Man Of The Mist
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“Move, Izzy!” Evan commanded, in a voice grown deeper over long years. It touched her center, glazing her soul like the mists that swept around him and sank quickly to her darkest primordial core. Evan’s eyes remained inscrutable, sharp and hard. The mist shrouded him as he came ominously closer, her brother’s arm clamped across his wide shoulders. Stupidly, Elizabeth stood rooted to the floor, unable to make any part of her body move under her own volition.
“I said move, lass!” One hand snaked out, touching the silk covering her waist. It flattened and pressed intimately into yielding flesh, urging her backward, out of his way.
“Elizabeth!” Amalia’s voice roughened with a fine edge of fright. She caught Elizabeth’s arm, yanking her off the threshold, out of the way of the Highlanders bearing her brother John, the marquess of Tullibardine, into his father’s house.
Glowing lamps in the foyer illuminated the gap in John’s greatcoat. Elizabeth partially roused from the dazzled dream in which she was trapped and dragged her eyes from Evan to stare in mute horror at the wash of scarlet staining the marquess’s rumpled linen and cravat. Amalia gasped out loud.
Shaking herself free of the shock of Evan MacGregor’s return, Elizabeth gulped. “I’ll fetch Dr. Morgan.”
MacGregor caught her arm as Elizabeth reached for the cord to summon the servants, commanding, “No doctors, and no servants, Izzy. Corporal Butter can tend to the marquess’s injury. There’s not a better man in the regiment for bullet wounds. Amalia, fetch hot water, linens, and whatever carbolic you have. Don’t wake anyone else in the house. Izzy, lock that door.”
“You can’t come barging in this house giving orders, Evan MacGregor!” Elizabeth sparked, recovering her wits.
Evan’s dark eyes bored deep into hers, sharp and hard, like the eyes of a man sighting the barrel of a pistol on the heart of his enemy.
“Do as you’re told,” he commanded. He released her arm, but the impression of his strong fingers gripping her wrist remained as he turned to deal with the older Amalia Murray’s sputtering protests. She looked on the verge of vapors, the back of her hand pressed against her mouth in horror. Krissy hurried down the stairs and quietly slipped an arm around Lady Amalia to support her, lest she faint.
“Amalia!” Tullibardine rasped. He caught hold of the newel post for support. “Do exactly as MacGregor orders!”
“Well, I never!” Amalia roused herself to the authority she was well versed in wielding with all of her siblings, including her eldest brother, the marquess. “John, I will have some explanation, this very moment!”
“No, you won’t!” Evan MacGregor cut Amalia short. “You’ll get an explanation once we’ve got Tullie’s bleeding under control.”
Amalia started to protest that order, but this time Evan MacGregor shut off her tirade before it could begin. “Woman, the marquess’s life is in more danger this minute than his bloody reputation. If you cannot be of good assistance to him, then kindly stay the hell out of our way!”
Without pause, he turned and took Tullie’s arm off the newel post and helped him mount the stairs, leaving Amalia’s and Krissy’s jaws sagging in shock.
Elizabeth blinked, unable to take her eyes from Evan MacGregor’s commanding back. Where had he learned to exert such overwhelming authority? Why was he, of all people, here? Her throat squeezed dangerously. Her knees felt as wobbly as ninepins hit solidly by a stone bowling ball.
Krissy had the sense to close the door, barring the cold and the wet from entering the house. She dipped in a deep and reverent curtsy. “So tha’s the MacGregor,” the servant said under her breath.
“Aye, the very devil himself,” Elizabeth whispered between her tightly pressed teeth. She made sure the door was bolted and, leading the awestruck Krissy by the band, pulled her along in Amalia’s wake down to the kitchens.
“Why can we not call a doctor?” Krissy asked.
Elizabeth grabbed the largest tray from Keyes’s pantry and slammed it onto the central table. Shot... Heaven help them all, her brother had been shot! Why? How?
Amaha had gotten hold of her wits. She tilted her proud chin and stated unequivocally, “’Tis clear enough. John has been involved in a duel.”
“A duel!” Elizabeth protested. Duels were outlawed, and severe penalties were levied on those who engaged in the practice, if the king got wind of it. “What makes you say such a thing? If he had been in a duel, John would have had the sense to have a surgeon present. Think, Amalia. John’s never been in a duel in his life. He wouldn’t resort to secrecy if he had, not to us.”
“And how do you know that?” Amalia countered, obviously flustered. “I can assume he doesn’t want Father to know.”
Elizabeth muttered, “Oh dear...” She opened a drawer, fetching a stack of clean linens to add to the tray.
“A duel?” Krissy echoed with eyes agog. “Stars! A duel... Over who or what? Mrs. Hamilton’s latest memorial, do you ken? Can someone have accused the marquess of cheating at cards, and called him out?”
Elizabeth groaned inwardly. Amalia made hers more audible. They’d only been in town three days, but Krissy Buchanan had already learned the value of knowing the latest on-dit.
Dodging a pointed look from her sister, Elizabeth hastily took a cloth from the tray and blotted away a sheen of perspiration from her upper lip. God save her, Evan MacGregor was in the same house as she and Robbie! Her heart racketed inside her ribs, and her brain felt paralyzed. Her hands and feet moved with the motility of cold lead.
“Krissy!” Amalia said sternly, fixating on something she could deal with properly. “While you are in the employ of the duke of Atholl, you will not engage in the disgusting habit of repeating gossip belowstairs. Whatever happens in this house does not go one word further.”