In the Brief Eternal Silence (67 page)

And instead of upbraiding her for crying when
they may still be in danger and he could not afford the
distraction, he only said, “Go ahead, Lizzie, for I know you have
held off as long as you could.” He directed the horse into a
deserted lane off from the main road and after following it for a
small ways he dismounted from behind her and pulled her down into
his arms. She buried her face into the tight steel of his chest and
sought comfort from the very person that made her in need of
comforting.

But she only allowed herself that gruesome
weakness for a bare moment, and then she rejected him.

“Oh, no, Dante,” she told him through her
tears as she pushed back from him. “Do not think that I will allow
you to maneuver me in that manner any longer. For you use the very
love I have for you as a weapon against myself, and love should not
be that way.”

And his face closed to her in his hurt as it
had not for a long time (but she had only known him for five days
so how long could it really be? Half of eternity, maybe. And how
does one halve eternity?) and his eyes shuttered down to heavy half
masts, and he turned from her. And she realized that they had
traveled much further than she had thought for most of the day had
gone, and it was in fact that bloody sky time of dusk when the day
died and the darkness enveloped it.

His profile was bathed in this dimming,
winter, crimson light, and now that his eyes were from beneath her
scrutiny, he raised his lids to watch the sunset, and they
glistened very gold in the soft bath of that day's death, and she
had a sudden certainty that he would not be alive to see another
ending of a day, and that he was watching his last twilight.

To the very core of her being, she did not
know whether to be mad with anticipated grief, or to be turned
loose with bittersweet relief. And she only felt a numbness that
she could not shake off, as though with his coming death, she could
already feel herself dying. She wavered there as she watched him.
Wavered between going to him and sacrificing herself to the full
long pain and the full short bliss that he offered her, or of
cutting him off from her in a last desperate bid of saving what she
had left of herself, before he encompassed her so completely that
she would never remember who she had been without him.

But at that moment he turned to her, the
full, steady divineness of his gold eyes beaconing out to her and
he gave a small, twisted, bitter smile, and said with quiet
finality, “But, Miss Murdock, you promised to marry me.”

Thus the sacrifice was made, not by her but
by him.

But she would not understand this for a time.
She only understood at that moment that she hated him.

“I beg that you release me from that promise
made, sir, as it was made under duress,” she told him, and how many
minutes had passed since his reminding of her, she did not know,
only knew that they stood in the lane and the sun was quite gone
and there was only a dim lingering of its spirit to the west of
them and that the air had grown colder.

“No,” he said without reasoning or arguing or
any sign of being moved. He did not even take affront at her using
the word duress as though he had beat her into submission rather
than poured his heart out to her. He only added, “I expect Bertie
or Tyler to be along before too very much longer with fresh horses,
if they are thinking at the speed of which I think they are
capable. I will not tolerate any desertion on your part, Miss
Murdock, when those mounts arrive.”

And Miss Murdock let out a small, cold laugh.
“Indeed, you need have no worry on that head. Your only worry,
milord, is in how you shall react when you at last put me in front
of a minister in Scotland and he asks if 'I do' and there is only a
great, damning silence for answer.”

But he would not be provoked into
arguing.

“Stand warned,” she told him. “For I will not
change my mind.”

But he still said nothing, and his silence
frightened her and she drew the coat she wore (his coat) about her
more tightly over the now rumpled silk of her riding habit that he
had purchased for her.

And he at last acknowledged her words only by
taking her own words from the day before and misquoting them, “I
have tried to point out to you, Miss Murdock, that if you see fit
to become involved with me, then you will suffer the consequences
of your involvement.” Then he added ever so softly to the end of
them his own words, “As do I.”

He turned and loosened the girth on the
saddle and removed the bit from his horse's mouth, and she was
given to understand that such was his faith in Tyler and Bertie,
that they would move no further that night until one or the other
of them arrived.

As he saw her standing there, looking
forlorn, he removed the saddle, tossed it to the ground, and pulled
the saddle pad from the horse also and threw it on the ground a few
feet from her. “Sit, Lizzie, if you do not mind a sweaty saddle
pad, for it may be some time and it is better than sitting directly
on the cold ground.”

And she did sit, not minding in the least a
sweaty saddle pad, but very much comforting herself in the warm
odor of horse that came from it. But he did not sit, nor did he
pace, he only walked a small ways toward the road, leaned against
the trunk of an ancient tree, and with his back to her waited for
the arrival of one or the other or both of his trusted friends.

“You do not think,” she asked as a way to
distract herself, “that we will not be overtaken by those—those
men?”

“No,” he said, and turned to look at her in
the darkness. “For they will have in all probability gone to my
home expecting us to run there in some foolish belief that we would
be safe. But if they are willing to shoot at me from outside
Almacks, they will not hesitate upon shooting at us at my own
home.”

“Oh,” she said.

“But I do not expect it to take them long to
perceive where we are headed. Or for them to be turned in that
direction by someone who will certainly anticipate it upon hearing
that you were not in Chestershire but apparently with me all
along.”

“Oh,” she said again. Then almost against her
will, “You are very certain who has been behind all of this,
then?”

“Yes. As certain as I can be without having a
smoking gun in their hand.”

“Will you tell me—tell me who it is?”

And he smiled with gentleness down upon her
from across the small space that separated them. The horse had
begun grazing and the only sound was its teeth ripping off the
grass and the murmurings of the night about them. “No, Lizzie.”

Being unable to help herself, she asked, “You
would have shot Steven's father at any rate, would you not
have?”

His answer was almost calm. “Yes.”

“Even knowing it was his father?”

The briefest of hesitations, and then,
“Yes.”

By rights, she should have left it go at
that, for he gave no indication that she should pursue it or that
he was holding anything back, but she persisted. “If you knew of
him then what you know now, would you have still shot him?”

And he rubbed his upper lip for a time before
answering her. He came to where she sat and knelt and met her
solemn brown eyes with his gold ones and told her, “No, Lizzie, I
would not have, but that is much like asking Lucifer if he would
have still reached for heaven if he had known then what he knows
now. Some actions can not be made better on retrospect. Don't look
for any righteousness in me, for there simply is none.”

“But you are honest,” she countered,
desperate.

And he gave a soft laugh. “Yes, Lizzie. For
only someone ashamed of their actions will seek to cover them with
lies. Does that not tell you something?”

She closed her eyes, hiding from him. “And
Steven's brother?” she choked. “Would you have shot him and the
others?”

“Do not ask me questions that I can not
answer, Lizzie, as I have reminded you before.”

But at least he had not answered her a flat
yes. Nor no.

He took her hand then and raised it to his
lips. “Let me just say that there is only one pure thing I have
ever done, and that is to love you. And the very presumptuousness
of my loving you, I am afraid, has made it impure. Do you
understand, Lizzie?”

But she shook her head, and opened her eyes
to look at him. “It didn't have to be like this,” she said. “For
I—” but she could not go on, could only lean into his ready arms
and hold him with desperation. And he gathered her into him,
opening his great coat and wrapping it about her and hiding her
within it, within him, and as she wept, his gold eyes did not close
but remained open and aware of all that went on about him, and of
the pain that was inside of him.

But he did not kiss her, even after her
crying subsided and she snuggled down within his coat against him
like some furtive and insidious restorative in his blood. For he
was afraid that if he kissed her she would go from half hating him
as she did, to loving him beyond recall and he would not do that to
her. For it was perhaps better in the hours that came that she did
hate him, for he could not do what had to be done if he feared that
his death would destroy her. And if he lived, she was as like to
abhor him by the time he was finished at any rate.

So they sat in that manner for what could
have been hours or could have been only minutes, and then he heard
his horse's head lift, and it nickered, and there was a soft
answering nicker from the lane, and he moved his hand and revealed
the pistol that had lain in his grasp all along.

But it was only Bertie, looking tired and out
of sorts and with two fresh mounts in tow behind him.

He pulled up a few feet from where St. James
sat upon the ground with Miss Murdock huddled in his arms. “Thought
I'd find you here,” Bertie said.

“Thought you would come,” St. James returned.
Miss Murdock pulled her head from where she had been half dozing
curled against his chest. With his old teasing note, he asked her,
“If you are quite rested now, my dear?”

She blushed to be caught in such a position
by Lord Tempton, but only moved to get up, and he opened his coat
and she slid from him, and he rose and helped her to rise also. He
asked Bertie, “Tyler?”

“He's taking the Crockner's to his cottage at
Morningside for the time being. He'll swing around from there and
come across at Chestershire and follow you to Gretna Green,” Bertie
replied and dismounted. “Miss Murdock, I am happy to see you came
out unscathed.”

“And you also, Bertie,” she replied with
enough normalcy to her voice to surprise herself. “Everyone is
unharmed then?”

“Yes. For St. James was correct and when they
saw their targets fleeing, they turned all of their attention to
you and our getting out was an insignificant matter to them at that
point. I fear much of that entire street will burn before they are
able to extinguish the fire.”

“The rogue tied in the warehouse?” St. James
asked.

Bertie shook his head. “Tyler saw to him. He
knew nothing you did not already know and he will no longer be a
worry.”

“I did not think he would,” St. James
replied, “but the one that has hired them, this Red, we will need
him alive, for although I am certain who is behind this, I would
prefer to have someone that may be able to confirm my
deductions.”

Miss Murdock was looking pained, for she had
no idea of any man in any warehouse, and she could only conclude
from Bertie's words that he had met a similar fate as Steven's
father, and she began to feel like a conspirator to murder rather
than mere fliers from harm.

St. James asked, “Any sign of being
followed?”

“Can't say for certain, St. James. I went as
circumspectly as I could and saw no one, but there is no telling. I
wouldn't tarry long here, at any rate.”

“I do not intend to. Are you riding on with
us?”

“Of course.”

“Then we will set off now, and should reach
the border by tomorrow afternoon.”

Miss Murdock saw fit to interrupt at this
point. “We shall reach Chestershire by early morning, milord.”

“Stubborn lass! You should know, Miss
Murdock, that I cannot accommodate your reluctance any longer.”

“You shall have to, milord,” she returned,
“for I have come to discover that your stitches have been ripped
open, and although I will tolerate you going without treatment for
another few hours, I will not tolerate you going without treatment
longer.”

He pondered this, then said, “I do not think
it will matter much in the final outcome, Miss Murdock.”

But Bertie reminded him, “Tyler will be
swinging past there at any rate, St. James. You may as well allow
Miss Murdock to stitch you once again and then set out when we have
an extra person to help with any difficulty along the way. And
although I know very well that you can go without sleep like some
manner of vampire, I, and I am certain, Miss Murdock, can not.”

And St. James gave a twisted smile of
amusement at this reminder. “You are right, of course, Bertie, for
I can not have Miss Murdock falling asleep on me on the wedding
night.”

“Oh, do shut up, St. James!” she told him,
irritated that he could still make her blush hotly with only a
careless sentence.

St. James turned to her and snugged her coat
closer about her. “Are we ready then, Miss Murdock?” he asked, and
although she was given to understand that he was only asking if she
were ready to mount and set off, she had the sudden feeling that by
answering to the affirmative, she was answering some other question
in his mind.

“Oh, botheration,” she said. “Fighting you is
like fighting a maelstrom.”

And he gave her an amused look at her abrupt
exasperation with him. “But, Miss Murdock, you are winning,” he
told her in glib response, “for I have not had a drink this entire
day.” He took her arm, led her over to her mount, which turned out
to be the black filly that she and Lord Tempton had left at the
Dowager's the night before, and she noted that Lord Tempton's mount
was his own horse of the night before also.