He needed to understand this.
Comparing himself in this situation with what he knew of other men seemed a sensible place to start. He had always, to himself and all others, been a scholar, not a warrior. Yet most of the men he knew outside of academe were unquestionably warriors — Tristan, all the other members of the Bastion Club, Royce, all the Cynsters; he was well acquainted with the characteristics of the breed.
He might always have been a scholar, but having to rescue Eliza from Scrope and the laird had brought another, underlying, perhaps latent side of him to the fore — a side instantly recognizable as a warrior persona — and as the freely acknowledged approval and approbation of Gabriel, Devil, Royce, and all the others had proved, they, too, had seen his actions and reactions as those not of a scholar but of a warrior like them.
So … he was a mixture. A scholar-warrior, or a warrior-scholar, it didn’t matter which. What mattered was that, underneath all, he was subject to the same impulses and compulsions as all the other warriors he knew, but in his case those impulses and compulsions were influenced and tempered by his scholarly side.
He wasn’t sure if that made him more cold-blooded than them, or simply more clearheaded.
Regardless, the pertinent issues surrounding marriage were ones he’d seen all those others face; he knew how they’d responded. Had any of them been in his shoes … he snorted, muttered, “They would seize the chance of getting what I want — Eliza as my wife — without having to speak of love, without having to expose my heart, or acknowledge any of the concomitant vulnerabilities.”
He was very aware of those vulnerabilities, yet … perhaps it was the scholar in him, but he’d never seen the point in fearing them, or fighting them, at least not to the extent of forgoing what was offered in return. He’d never seen the point in allowing a dislike of one aspect of a desirable coin to prevent him from seizing the coin altogether. “But they would try their damnedest to conceal their true feelings. If I asked, they’d tell me to seize the chance, and allow the assumption that the union between me and Eliza will not be a love-match to stand.”
For every gentleman-warrior he knew, marrying the lady they’d loved without having to declare or in any way expose their feelings had been a holy grail. Not one of them had succeeded in attaining it, yet that goal was now before him, placed by circumstance all but in his grasp, his for the seizing.
And he didn’t want it.
He knew they’d think him mad … or at least they would have before they’d all married. Now …
Now, they might just understand.
Each of them, ultimately, had made that other choice. The choice he wanted to, felt driven to, make.
He saw no reason to deny love — its joys, its challenges, its sorrows, all that it encompassed — just because everyone had assumed that he, simple scholar that he’d appeared to be, wouldn’t want it. That he wouldn’t want to wrestle with such a powerful emotion, to invite its distractions and upheavals into his well-ordered life — but he did.
He didn’t need to consider his own feelings further. He knew what he wanted.
All he needed was to discover whether Eliza wanted that, too.
Then they could move on.
Into the future that was right for them, rather than the bland and boring future everyone envisaged for them.
A footstep behind him had him glancing back. He wasn’t terribly surprised to see Tristan striding along with the clear intention of catching him up.
Stifling a sigh — long-suffering, but resigned — he halted and, schooling his features into a polite but uninformative expression, waited for his brother-in-law.
Tristan met his gaze, tried, unsuccessfully, to see past his mask, then, with an easy gesture, waved them both on. “I imagine you’re trying to see your way through all of this.”
Jeremy nodded curtly. “Indeed.” He was trying to see how to get Eliza to tell him what she felt.
“Obviously,” Tristan continued, pacing alongside him, “not in any way foreseeing, or having any experience of, such a situation, you must be wondering about the ins and outs — the details, the requirements, the social commitments.”
“Hmm.” Jeremy was wondering if it would be fair to simply tell Eliza how he felt, or whether, if he did, she might feel obliged to pretend to feel the same for him — or, potentially even worse, to be terribly kind about it all. Ugh.
Beside him, Tristan went on, “The truth is, all you need to do is ask her to be your wife — you don’t need to pretend to any deeper emotion. No one expects you or she to pretend yours will be a love-match.”
But what if it was? What if they didn’t need to pretend?
It was on the tip of his tongue to voice those questions — and upset Tristan’s apple cart entirely — when his brother-in-law continued, “Everyone knows that Eliza isn’t the wife you would have chosen, any more than she would have seen you as the man of her dreams, but as neither of you is in any way attached to any other, and as in all other respects the match is perfectly acceptable, then the ton can be counted on to nod and smile and give your marriage its blessing.”
The ton could go hang —
Jeremy literally bit his tongue to hold back the words that scalded it. Apparently along with all else, his warrior self had a much hotter temper than the milder scholar possessed; the suggestion that Eliza didn’t really want him, or that he didn’t truly want her, had been enough to send it soaring. Keeping his eyes on the path so that Tristan wouldn’t glimpse his fury, tamping down the urge to rip his brother-in-law’s head from his shoulders, verbally at least — reminding himself that he liked Tristan, and that Leonora liked him even more — he swallowed the sudden surge of rage and managed a grunt.
Tristan, of course, took it as agreement. He clapped him on the shoulder. “Right then — all you need do to set the ball rolling is ask her for her hand. No need in the circumstances to seek Martin’s approval — of course you have it, you may take that as read.”
Lord Martin would need to find his sword if he wanted to get in Jeremy’s way.
“Once you’ve asked and she’s accepted — which of course she will — then all of us here stand ready to help you both in organizing all the rest.” After a moment, Tristan ducked his head, trying to read Jeremy’s expression, his reaction to the advice.
By then Jeremy had his features under complete control again, but he wasn’t about to trust his tongue. His face set in uncompromising lines, he nodded once and gave another grunt.
From the corner of his eye, he saw Tristan smile, apparently relieved. “No great rush, of course,” Tristan said, “but the announcement will probably need to go out within the week.”
Another grunt appeared to satisfy. If Jeremy hadn’t discovered Eliza’s true feelings within a week, he’d go mad.
The path they’d followed had circled the house, leading them to a door in another wing.
“How’s the wound?” Tristan asked as he held the door open.
His arm was the least of his concerns. Stepping over the threshold, Jeremy growled, “Still sore.”
Leaving Tristan to follow, he stalked on and headed for the library.
None of the others would bother him if he buried his nose in one of Royce’s ancient tomes; there were some benefits to being a renowned scholar. All he’d have to do was turn a page now and then, and they would imagine he was reading. Perfect cover for what he really needed and intended to do — to work out a way to learn if Eliza returned his regard.
To discover if she loved him as he loved her.
Eliza’s afternoon degenerated from the tryingly bizarre to the bizarrely trying.
She couldn’t believe — could barely comprehend — the lack of perception that three ladies she’d previously considered to be among the more intelligent of their class were intent on displaying over her, Jeremy, and their upcoming marriage.
No one questioned that the marriage would occur, but in all other respects, reality and the ladies??
? expectations dramatically, if not diametrically, diverged.
Her mother had waylaid her in the front hall with a question over the timing of Heather and Breckenridge’s wedding. The date had not yet been set because of Breckenridge’s near-fatal injury and his subsequent convalescence, but now that their engagement ball was successfully past, thoughts had turned to the wedding.
Eliza hadn’t understood her mother’s reasoning in asking her, until, having steered her through the doorway into Minerva’s sitting room upstairs, Celia had declared, “With your own wedding now in the offing, we’ll need to consider just how to balance the two.”
Eliza had frowned, then had sat on the sofa beside her mother. “Balance in what way?”
“Well, dear, with Heather and Breckenridge’s marriage being a love-match, everyone will expect all the romantic trappings.” Celia had met Eliza’s eyes, her hazel gaze compassionate, her lips curving in a sympathetic, almost commiserating smile. “With you and Jeremy … well, no one would want to put you both through that.”
Eliza had been so stunned that she’d simply stared. She hadn’t known what to say.
Which, of course, had led her mother to pat her hand consolingly and turn to Minerva and Leonora to ask their advice on, firstly, what they thought society would deem an acceptable betrothal period for Eliza and Jeremy — no longer than necessary seemed to be the consensus — and in light of that, what length of time could be reasonably allowed between Heather and Breckenridge’s matrimonial extravaganza, and Eliza and Jeremy’s quieter, more reserved nuptials.
Her mind reeling, Eliza tried to formulate some way — some acceptable words — with which to correct the clearly prevalent misconceptions, but every time she assembled appropriately temperate phrases and sentences, one of the other three would make another, even more outrageously erroneous comment, leaving her blinking, knocked off-balance, and speechless again.
More than once she was on the brink of leaping to her feet and stating, forcefully, You have it all wrong.
But then Minerva, Leonora, and Celia started talking about house, home, family, and children, and Eliza shut up and listened.
Listened because they didn’t speak of her and Jeremy but, instead, of their own experiences, occasionally referring to their expectations of Heather and Breckenridge, but in the main speaking about, describing, the sort of married life Eliza had, for all her life, imagined would be hers.
What they spoke of made the distinction between what a lady could expect from a love-match versus a socially dictated match crystal clear.
That clarity focused Eliza on the critical question she had until then allowed to remain unanswered, even in her mind.
Did Jeremy love her?
She wasn’t in any doubt of the nature of her regard for him. A fortnight before, she would have scoffed at the notion that she might fall in love with Jeremy Carling; she now knew better. And the way she’d felt on the ridge, when he’d flung himself across her and knocked her down, and so saved her from being shot at the expense of being shot himself, left absolutely no room for doubt.
She was head over ears, irredeemably in love with a sometimes absentminded scholar who, when the need arose, could transform into a male every bit as protective as her brothers or cousins.
Not the slightest hint of wavering or uncertainty remained in her breast — not over her feelings for him.
His feelings for her … of those she was less certain, but as she’d assured her sisters, she wasn’t so weak that she would step back from the challenge of seeing their feelings made clear, openly and directly acknowledged between them.
A risk, perhaps, yet … the more she thought of the way he’d cared for her, the way he and she interacted, even now, the way he’d held her and made love to her … the way he’d unhesitatingly risked his life to save her.
In her heart of hearts, where she didn’t need facts or evidence to justify her conclusions, she knew. Knew that he loved her.
Yes, they might have to, as so many couples did, dance around the subject until he felt comfortable enough to say the words, but having seen that dance performed often and knowing that the end was always the same, she had no real worries on that score.
Between the two of them, they would get to the point they wanted to reach — just as they had during their flight from Edinburgh. There would be hurdles and setbacks, but she had no doubt of their abilities to somehow, together, overcome them.
They would, at a time of their own choosing, reach the point where they would say to each other: I love you.
And when they did, they would know the other meant each of those three little words.
All that, to her mind, was a certainty. She didn’t know their timetable, but their destination shone clear and bright in her mind.
The step after that, however, looked decidedly murky.
If theirs was truly to be a love-match, as she was sure it would be, yet everyone — their families included — deemed it a marriage forced upon them by circumstance … would it matter?
Would it change how they went on, how they lived their married lives?
She honestly wasn’t sure.
For herself, she didn’t care what society at large thought of them, and she suspected Jeremy would be even less sensitive to social stigma, but given her intemperate reaction to her mother’s, his sister’s, and Minerva’s comments … how would they respond to a lifetime of such well-intentioned, but so wildly erroneous, and therefore rather insulting, remarks?
Returning to the conversation that had been carrying on without her, as if in illustration she heard Minerva say, “Of course, there’s always the question of other interests — with Royce, it’s the estate, but thankfully, after that last foray with Delborough and company, he hasn’t become involved in any other governmental-type missions, much to my delight.”
“Tristan,” Leonora said, “has his hands full with his aunts, cousins, and the other old dears. On top of the estate, they’re more than enough to keep him busy.”
Celia laughed. “In my day, anything that kept a man absorbed and away from temptation was to be applauded.” She paused, then added, “I must remember to tell Heather to encourage Breckenridge to develop some hobby that will keep him away from town.”
Minerva arched a brow. “And all the ladies?”
Celia nodded. “I’m quite sure where his interest lies, but I wouldn’t discount some ladies believing they might prove a worthy distraction.”
“Very true,” Minerva said.
Leonora looked at Eliza and smiled reassuringly. “At least that’s something you won’t have to contend with. The only distraction you’ll ever have to compete against will be ancient, dead, and either leather-bound or engraved in stone.”
Minerva chuckled.
Celia started to, then her expression changed to a frown. “Well, yes, but that does bring up another consideration.” She looked at Eliza. “You’ll need to have some absorbing interests of your own, my dear. You won’t want to make too many demands on Jeremy’s time.”
“I hate to say it, but he’s dreadfully absentminded when he has his nose in a tome,” Leonora said. “You’ll need to make allowances, I fear.”
Eliza felt herself grow warm, not with embarrassment but with anger. Rising abruptly, she managed to state, “Please excuse me. I believe I need some air.”
Bobbing a curtsy, she strode for the door, not caring in the least that she left them blinking in surprise.
Of course, they thought of her as the quiet one, the reserved one, the one with no real temper to speak of.
But she’d changed.
So had Jeremy.
And she was perfectly certain that neither of them was going to change back, no matter what anyone thought.
Reaching the door, she opened it, stepped into the corridor, closed the door behind her, then exhaled through her teeth, her frustration escaping in a long hiss.
She’d had to leave — before she’d told them exactly what she t
hought of having to compete with some musty old tome for Jeremy’s attention. “Huh!” Head lowering, brows drawn down in a distinctly black frown, she stalked off.
If she recalled aright, there was a way up to the battlements; she would find it and sit down in the breeze until she calmed down.
Then she would take a leaf out of Jeremy’s book, consider her options, and make a plan.
It was their new selves, their changed selves, that fit so well together.
That night, after they’d all retired to their rooms and the castle had quieted beneath the blanket of the night, Eliza stood before an open window looking out at the dark panorama of the Cheviots, and, once again, retrod the line of logic that held her there — looking out at the night, the fingers of one hand locked around the rose quartz pendant lying between her breasts, her white poplin nightgown ruffling gently in the breeze, with her feet firmly planted.
She wasn’t going to go to Jeremy’s room tonight.
She couldn’t.
Because she couldn’t push.
Because, courtesy of the revelation that had come to her on the battlements that afternoon, she’d realized that she had to wait for him to make up his own mind.
She’d fallen in love not with the scholar but with the man he’d shown himself to be during their flight through the lowlands. That was the man who had captured her heart, and she was perfectly certain that the she he’d come to love enough to protect with his life was the lady who’d sat beside him in the gig as they’d rocketed along the lanes on the other side of the Cheviots.
He had to decide whether or not he intended to remain the man he’d become through their reckless flight, or whether he wished to revert to his earlier self, the scholar and nothing more.
For herself, she’d already made her decision. The life she could live as her new self, in her new incarnation, was so much more enthralling and exhilarating than the life she would have lived as her previous self. She would embrace her new self, her new life, her new purpose, and accept whatever risks might come.