Indecisively Micaela had watched the three men disappear down the path. Every instinct urged her to follow them, but she knew that such action would accomplish little. The gentlemen would only close ranks in front of her, and she would learn nothing from them. She considered going in search of her uncle, but quickly discounted that idea. If, as she suspected, Alain was determined to demand satisfaction from Hugh on the dueling field, Jasper would be able to handle the situation as well as Jean. She could only pray that Jasper would arrive in time to prevent the fatal words from being spoken. And if he didn't... Her heart squeezed painfully.
Hugh Lancaster was undoubtedly the most infuriating, overbearing, utterly conceited man she had ever met in her life—but she didn't want him to die in a duel. Especially a duel that she had inadvertently caused.
It didn't matter that it had been Hugh's own words and that unforgettable kiss that had made her react as she had, or that it had been bad luck that Alain and François had come upon them before she'd had a chance to compose herself. All that mattered was that Hugh not be harmed. It was enormously important to her that nothing happen to Hugh, and she didn't care to speculate about why she was so concerned about his well-being. He had certainly, she thought with a brief flare of anger, made his contempt of her obvious. And as for that kiss! How dare he!
But she was too worried to sustain much anger for very long. Tense and unhappy, she paced back and forth along the pathway, waiting anxiously for the return of the men. She knew Alain's reputation—he was a ruthless duelist, and whenever she pictured Alain and Hugh facing each other on the dueling field, the pain in the region of her heart was nearly unbearable.
It seemed to Micaela that she had walked back and forth along this same strip of pathway for hours before François came strolling into view. She flew to her brother, and, hands clutching his arm, she demanded, "What happened? Is everything all right?"
François lifted his brows. "Of course, everything is all right. Why should it not be?"
She searched his features, trying to ascertain if he was telling the truth. "Alain did not challenge Monsieur Lancaster?"
"Should he have?" François shot back.
Micaela stamped her foot in vexation. "Naturally not! But Alain looked so... so angry that I feared..."
"There was nothing to fear. Alain was angry. He wants to marry you, after all, and he was not pleased to find you looking so distressed and alone with a man he does not like." His gaze sharpened. "What really happened between the two of you?"
"Nothing! I tell you nothing."
François shrugged. "And I am telling you that you have nothing to worry about—the matter is settled."
Instead of calming Micaela, François's words deepened her anxiety. Was he lying? Men did. Particularly about duels.
Despite her efforts to discover more, François proved unresponsive to her queries, and Micaela was forced to retire to her bed, knowing little more than she did already. She wanted to believe her brother, but she didn't trust him. François could be a little beast when he wanted.
But even if she didn't have the possibility of a duel to worry over, Hugh's wounding statements, not to mention his kiss, would have kept her sleepless most of the night. Tossing restlessly on her bed, she stared up at the netting overhead.
Nothing had ever hurt her—or enraged her as much as his words. How dare he, she thought again with anger. Who did he think he was, speaking like that to her? And where, she wondered with growing resentment, had he gotten the ridiculous idea that she wanted to marry him? And as for trapping him! She was a Dupree—they did not have to trap their spouses. Bah! He was a vain fool, and she would rather marry anyone other than Hugh Lancaster. By concentrating on his words and telling herself what an overbearing beast he was, Micaela was able to keep the searing memory of his kiss from her thoughts, but not the fear that Hugh might be facing Alain on the dueling field.
* * *
The spot Alain had selected for the duel was a small, secluded meadow in sight of the river a few miles from the Dupree plantation. Dismounting from his horse in the murky half-light of predawn, Hugh marveled at his actions. He had fought several duels as a youth—in fact, it was how he had met Jasper—but as he had grown older, dueling was not a sport that found favor with him. Duels could be deadly and were more often than not fought for ridiculous reasons, especially amongst the quick-tempered Creoles. An imagined slight. An ill-judged comment. Even the accidental stepping on the gown of one's partner at a ball could be reason enough for a member of the woman's family to call out the erring gentleman. Duels, in Hugh's opinion, were, for the most part, the province of young hotheaded fools. Something he was no longer. And yet, he thought wryly, he had allowed himself to be embroiled in one. A smile crooked his mouth. The kiss was worth it.
There was little talking as the six men set about arranging the site to their satisfaction. It was Jasper who supplied the pistols—and Jasper, too, who rounded up a physician to be in attendance. The physician, a rotund little man, Monsieur Tessier, rode up just a few minutes later, his small black satchel clutched in his hand. As the others laid out the course and went over the terms, Monsieur Tessier stood on the sidelines.
All was in readiness. Misty tendrils of fog drifted ghostlike through the area; the gray-green Spanish moss seemed to float mysteriously from the massive oaks scattered here and there and added to the eerie atmosphere.
The sun had barely turned the sky pink and gold above the swirling mist when Alain and Hugh faced each other. Both were garbed in drab clothing; neither wore anything that would give the other a target at which to aim—no shiny buttons, nothing white at the throat.
Hugh didn't doubt that Alain meant to kill him. Alain's reputation alone warned him of that fact, as did the cold glitter in the other man's eyes. Hugh did not expect to die this morning, but he would have been foolhardy indeed if he had not considered the possibility. In his room at the Dupree house, he had left a letter for his stepfather and had enclosed instructions for the dispersal of his estate if the worst were to happen. It was a letter that Hugh was hopeful John would never receive.
Observing the formalities of the duel took longer than the actual act. It was several minutes later before the two men were ready to fire. The seconds and the physician hovered nearby. Jasper called out the paces. A second later, the sharp crack of pistol fire rent the air, and the scent of black powder assailed the nostrils. Blue smoke floated lazily upward to mingle with the rising fog.
"Mon Dieu!" exclaimed François in horrified accents. "The Américain has shot Alain!"
Alain lay crumpled on the field, clutching his shoulder, his face contorted with pain; Hugh was standing thirty feet away from him, apparently unharmed. The physician and Alain's seconds rushed toward the stricken man.
Releasing his pent-up breath, Jasper, with Rene following him, strolled leisurely toward Hugh. "Very pretty shooting, mon ami," Jasper drawled, just as if he had never wasted a moment's worry on the outcome.
"Indeed," added Rene, "you are expert with the pistol, monsieur. Alain has fought several duels, usually killing his man. To my knowledge this is the first time he has ever suffered any harm, and did not hit his mark."
Taking a handkerchief from an inside pocket of his jacket, Hugh gingerly dabbed his temple. "Oh, he did not miss his mark—he merely misjudged it."
Seeing the smear of blood on the handkerchief, Jasper's eyes widened. "You are hurt! He did hit you."
Hugh nodded. "It is only a grazed temple and I suspect that I will have a headache for a few hours, but I am thankful indeed that his aim was a trifle off this morning."
Examining the faint bloody furrow along the side of Hugh's head, Jasper nodded. "You are very lucky, mon ami. Just a bit more to the left..."
Coolly putting away his bloodied handkerchief, Hugh murmured, "Yes. I am fortunate, and I am certain our friend over there intended for me to be lying dead on the ground." He glanced over at the men assembled around Alain. "Shall we see
how bad he is?"
A twinkle in his dark eyes, Jasper said, "First you must tell us, how badly hit you think he is."
"Well, unless I miss my guess, I suspect that Monsieur Husson has a broken shoulder, in addition to his wound." Hugh made a face. "I meant merely to nick him, but I think my aim was also off."
Jasper snorted. "At least a broken shoulder will keep him out from under our feet for a while. But be aware, mon ami, that you have made a dangerous enemy in him this morning."
Rene nodded, his green eyes grave. "Alain does not like to lose, and he seldom does."
Hugh nodded again and winced as a stab of pain went through his head. "I am not likely to forget," he muttered.
Hugh's assessment of the situation was correct; his bullet had indeed broken Alain's shoulder. The wound was not critical; Monsieur Tessier deftly removed the bullet just as Hugh and his seconds arrived.
His face twisted with pain, Alain glared up at Hugh. "This is not over, monsieur. We will meet again."
Hugh bowed. "Whatever pleases you, Monsieur Husson. But for now, shall we cry quits?"
Monsieur Tessier began to set the broken shoulder, and it was some minutes later, his shoulder in place and bound, before Alain could speak. François and Bellamy helped him to his feet, and Alain's face was white and drawn from his ordeal. With black eyes full of venom, he stared at Hugh. "For now," he said tightly. "For now."
Hugh and his seconds bowed and turned and walked back to their horses. François and Bellamy would see that Alain arrived safely home.
Hugh's head was aching by the time they reached Riverbend, and he was grateful to seek out the solace of his own room. The cross-country ride was not scheduled to begin for a few hours yet, and he looked forward to some quiet and rest. A grim smile crossed his face as he gently laid his head on the pillow. At least he would be able to attend the ride. Alain Husson would be riding nowhere for several weeks.
That fact had occurred to François the instant he had discovered the extent of Alain's wound. Alain could not have been more seriously wounded, as far as François was concerned, than if Hugh had killed him. It was obvious that even if he had been foolhardy enough to do so, Alain was not going to be in any condition to participate in the ride which was scheduled for today. And as for their plans for Micaela... François sighed, half-relieved. Those would have to be postponed.
Alain was grimly aware of that aspect, and he was smoldering with rage by the time the Husson plantation came into view. Fortunately, the ladies of the household had not yet risen and François and Bellamy, along with the help of Alain's valet, were able to get him settled in his rooms with no one the wiser as to what had happened. There was no chance for private conversation with Bellamy in attendance. So Alain had been forced to swallow his fury—difficult for him to do when all he wanted to do was to roar his rage and smash everything in sight. Defeat tasted bitter on his tongue.
His face set in petulant lines, he bade his erstwhile seconds adieu and, leaning back against the pile of pillows, began to plot ways in which to make Monsieur Lancaster most, most unhappy.
* * *
Jean Dupree took the news of the duel and the postponement of their plans for Micaela with unexpected resignation. Hearing of the disaster which had overtaken them, he shook his head and muttered, "Eh bien! So it is. We shall simply have to think of something else."
"Is that all you have to say?" François muttered. "Are you not worried that Alain will change his mind?"
"That is a chance which we will have to take, but I think you dwell too much upon it—Alain clearly means to marry your sister. I do not believe that a setback such as this will deter him from his ultimate goal."
"Easy enough for you to say! It is not your vowels which he holds!"
Jean shrugged. "I warned you about him. Husson nearly always wins, and you were a fool to think that you could best him." He sent his nephew a thoughtful look. "You want so very much to prove yourself a man that you take risks which only prove how very young you are."
Furious with Jean's attitude, François slammed out of his uncle's office. But by the time the hour for the ride had come, François had, with one of his mercurial turnabouts, recovered his merry spirits. Not a sign of his earlier black mood was in evidence as he moved amongst the guests, his warm smile flashing as he charmed both the older ladies as well as the younger ones.
The horses for the guests staying at the house were saddled and ready, and as more and more riders from outlying plantations began to arrive, it was apparent that the ride was going to be one of the high points of the festivities. Once the ladies of the household were helped onto their mounts, the gentlemen sought out their own horses.
Hugh was startled when François suddenly appeared before him leading a magnificent blood bay gelding. His expression rueful, François thrust the reins at Hugh. "I have not," he said with attractive contriteness, "been a very good host to you these past few days. Please, I would like you to ride one of my favorite mounts. He is named Coquin." François smiled at Hugh's wary expression. "This is not a trick, monsieur, I assure you, and despite his name, Coquin is not a rascal. I think that you will like him very much and find him a spirited but trustworthy mount."
Deciding not to probe for ulterior reasons, Hugh accepted François's offer at its face value. The boy was young and spoiled, but apparently not without some redeeming qualities.
The horse proved to be everything François had claimed, and by the time the party stopped for a lavish picnic at a stunning spot overlooking the Mississippi River, Hugh was quite in charity with his younger host.
Despite the nagging headache from his wound, Hugh had been enjoying himself so much that he was feeling charitably toward everyone... except for one, small, raven-haired vixen, whose aloofness irritatingly reminded him of last night's confrontation.
Despite his best intentions to avoid her, Hugh found himself often in the crowd of riders around Micaela. To his annoyance, even knowing her for what she was—a clever, conniving little baggage—he could not seem to stay away from her, or forget her soft, trembling lips beneath his. His eyes fixed on her, he admitted grudgingly that she was certainly eye-catching in a rusty orange riding habit as she elegantly sat sidesaddle on a small, fiery chestnut mare named Lampyre. Micaela's masses of gleaming black hair were caught under a frivolous hat in the same shade as the habit; an impudently curved feather in shades of brown and green adorned the hat and brushed against her smooth cheek and staring at her, Hugh was aware of an urge to brush his own fingers against that same soft skin. Cursing under his breath, he stifled the urge. But he was still held enthralled. The sight of that arrogant little nose lifted in disdain whenever their eyes met and the saucy toss of her head when she turned away from him, made his lips twitch in appreciation.
Determined to forget about Micaela Dupree, Hugh attached himself to Alice Summerfield and proceeded to flirt lazily with her. Glancing across at her as they rode side by side, he murmured, "You are looking particularly fetching this morning, Miss Summerfield."
Alice smiled. "Why, thank you," she said demurely. "Mama commented just the other day that this shade of pale blue is very complimentary to someone of my delicate coloring."
Since he had been about to say something of that nature, Hugh was momentarily at a loss. Swiftly regrouping, he remarked. "Your mama has excellent taste."
"Yes, she does, does she not?"
At a standstill, Hugh simply smiled.
Alice did look fetching in the pale blue riding habit, her golden curls gleaming from beneath her deeper blue hat. She rode her dainty black mare with an easy expertise, her slim, gloved hands light and sure on the reins, her seat confident and elegant.
Her eyes were serene pools of china blue as she looked over at Hugh. "It has been an interesting visit so far, has it not? Although I have trouble following the language some of the time. They speak so swiftly and with such excitability, do they not?"
"Er, yes," Hugh muttered, Alice's conde
scending tone grating on him.
"Mama says that we shall just have to get used to their way of talking...." She shot him an admiring look. "You speak the language very well. Perhaps you could help me improve my skills?"
"Ah, I am afraid that I am going to be rather busy during the next few months, but I am sure that I can recommend someone to teach you French if you like," Hugh said hastily. They continued to converse for several more minutes, but bored with Alice's sedate company, he eventually pulled his horse up and fell back to ride with Jasper.
It was gorgeous country through which they rode. Untamed and primordial, green and lush. Bayous, their murky waters slow and sinuous in movement, interspersed the area. Palmettos and Spanish dagger, reeds and swamp grasses grew rampant. In the wetter areas, huge, soaring cypress trees showed their knobby knees; water locusts thrived along the damp shores, and in the drier places oaks, magnolias, and pecan trees thrust their limbs upward, their branches clawing toward the brilliant blue sky and the golden glow of the sun. It was breathtaking.
Used to the area from childhood, Micaela did not find the sights so riveting, but it was a pleasant day, and though she tried to deny it, the fact that Hugh Lancaster was not lying dead somewhere added a special sheen to the ride. Naturally, the gentlemen had not breathed a word about the duel, but word of it and the outcome had managed to reach the ears of the ladies. And, as was the custom, everyone pretended that nothing out of the ordinary had occurred. Regret that the Husson family had been unavoidably detained and would not be joining them today had been expressed, and that was the end of it.
Micaela couldn't help feeling guilty over her part in the resulting duel, though it really hadn't been her fault. And while she was thankful that Hugh was unharmed, she was still furious with him. Her pride smarted from his words last night, but a flush of excitement rioted through her whenever the memory of his kiss flashed through her mind. Through discreetly lowered lashes, she watched him flirt with Alice Summerfield. Ah, bah! she finally told herself with a fierce scowl, the arrogant creature's dalliance with another woman meant absolutely nothing to her. The Américaine mademoiselle was welcome to him!
Love Be Mine (The Louisiana Ladies Series, Book 3) Page 10
