Page 9 of The Duke’s Sharpshooter (The Duke’s Guard #14)
“Mum hardly ever cries during the day,” Maddy whispered.
The tears welling in the little girl’s eyes gutted Flaherty. “Here now, I can barely handle one woman’s tears—not the both of ye. Someone has to stop. Now!”
Instead of the immediate reaction Flaherty expected, Merry gasped, Constance’s eyes widened in shock, and the duchess snorted, trying to cover her laughter.
“What part of this do ye find amusing, Yer Grace?”
Persephone met his stern expression with one of irreverence. “Do all men expect someone to stop crying simply because you tell them to?”
Flaherty would rather be on the receiving end of Garahan’s jaw-jarring right cross than admit that tears unmanned him.
He was helpless trying to stop them. Most often he had no idea why a woman started to cry in the first place.
On the defensive, he muttered, “’Tis me duty to fix this. Why can I not tell her not to cry?”
Merry’s eyes danced with merriment, while Constance stared at him.
The woman weeping in his arms did not sound as if she intended to stop anytime soon.
Flaherty had to admit that he had lost control of the situation.
That was unacceptable. “Someone has to stop crying!” He raised his eyes to the ceiling and mumbled a curse he hoped the duchess would not hear.
They had orders not to upset Her Grace, but he was in the middle of a maelstrom of tears that was slipping out of his control.
Maddy wiped her eyes with the backs of her hands. “I stopped, Just Flaherty. See?”
“There’s a lass,” he crooned. “Now, if yer ma would only stop, we could all sit down with a nice cup of tea and chat.” He stared at the women surrounding him, daring any one of them to contradict him.
Her Grace was the first to agree. “That last part of your suggestion makes more sense than the first.” She turned to the cook.
“Constance, the tea should have steeped by now. Have one of the footmen fetch it along with a plate of your lavender scones. They are delicious, and the scent is so soothing.”
“At once, Your Grace.”
“Merry, please join us. My darling duke will have no reason to complain that I have overexerted myself if you’re with me.”
“Of course, Your Grace.” The housekeeper entered the room first, shifting chairs and retrieving the blanket that had fallen to the floor.
“Are ye wanting to sit, lass, or lie down?” Flaherty asked Temperance.
Maddy giggled, breaking through the tension in the room. “Mum can’t sip tea lying down.”
“Well now, Miss Maddy, ’tis an excellent observation.
We’d best set yer ma in the chair.” He leaned down and gently placed Temperance on the seat.
Pulling his handkerchief from his waistcoat pocket, he wiped the tears from her face, stifling a groan when more welled up.
“I’m thinking ye’ll be needing a half-dozen linens if ye cannot shut off yer tears, lass. ”
The duchess placed her hand on his arm. “Thank you for arriving in time to prevent an injury, Rory. We’d better let you return to your duties before you are missed.”
He inclined his head. “Aye, Yer Grace.” Relief filled him when he glanced at Temperance, and she’d managed to stop crying. “If ye have need of me, I’ll be patrolling the perimeter.” Bending down, he brushed his hand over Maddy’s curls. “Ye’re a brave little lass. Keep an eye on yer ma for me.”
Her expression shifted from worry to resolve. “I will.”
“Faith, I know it. Thank ye.” He strode to the door and steeled himself to not look over his shoulder and see if Temperance watched him.
Flaherty left the building, intent on retrieving his gelding.
Striding toward the stables, he wondered if Temperance’s husband had been able to easily halt her tears.
His gut churned and his temper simmered as he reached for the door, and it struck him—he was jealous of a dead man! “Ye’re a fecking eedjit.”
The snort of laughter had him spinning around and tossing a punch. Garahan tilted to the side. “Yer aim is off.” Frowning, he added, “Ye’d best get yer head on straight before ye ride out to guard the perimeter.”
Flaherty curled his hands into fists before relaxing them. “Me head’s fine.” He grabbed hold of the handle and yanked the door open.
“Keep telling yerself that, boy-o.”
Garahan’s laughter grated, but Flaherty ignored it.
The urge to pound on his cousin was strong, but his sense of duty was stronger.
His horse was saddled and ready for him.
He led the gelding out of the building, gained the animal’s back, and headed toward the road that wound around the duke’s estate.
A mile down the road, he couldn’t remember if he’d thanked the stable master.
The man took excellent care of the horseflesh the duke owned.
Flaherty and the rest of the guard appreciated the man.
The fact that he could not recall meant that his head was muddled.
I won’t be admitting that fact to Garahan—or anyone else!
Rounding the bend in the road, he glanced over his shoulder as the trees obscured his view of the duke’s ancestral home.
Once Wyndmere Hall was out of his sight, it was easier to set aside his worry for the distracting woman and the wee cailín aside.
He’d left them in the care of the duchess—a force to be reckoned with when she wanted her way—and the duke’s staunch housekeeper and cook.
The older women and Humphries the butler had proven their mettle when Wyndmere Hall was under attack from the unhinged Viscount Hollingford.
Scanning both sides of the road was second nature to him. Alert to changes in the landscape, and the itch between his shoulder blades when he sensed danger, Flaherty covered the familiar ground, while memories from the attack two years ago added to his sense of unease.
At the time, the newly pregnant duchess had been the catalyst convincing Merry and Constance to put herself, the duke’s sister, and two of her friends to work.
They had gathered and sorted the linen to be used as bandages and retrieved herbs that would be needed, while water heated and threads were boiled.
Willing hands helped chop vegetables and meat for the stew, soups, and meat pies Constance deemed necessary to feed the men defending the duke and his family.
Loaves of bread and batches of scones were consumed while more were baking.
Every single man and woman on the duke’s staff had pitched in wherever needed, while tenant farmers fought alongside the duke, his brother the earl, and the sixteen men in the duke’s guard.
Flaherty slowed at reaching the first of the handful of spots sharpshooters had used in the past. Satisfied that nothing was amiss, he urged his mount to pick up the pace.
Riding through an open section with fields on both sides of the road, he admitted to himself that he missed that span of time he and his relatives were all stationed together.
They had fought and bled side by side to uphold their vow to the duke.
Not long afterward, the duke’s brother had married, and the first of the duke’s guard had been assigned to protect Earl Lippincott and his bride Lady Aurelia.
Movement to the left caught Flaherty’s eye and had him slowing his mount to a walk.
He slipped the rifle off his shoulder, took aim, and waited.
The hedgerow moved close to the ground as a fox darted from beneath it.
He exhaled, eased his finger off the trigger, and slung the rifle over his shoulder.
The rest of his patrol was quiet—eerily so.
He’d be reporting that fact to Patrick, who’d relay the information to His Grace.
They would no doubt discuss whether to request that additional men be sent north to increase their numbers.
Captain Coventry, the duke’s London man-of-affairs, and Bow Street Runner Gavin King would combine their resources and discuss who best to send to the Lake District.
Guiding the horse to the south, Flaherty let his thoughts return to the green-eyed, dark-haired woman who’d unknowingly tugged at his gut and whispered to his heart.
The overwhelming need to protect her and her daughter surprised him.
Having watched his cousins wrestle with needs that sometimes conflicted with their duties, he accepted that his head and his heart had never been captivated by a woman before—separately, yes, but never settling on the same woman.
Three and a half hours into his patrol, the lass was still on his mind, firmly wrapped around his heart—alongside her daughter. With half an hour left until the shift change, he knew without a doubt that the two lasses held the key to his happiness and the future they would make together.
“Rory lad, ye’ve finally done it,” he mused as Wyndmere Hall was once more in sight. “Ye’ve given yer heart to the wee lass and her ma. God help me if they hand it back!”