Chapter Six #2
Hope sparked. Would he break it? She could certainly encourage that. It would give them two opportunities to get out of the mess her father had made for them, although she was sure that wasn’t the reaction her mother was looking to provoke.
‘And why would he stay? You ignored him last night after dinner. You were unconscionably rude to him in the carriage. You outshot him this morning. It wouldn’t have been difficult for you to have simply shot one grouse fewer than him.
A man’s pride is a fragile flower, Ismay.
It must be managed with delicacy if it’s to bloom, and if it’s to feel safe in your care.
No man wants a wife who will erode his self-confidence. ’
‘I was rude? So was he. He challenged my reading abilities and made fun of reading Pliny. Is Father going to castigate him? No wife wants a husband who does not value her mind, soul and body.’ Ismay stood up from the wood benches.
‘If this morning showed you anything it was how unsuited we are for one another. If all we can do is spar with each other, I don’t see much hope of happiness, and that cannot be what my father or his wants for us.
’ She strode off towards the meadow where the men worked, satisfied with getting that particular last word.
She might as well start planting that seed in the most blatant way possible.
‘Ismay, come back here. We are not finished. Ismay…’ Ismay wasn’t listening.
Something moved in the tall grasses of the meadow not far from where the men were working.
One of the hounds perhaps? Ismay squinted her eyes.
Behind her, she heard her mother call again, but not in anger…
in warning…in fear. ‘Ismay, come back here!’ But Ismay was already on the move.
It was not a dog. It was too thick, too large.
She could see that now. As it neared the men, she could make out its tusks.
Tusks. Fear lanced through her. There was nothing more dangerous than a wild boar, and now there was one in the meadow!
No doubt attracted by the scent of the kill.
Someone else noticed. One of the servants began shouting and waving his arms, someone loosed the dogs from their leashes, but the commotion only enraged the boar.
It lowered its head to charge the nearest target—her father!
She heard her mother scream. Ismay grabbed the nearest gun propped beside a tree and raised it to her shoulder, but Alistair was closer and faster.
He raced towards her father, pushing him to safety, only to put himself in the boar’s trajectory. No!
There was no time to think; the beast was nearly on him.
Ismay fired, never doubting her accuracy, only the distance and the power of the small shot.
She hoped it would be enough to steer the boar off course and give Alistair time to get to safety.
It was all she could hope for. The small shot would not be enough to bring down a boar.
She grabbed another gun and fired again.
Perhaps what she couldn’t achieve in quality she could achieve in quantity.
The shots hit the boar. It gave a squeal and turned, racing off for the tree-line as a cheer went up from the meadow.
Ismay fired once more to ensure its retreat.
Only when she’d put the gun down did she allow herself to breathe, to acknowledge the racing of her pulse and the reality of what had just occurred.
The men came in from the meadows, and they all took a glass of wine to settle everyone’s nerves, although Ismay could have definitely used something much stronger.
She rather thought Alistair could have, too.
He looked as pale as she felt as he put a hand at her elbow and led her apart from the group.
He reached into his coat and withdrew a flask. He stood in front of her blocking her from the view of the group and passed it to her. ‘Here, take a swallow. It will help. Take two. No one can see.’
‘I might take three.’ She took a long swallow. It was whiskey, warm, strong whiskey from Scotland, and it was indeed bracing. She’d not realised how much she’d needed it.
‘Just leave some for me. After all, it’s not every day one’s fiancée shoots at him.’ Dear heavens, his eyes were blue, perhaps because his face was so pale. Or because she’d nearly lost him. No matter what animosity lay between them, she didn’t want that.
‘I didn’t shoot at you. I saved you. The boar would have gored you.’
‘Do you know the difference between shooting at me and saving me, Ismay? It’s about one inch.’
‘Are you berating me or thanking me?’ This was almost an argument. An argument would be good. It would normalise things and then maybe both of them could stop shaking, although the whiskey was helping.
‘It was a hell of a shot. Both of them,’ he said quietly. It was as close to a compliment as she would get from Alistair.
‘Well, it was a hell of a risk you took saving my father. It was the least I could do.’ It was as close as she’d get to saying You’re welcome. She handed the flask back to him.
‘I’m glad you didn’t miss, Ismay.’ He took a long swallow and then another.
‘I never miss. If I’d wanted to shoot you I would have.’ She gave a mischievous smile, feeling warm and more like herself. ‘But then, I’d have had to pick buckshot out of your arse.’
Alistair laughed. ‘You might have enjoyed that more than you think. I have a pretty fine arse.’ She’d deserved that. Once more she’d gone too far, hadn’t known when to stop, and he’d made her pay.
It was a subdued drive back to Vista Sulla Baia, everyone quiet, and Ismay reflecting on an afternoon which had nearly ended in the loss of two lives but instead had ended with images of Alistair Burke-Price’s backside playing through her mind and too much time to give those images a thorough contemplation. That was not part of the plan.