Weather Witch (20 page)

“What time is it?” He released the pillow and let go of the bedpost long enough to press the heels of his hands into his eye sockets and growl. “What day is it…?”

“Open the door for me!” Catrina demanded.

“Young lady, that is quite unseemly … I daresay he is in a state of undress…”

There was the noise of a scuffle, a few words exchanged between the two outside that caused Rowen’s eyebrows to rise in surprise.

A key turned in the lock and the door swung open, Catrina lunging in with Jonathan right on her heels, grasping for the key and settling for her wrist instead. She thrashed against him for a moment, but froze when she spotted Rowen on his bed. In only his loose-fitting nightshirt.

Catrina had the good graces to blush.

Jonathan took advantage of the moment and wrested the key from her hand, holding it high in victory.

Rowen glared at them both and pulled the quilt around him.

It was not nearly fast enough that Catrina failed to notice the strength in his bare legs or the slight bit of hair on his chest, just viewable between the open laces at his neckline.

“What the devil are both of you doing here?” Rowen demanded, following the question up quickly with, “Jonathan, trousers, please?”

“Yes, milord, of course, milord.”

“Did you truly drink that much that you do not remember what occurred last night?” Catrina asked. “Everyone knows of it!”

Rowen drew back, worry plain on his face. “What occurred last night … between
us
?” He swallowed hard.

Catrina blushed. Harder. “No, no. Of course not … Do you not recall your challenge?”

Rowen looked at Jonathan askance but took the buckskin breeches he offered and, clearing his throat and pointing with his chin, instructed Catrina to turn her back on him. As soon as she was facing his armoire, he dropped the quilt long enough to pull on his pants and tuck in his shirt.

Then he paled, remembering. “The duel.”

“Yes!” Catrina spun around, disappointed. At seeing him nearly dressed or at the fact he’d challenged a man to a duel? “You could send Jonathan with an explanation that you were quite in your cups when you threw down the gauntlet, and that with the return of daylight your senses also returned and you realize now that Lord Edward was right. This is precisely why duels occur most oft in daylight—so you might sleep off stupidity. They would surely be lenient if you admitted being so horrendously wrong due to the evils of alcohol…”

“But I was not completely soused. Not until after they left.”

Jonathan grumbled something as he put away Rowen’s nightclothes.

Catrina wrinkled her nose. “True, but they do not know that. So you just say—”

“So you would make me a liar twice over? I was not drunk. And not wrong.”

“Rowen. You made a bad decision. In the heat of an argument. You tried to protect someone’s honor—someone whose honor was not hers to give—all because of some time you spent with Jordan in the past. You were wrong to do so. Many times over.”

He glanced at her and then at the window and the light flooding in. “What time is it?”

“The bell in the main square rang out eight just moments ago,” Jonathan said.

“Just enough time,” Rowen muttered.

“Yes,” Catrina agreed. “If you write the note and send Jonathan—”

Rowen fixed his gaze on her. “Just enough time to make it to Watkin’s Glen,” he corrected. “Are my sword and pistol ready?”

“Wh—”

Jonathan nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“You can’t be serious!” Catrina shouted. “I will—I will…” Her eyes widened, realizing what the most potent threat was. “Tell your mother.”

Rowen sighed. “Do so. My head is already pounding, my fate already sealed. I am no marksman. Tell her so she might at least scream something akin to a good-bye to me—as it will surely not be a farewell that passes from her lips.”

“Why … I…”

“Do not, Catrina. Do not bring additional drama to me in this, the last hour I will likely spend on this Earth. Let me at least do what I said I would. Let me at least be enough of a man to be true to my word.”

“Rowen…” she protested weakly.

He addressed Jonathan. “Will you do me the honor of standing as my second?”

“It is not even legal…”

Jonathan ignored her, nodding. “Of course, young sir. ’Twould be my honor.”

“And if the moment comes—you will be man enough to end my agony?”

“I pray that is not necessary, sir.”

Rowen shrugged. “We shall see.”

“He will be implicated in murder,” Catrina insisted. “Rowen. If you will not think of yourself, then at least think of Jonathan; he will be an accomplice if you succeed, a victim of lawlessness if you fail.”

Rowen nodded. “Wise words, Catrina.” He stepped to his nightstand and pulled something out of the drawer. Holding it in his fist, he crossed to Jonathan and took his hand, placing the thing in his palm instead. “Regardless of the outcome once the deed is done, you must take a horse—”

Jonathan retrieved his friend’s sword and pistol from their usual places and set them on the bed.

“Good God, you’ll be stealing horses from the militia stalls to do this, too?” Catrina howled, her voice reed-thin.

Rowen’s eyes widened briefly and returned to their normal appearance. “Regardless of the outcome you must take a horse and leave. Get as far away from the city as you can. Go and pack your things now,” he suggested, and Jonathan turned on his heel and left, walking quickly back to the servants’ quarters to obey what might very well be the last request his young lord would make of him.

“Rowen, you cannot do this,” Catrina said.

“You mean to say: Rowen, you cannot
succeed
at this. That much I know. Do you not realize what I have lost already? I had a friend in Jordan. Not a perfect friend, but a suitable one. A match for me. A friend I was beginning to court. Do you know how few men of any station can say they were fortunate enough to wed a woman they were friends with first? Look at my parents. Most days they barely make it through without throttling each other. There is no love lost between them because there was never any
love
between them.”

“You can find love elsewhere. If you just look,” Catrina said.

“I do not want to look. And, frankly, I do not care that much for love—if it comes, it comes. But compatibility…” He shook his head. “I had that. Jordan may not have loved me, but she knew me. She understood me.”

“I know you, too…” She reached out a hand and he shook it off.

“No. Not like she did. I cannot explain it. But I had something that was growing—something that was good…”

“And that—what you
had
—is worth dying for?
That
—the past—is worth ending your life?” She grabbed his sleeve. “Do not die for something that no longer exists—do not die for the sake of memory or of what might have been. Live for what might yet be. Write the damnable letter! There is still a way out.”

He pulled back from her, hearing the rip of fabric as the seam on his shirtsleeve gave way. “Dammit. As if the day could not get worse…” He pushed past her, brushing the hair back from his eyes and examining the sword lying beautiful and still in its scabbard. His finger traced the length of the metal and leather case hesitantly, pausing on the weapon’s crossguard before he snared the hilt in his hand and yanked it free. “A pretty thing, is it not?” he asked, looking across the blade at her. “I have never truly fought someone with one. I fence, yes. What man doesn’t? But truly fight?” He shoved it back into its scabbard so that it clicked, metal meeting metal. “Perhaps we will not even come to blows with swords … Perhaps it will end before that…” He set the sword down and opened the wooden case that held his pistol, powder, patch, and ball.

“You must stop thinking that way,” Catrina insisted. “You must think of the act itself. Of aiming. Of firing. Of ending a man.”

“A highly unlikely outcome,” Rowen muttered.

“It is possible. Hold that thought in your head. Kill him so that you might yet live.”

“Say I do. Then what? I win, I’m a murderer. I lose, I’m a dead man. I asked for first blood.”

“Write the blasted letter!”

He snorted and raised his chin. “My penmanship is godawful. No one should be subjected to reading what I write.” He attached the scabbard to his belt and, picking up the gun case, thrust it into her arms. “Let us do this thing. Now.”

“No,” she said flatly, refusing to hold the case. “I am not giving up so easily. I am telling your mother.” She turned on her heel and strode out of his room.

“As if the day could not get worse,” he said through a grimace, steeling himself for the next fight of his day.

*   *   *

Lady Burchette was waiting at the door for her son, hands on her hips like a scullery maid, Catrina standing right beside her, chin tipped up in what surely approximated victory.

“My coat and hat, Jonathan,” Rowen said.

Jonathan obliged.

“Just where do you think you are going, young man?” his mother shrilled.

“Most likely to my death, but I daresay it will be far more peaceful than this household.” He slipped on his coat and took a moment to appreciate her stunned silence.

“You cannot,” she finally croaked. “I will not let you…” Her face was turning red.

“Mother. You cannot stop me,” he said.

“I most certainly can!” She turned to Jonathan. “Stop him!”

Jonathan choked a little at the command. He clicked his heels together and gave a gracious bow, but rising from it, he said, “Dear lady, your good son is three inches taller than I and a half stone heavier. I daresay if he wishes to go somewhere I am not the man to stop him.”

Rowen gave him a small bow of acknowledgment. “I do tend to agree. Although, if Mother insists, we could at least give her a good show…” Rowen bent his knees, widened his stance, and put his arms out at his sides in a braced position, a sharp smile on his lips.

The square’s bell struck the quarter hour.

“As much as I agree regarding the value of a good show, I fear if we pause too long we will miss your date with destiny. And quite possibly muss your outfit. Or your hair.”

Rowen straightened suddenly at that thought. “I do intend to look my best. Less to be done in burying me.”

Lady Burchette stomped her foot. “Stop this madness at once.”

Rowen paused, the sly expression slipping off his face for a moment.

“I have no choice. I said I would do this thing. My word is attached to this—my oath—my value as a man.”

“You were drunk,” Catrina snapped.

“Shut your mouth, Catrina,” Rowen advised, his tone a low rumble.

She did, and he briefly marveled at the fact.

“Mother,” Rowen continued. “I am a man. This is one of the things that matters to a man such as myself. You must respect my decision.” He turned back to the door.

“You are
mine
,” his mother snapped. “I love you,” she whispered.

Rowen stopped dead at her words. He turned back to her. “It is for that reason that I must go. Because I am your son and I represent our shared name.” He watched her for a moment, and then a strange expression crossed his face and he bounded over to her and laid a kiss on her forehead before settling his hat on his head and pushing the door open.

*   *   *

The bold stride Rowen had adopted to leave his family home became a sliding creep as soon as he and Jonathan had stepped off of the Burchette estate. Together they moved quickly and quietly in any of the areas the morning light flowed across and then slunk through the remaining shadows on their way to the stables.

They paused beneath the shade of a tree and Jonathan raised one finger to his lips before leaving Rowen to walk toward the large sliding double doors that opened on parade days and the smaller worker’s doorway.

Jonathan looked about and, spying no one to raise questions about his presence at the stables, tried the door.

It opened easily and, startled, Jonathan flashed a grin over his shoulder at Rowen. He disappeared inside a moment, and then stuck his head and one arm back out just enough to signal his young lord.

Rowen hurried across the yard and slipped into the darkness of the unlit stables. He rubbed his nose at the pungent smells of warm horseflesh, hay, and straw. His father might be in charge of the military stables in Philadelphia and Rowen might be a fine horseman, but neither meant he spent much time in the stables themselves. That was the place for grooms and staff.

Jonathan took him by the elbow and leaned in close to whisper, “I see no grooms. The place seems deserted for now.”

“Excellent,” Rowen said, his eyes adjusting to the dark. He tripped over the corner of something. His eyes adjusting
mostly
to the dark … “Let’s look at our options.” His arms still loaded with his personal gear and saddlebags, he tried adjusting it all to turn on the lantern he took off the wall.

It was a frustrating, fumbling minute in the dark.

“You should take my old coat,” a voice said, and Rowen and Jonathan jumped at the noise.

Light oozed out of a strangely pierced pattern as a tin lantern glowed to life. Gregor Burchette sat on a hay bale, watching his son and faithful servant of more than a decade prepare to steal the horses under his care.

“Father,” Rowen mumbled. He shifted his weight from foot to foot.

Burchette nodded. “Rumor spreads faster than western wildfire. And you, dear son, are predictable.” He grunted and patted a bundle at his side. “The coat’s old and far less than the spectacular fashions you’re accustomed to, boy, but it served me well in the militia and, if I reckon right, where you’re going you’ll be needing something serviceable far more than something fashionable.” He rose with a groan and tossed the bundle to Rowen, who caught it awkwardly, balancing his own scant supplies and light.

Jonathan made a
tsk
-ing noise and helped relieve Rowen of his burdens.

“You know…”

“That you’ve come to steal horses for the ride to your ill-advised duel?” The corner of Burchette’s lips dug deep into his chubby jowl and pushed his cheek nearer his eyebrow on the left side of his face. “Of course. Do I support the potential ruination of our family’s good name because you are in love with Jordan Astraea?”