“He knew. Finally, when my aim was sure, and I could reload fast, he told me that with my birth, the day would come when men challenged me, or insulted me and I had to challenge them, but if it were known that I was a crack shot, fewer men wouldtake that step. A man known to always hit his aim is not a man with whom other men want to duel.”
She finished loading, then cradled the pistol in her hands. “Was he correct? Did knowing how to shoot well spare you those challenges?”
He took the pistol from her. “Mostly. Not always in the manner he expected.” He raised the weapon and sighted the board, then lowered it again. “It probably kept my brother from killing me, though.”
She looked at him in surprise. He gazed down at the pistol.
“One of those summers, my oldest brother came to visit. I think our father had begun to suspect what was in Percy by then, but he never guessed the whole of it, and I think he was pleased to see Percy make this gesture of acceptance toward me. One day my father was gone, riding the property, and Percy offered to teach me how duels are done. He explained it all, and we acted it out, the pacing off—all of it. And suddenly I was facing him and we both had loaded pistols in our hands.” He looked at her. “I looked at him, and I knew, I just knew, that he intended there to be an unfortunate accident.”
“You are sure?” The idea stunned her. “Your own brother?”
“I was sure. He was standing right below the outer branches of a tree, and one of those branches all but touched his head. So I aimed for that branch, hit it, and it snapped and fell on him. It startled him enough that I had time to reload. Percy looked at that branch, then at me, and decided the dueling lesson was over.”
He stood and handed her the pistol. “I was fifteen years old. He was twenty. Now, only one more. Light is waning quickly. You will never learn to shoot in the dark.”
She wished there were more time today. She needed to learn this right away. She hated how vulnerable she felt now in her own home. While Gareth had gone to town today, she spent thetime cleaning the destruction, but all the while she listened for anyone coming up the lane or passing near the garden.
She missed again. Gareth eased the pistol out of her grip, then took the powder bag too. “You do not need to be able to hit anything, Eva, because it is very unlikely you will actually fire. Just wielding a pistol will send intruders running. I am tempted to take the powder with me, so you do not do something rash or hurt someone by mistake.”
“Don’t you dare take the powder away. I promise not to use it on my own until I am expert with this pistol. However, I’ll not be treated like a child who shows no sense, or a woman too stupid to avoid shooting her own foot.”
“I said nothing about shooting your own foot.” He caressed her shoulder in a soothing rub. He had done that a lot today since arriving with the pistol and that huge board on a wagon with Harold at the reins. It was the kind of comforting touch one used on people who grieved, or who had become undone by emotion.
Side by side they walked through the garden to the house.
Cleaning the house and practicing with the pistol had distracted her from his attraction, but just walking beside him made the pull he exerted tantalize her again. Invisible tethers between him and her body tightened in naughty, teasing tweaks. She had no idea if he did that deliberately, or if it just happened as a result of his mere existence.
“Have you written to your sister about what happened?” he asked.
“I have a letter to post tomorrow, but it does not contain this news. I do not want her to worry, or to shorten her visit with Sarah.”
They entered through the kitchen in the cellar. Gareth lit a lamp while she followed her nose to the hearth. A pot simmeredthere. Harold must have brought it, the way one brings food to invalids.
“Stew,” she said. Beef stew, from the smell. That was a treat. Her stomach made happy noises. “Will you have some? There appears to be some fresh bread too.”
He responded by taking two plates off the high shelf. A good amount of broken crockery had littered the floor a few hours ago, but not everything had been destroyed.
He went out to the springhouse for water, then they sat down to their meal. She noticed how he watched what she ate.
“Do you approve?” she asked. “Have I eaten enough to keep up my strength and not become sick from a nervous disorder?”
“Do not scold me for worrying about you. You were not physically harmed, but you were still assaulted. It takes a body some time to recover from that.”
“I am fine. Did I faint? No. Did I cry like a madwoman? No. Well, I did cry, but not hysterically, and in anger, not sorrow. Nor have I lost my appetite. See?” She scooped more stew into her mouth.
His eyes narrowed on her. “You are sure you are fine?”
“Completely.”
“Absolutely fine?”
“Totally.”
“I am happy to hear it. I will not worry about it in the least henceforth.”
“That suits me.”
She took the plates and carried them to the sink to wash. When she was done, they went upstairs. “Will we practice with the pistol again tomorrow?”
