck his chin out. “I’ll consider it. Only after you’re married and settled. Until then, I’ll be leaving this wicked city. Write to your mother. She’s been worried sick.”
Tristan held out his hand. “I’m Tristan Cameron, of Clan Cameron. We’ll be living in Lark Hall near Inverness.”
“Scotland?” Her father raised his brows. “Good people. Good Protestant people.” He nodded as if he found this acceptable and shook Tristan’s hand.
Felicity huffed in annoyance and turned away from him.
The crowd of people was breaking up. Some offered to help carry Chadwick back to the carriage. His hat had disappeared.
Blakewood and Lady Amelia led them back toward where they’d parked the curricle.
“You drove that here?” Alston said. Tristan whistled at the shiny conveyance.
“You left us with no choice,” Lady Amelia said.
“How are we going to get back?” Felicity asked. She didn’t want to ride in that thing, and she didn’t want to let go of Tristan. But betweena horse and the curricle, she chose the curricle. The drive was much slower, the gentlemen keeping pace, and Tristan rode by her side.
They returned toAlston House. Tristan helped Flick down from the curricle, taking her hand and threading his fingers through hers. As the butler opened the front door, Lady Amelia announced they should have a celebratory breakfast.
Celebrating was not what Tristan was in the mood for. Flick was pale, her skin chilled. He suspected she might be in a state of shock. “What would you like to do?” he asked her.
She leaned into him. “Lie down.”
“How about a bath first?”
“Are you saying I smell?”
