Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

H arman was gaining insight into the life of a pirate he did not want.

It made him curiously angry to have a pistol waved in his direction.

Perhaps that was the life of a pirate, he thought, one part of him as calm as Alara while the rest thundered on ahead, wondering where she was, whether she was all right, and, dimly, whether Waresham truly intended to put a lead ball in his heart.

"You insult me, sir," he said to his erstwhile friend, noticing that the gnarled-ear fellow evidenced no desire to wrestle a lord. He wasn't drawing any closer.

"You'll survive it." Waresham didn't care about crossing a peer of the realm, but he didn't get closer either. Perhaps he was wary of Harman based on sheer size.

That was fine with him.

"Isn't it enough that you've betrayed your king and your country? Haven't you mortified yourself enough? Why risk even more public humiliation?"

"London knows nothing," but the man cast a look over the edge of the box that betrayed some worry.

Harman could use that. "Someone will see you up here, and me. Some musician, or Lady Gadbury. Even someone on the floor with decent eyesight could tell that it's you, and me."

Waresham's snort was half-hearted. "A man in a military coat? Do you have any idea how many of those are here tonight?"

"With a bloodstain under the arm? Your ghastly adoption of some real hero's covering will be your undoing."

He thought for a moment that Waresham would see the wisdom of the point, and yield. Certainly the man wavered.

Then his pistol steadied—towards Harman's heart. "If I'm ghastly, I have a few more people to haunt, and that includes that little wench from Gravesend. What did she give you? If I put my shot through your leg, you'll still be able to talk."

"In the time it takes people to get here?" scoffed Harman.

Then he felt his heart stop at a gentle sound he wished he could block from Waresham's ears.

"Lord Harman?" murmured Alara's gentle voice, just loud enough to carry over the noise of the party below.

Noise that certainly wouldn't hide a gunshot, but the party might very well ignore one.

She came into the box.

"You didn't follow," she said, still softly, but with her eyes trying to tell him something much more meaningful.

He still couldn't read her face the way he had when they were children. He had things to say to her; a lifetime of things, which he feared now he'd never get to say.

Perhaps he'd never find his own path, but he'd found his perfect woman, and he should have fought his way to her side even if she'd sailed off to the other side of the world.

"I told you to leave." It was hard to make his voice that harsh, to her; he did it because he had to.

"But I promised you help."

Waresham laughed, a sneering sound. "I thought you too upright for lightskirts, Harman! Or do you only enjoy them standing up?"

His fellow seeker of knowledge, his other half, his heart's desire stole toward him on silent slippered feet, her lace skirts swirling about her.

"I'd enjoy her anywhere," and the street ruffian reached for her as she passed.

Harman lunged toward him, Alara drew away, and Waresham shouted, forcing all of them to pause.

No one below took the least notice.

Reaching out to catch her hand, Harman drew Alara into the shelter of his arm, desperately wondering how to get her out of here.

Clearly annoyed, the ruffian himself pulled a short-barrelled flintlock from his boot.

"Uh uh." The sight of that flintlock pointing at Alara changed Harman inside in a way he'd never imagined. Oddly, it clarified his thinking drastically. That thing needed to be pointed at him, not Alara. "Not at her."

Then he turned his back on both attackers to look only at her. "Stay behind me."

Quickly Alara shook her head. "I'm fine," was her only rushed whisper, and she showed him the rapier hidden in her hand.

There was too much to say, and no time.

There is only you, he shaped the silent words, hoping she understood everything he'd never said, everything he wanted to say.

Then before two armed men, he bent down and quickly kissed her lips.

His hand touched her face, tracing the path his mouth had taken earlier.

And when he reached the small tear he'd made in the lace, he dropped in the ring from his pocket.

"Oy, sailor," called Waresham in disgust, turning Harman around.

With the rapier hidden behind his back.

He had to get Alara out of here. She'd handle the ring; she'd take care of everything he'd failed. He knew that like he knew his own name. She just needed the chance.

"I said search him," Waresham told his minion, and Harman stepped forward.

Alara followed.

"I don't have anything you want," he said, trying to move away from Alara, to take both men's eyes with him.

She stayed close as a shadow.

"Just relax and do as I say," Waresham said, drawing another pace closer and waving his pistol to encourage the other fellow to start searching. "You're good at that. Pretend I'm your father."

He would not stop.

Harman had one choice left. He whipped up the rapier and pointed it straight at Waresham's heart.

He could see, as time slowed down to its tiniest increments, he could see Waresham's finger tighten upon the trigger.

He made a guttural noise, then, "Loosen your grip. Or this blade goes through your heart."

Waresham's head tossed like an angry horse. "You're not a killer."

"Let's find out," Harman said calmly.

Waresham measured the distance between them with a look. Harman had only to extend his arm with a force clearly within his capability.

The villain's conviction visibly wavered. They were all much closer than they had been only seconds before, the chandelier above them scattering light along the rapier blade with its guttering candles. "You can't slash my throat before that bullet kills you."

Still holding Alara behind him, trusting as much as he could to the thickness of his body to stop any lead before it reached her, Harman faced Waresham with all the confidence he'd had as a boy. Unearned, and beyond reason.

"Are you sure?" he asked softly, turning the blade in his hand.

One corner of his mouth twitching upward, like a dog about to snarl, Waresham snapped at his colleague. "Put yours down."

"Slowly," clarified Harman, "and push it away. I'd like to hear it slide a good long way, sir. You too," he thrust the point of his sword another inch closer to Waresham, bringing to bear just how long his arms were and how easy it would be to spit the other man upon the metal.

The feel of Alara's hands on his waist kept him upright, stable. As long as she was well, this would all end well.

He kept thinking that, even as both men slid their pistols away along the gallery floor.

"What now?" Being deprived of his pistol made Waresham sound a bit lost, but he frosted it with bravado. "You can hardly run me through in full view of half of London. The second you drop that blade I'll be on you—and my colleague will take care of your bird of paradise."

"No thank you," said Harman and, whirling to catch Alara tightly against him, stepped up on the rail at the gallery's edge.

Dropping the sword and swinging his arm up all in one motion, he caught the curve of the chandelier and, pulling on it, swung himself over the edge.

The pin holding the chandelier's rope broke immediately, but the rapidly unwinding rope still slowed their descent slightly. As they reached the floor too close below, he wrapped himself around Alara and rolled.

The blow on his shoulder made him grunt; something there may have separated, or broken. Likewise his ribs as they cushioned her weight. But it was perfectly possible to roll with her and not crush her, making sure she was whole and with him, even as the chandelier itself crashed into the floor, its candle-globes shattering.

The screams and shouts were deafening, but he only pointed at the balcony. "Thieves," he shouted. "Lord Waresham tried to rob me at gunpoint. Careful, he's still armed."

And then in the mad gyrations of the crowd, as people ran every which way, some of them covering their head with their hands, some of them charging for the stairs, he led Alara to the receiving room that held their cloaks.

"We'll send a footman for your aunt. I think it's time to leave," said Harman under cover of shrieks, interrupted musicians, and shouting men.

"It happens every year," Lady Gadbury shrugged philosophically on the dais as half the crowd ran screaming in circles and the other half carried on dancing. She sipped at her punch.

Alara found herself on the pavement in an icy English December, feeling Lord Harman for wounds.

"I'm fine," he murmured, over and over, as she shamelessly grasped the muscles of his arms, his belly, his chest, his shoulders, and then finally his neck as she pulled him down to her.

"Very well," she said, calm as ever, then drew in her breath suddenly and let it out on a long shaking sob.

"I'm fine too," she said between sobs, dimly realizing he too was ensuring her limbs were sound and whole.

Around them a few revelers had clearly decided they'd had enough. In ones and twos, cloaks wafting around them, the rich ones staggered toward Mayfair, the poorer ones toward Covent Garden.

"I'm v-very glad I don't attend London p-parties," Alara gasped between sobs.

Harman gathered her into his chest, and soon she could breathe a little more slowly. The pounding of his heart assured her she wasn't foolish, and she wasn't alone.

She did, however, have a few things to say.

"Why did you go see him in the first place?"

"I gave you a chance to leave. "

"I wasn't about to leave you a prisoner of some armed madman!"

"I wasn't about to let them hurt you!"

"You thought that through? Was that really the best possible answer?" She drew in a deeper breath. The cold, and his warm arms, were clearing her head, and what occurred to her was that Lord Harman needed a care-taker to track him and all his various feminine interests.

Or a wife.

"Sometimes one must act." He pulled her up against him with one arm, this time off her feet, crushing her to him. Far from making it harder to breathe, it made things easier. "As you did. How clever you were, seizing that sword."

"Oh, I hope that man gets it back!"

"It's in the gallery. He'll fetch it," Lord Harman said carelessly.

Alara wrapped her arms around the back of his head and pulled him closer. She needed to kiss him, right at that minute.

It wouldn't wait for destiny or a sailing ship, either.

So she did.

His breath hitched as she held him tightly, and instantly she let go.

"Never stop," he said, "it's only some bruises."

"You must lie down! How close is your home?" London, Istanbul, it all seemed pointless; the only question was how soon she could tend to his hurts.

"It's right here," he said, and kissed her again.

A long, long time after, when they parted to breathe separately again, she said, "I can't tell if you are an intimidating lord, a little boy with too much confidence, or my friend John who helped me look into the center of rocks."

"You're a bewitching seductress, the world's cleverest angel, and a dear long-lost friend all at once, so why can't it be all three?" Eyes closed, he buried his face against the side of her hair.

"But John," she whispered, hands against his ears to keep them warm, "what will we do?"

"Alara," he said, half-teasingly copying her surprised wonder, "will you marry me? I think that's what we should do next."

"Oh no, next we must find Mrs. Griffiths, and then we ought to locate the girl who needs that ring, and—what is it?"

His face had grown somber and shadowed again, even without the hat. "No?"

"Oh gracious, I didn't mean that! I'd love to marry you, John, I've been waiting to marry you all my life."

Now it was his turn to take a deep breath and release it slowly. "What a scare you gave me! Far worse than a cad with a gun. I won't forget it, you know."

"Though before I say yes, I should ask." She wiggled in his arms, feeling around her bosom, an utterly fascinating process. Finally she located the small bump against her skin, pressed it with her hand. "Whose ring did you drop down my dress?"

This was a moment that called for thinking it through.

And complete, immediate honesty.

"It belongs to the young lady in blue. I don't know her name. We are in no way connected. Another young lady?—"

Alara was looking at him, calm as ever. "The shepherdess."

"Indeed, with whom I am slightly acquainted, asked me to return the ring, I suspect so she wouldn't be seen."

"And why wouldn't she wish the young lady in blue to see her?"

"She said she borrowed the ring..." Complete honesty, while being as circumspect about another's secrets as he could. "Which I am sure means she stole it."

"Never say so." Alara looked impressed by this.

Harman felt a twinge of anxiety, hoping so-called Ninette and his Alara never met.

Not because they would compare notes on his taste for clever women, but because he could just picture his beloved investigating the strengths and weaknesses of a life of crime.

"She said she was sorry, that taking the ring had hurt the girl, and asked me to return it with her apologies. In truth, I didn't even have time to agree."

"And why did you drop it down my dress?" Alara asked, still holding one lush breast, which was extremely distracting.

"I knew you'd take care of it if I couldn't."

"I didn't even know the little you know!"

"You'd solve its puzzle. You always do."

Thankfully, she didn't seem angry. "No, I don't. I ask questions of people who know more, and look closely at things, and?—"

He cut off whatever she was about to say with a kiss.

It was the kind of kiss where souls talk to each other. No words were needed, only long moments of his touch and hers, softly melting into one another, over and over until both of them sighed. Neither knew why.

Alara laid a hand against his shadowed pirate's cheek. His festival mask had come off during the rolling descent. "But what will we do?"

She'd meant about the ring, which she'd released in her eagerness to put her arms around him again. He took her to mean their lives. "We will find our place." His confidence was that of a grown man now, and it felt reassuring, right down to Alara's toes. "We know the important thing, which is that we must do it together. Too much time already wasted. We will find something useful to do, and we will apply ourselves to it."

"What will my mother say?"

He studied her intently, stroking the soft edge of her cheek with one thumb. "Does it matter?"

Alara's worries didn't just fade away. But they did become very small, and slotted into a place that was reasonable, expected, in a larger pattern that she was just beginning to see.

She might well have a fate, but it was here. Not in Britain; in Lord Harman's arms.

"No," she said, borrowing a touch of his confidence; or perhaps she had found her own. "It doesn't matter, because I love you."

"Thank you," he said sincerely, his face shifting under her hands into a grin that was both sincere and deliriously happy. "As I think I've loved you since I was a boy. It will fascinate me to spend my life learning about everything in your head, and seeing all that goes on in your life."

Alara faltered for a second as she imagined the dull women's parlor, all the needlework, all the verse. She didn't feel as fascinating as this evening seemed to indicate. "Are you sure?" she asked him, looking up at him as he set her again on her feet.

"Utterly," he said, and kissed her again.