~~~~
"Gareth! 'Sdeath, man, don't die! Hugh rode for the doctor, he'll be here any moment. Hang on, just hang on!"
Gareth cursed the saints, the devil, and his well-meaning friends as they rushed him through Blackheath's stone passageways and corridors. Every jarring jolt, every skidding turn, brought him agony. He set his teeth and pressed a hand to his side. Through half-closed eyes he caught glimpses of sconces flickering orange against walls, of a chambermaid's startled face, of the row of portraits in the West Corridor, all of which blurred into a graying haze as he fought gamely to hold on to consciousness.
Pain jarred him back to reality when Chilcot stumbled, nearly breaking Gareth's spine in two.
"Damn you, Chilcot, if you're going to trip over the blasted rug, at least have the decency to let go of me!"
And then a door crashed open and he saw the plush rugs of his own apartments, the massive bed of dark, carved oak and the leaded windows that looked out over the downs. Servants ran to and fro, scurrying to turn back the sheets, but Gareth knew nothing but pain as Neil Chilcot and Tom Audlett set him down on the bed.
Confused, excited voices penetrated the haze in which he lay. Someone removed his shoes. His breeches and what remained of his shirt were cut away, and someone sponged his nettle-stung cheek with blessedly cold water. Gareth lay unmoving. And now Perry, good old Perry, was lifting his head, supporting it so that Chilcot could dump more of that wonderful Irish whiskey into him. It burned a path down his throat and into his stomach, spreading numbing tentacles of warmth out through his limbs, into his very fingertips and toes.
Gareth closed his eyes, his brain comfortably fuzzy. "More," he whispered.
"Bloody hell, Gareth, stop grinning like a damned fool," Chilcot was saying, putting the flask to his lips once more. "This isn't funny!"
Gareth only made an obscene gesture with one hand and drank.
Audlett commented, "Good thing that girl was quick-witted enough to pack his side with this rag. Hang on there, Gareth. Dr. Highworth's just arriving now."
Gareth pushed away the flask before he reached the point of no return. "See to her," he gasped, gripping Chilcot's wrist. "Don't leave her out there to face Lucien alone."
"But —"
"Go!"
And then they all heard it. The sound of footfalls coming down the hall, echoing off the stone walls and approaching with relentless, unhurried calm. Chilcot froze. Audlett held his breath. And every servant in the room went still as the footsteps stopped just inside the room.
And continued forward.
Lucien.
Gareth didn't need to open his eyes to know his brother was there, gazing down at him with his black stare that was severe enough to freeze the Devil in his lair of fire. And he didn't need to see Lucien's stark face to know what he would read there: blatant disapproval. Fury.
He felt Lucien's cool hand on his cheek. "Ah, Gareth," the duke said blandly, in a tone that didn't fool anyone in the room. "Another scrape you've got yourself into, I see. What is it this time, eh? No, let me guess. You were posing as a target and taking bets that none of your friends could hit you. Or perhaps you got so foxed that you fell from Crusader and impaled yourself on a fence? Do tell, dear boy. I have all night."
"Go to hell, Luce."
"I'm sure I will, but I'll have an explanation from you first."
Bastard. Gareth refused to respond to the mocking taunts. Instead, he reached up, his fingers closing around Lucien's immaculate velvet sleeve. "Don't send her away, Luce. She's here. She needs us.... We owe it to Charles to take care of her and the baby."
Footsteps came running down the hall, into the room. "Over here, Dr. Highworth!" Chilcot cried, suddenly.
Lucien never moved. "Take care of whom, Gareth?" he inquired, with deadly menace.
Weakly, Gareth turned his head on the pillow and looked up at his brother through a swirling fog of pain and alcohol. "Juliet Paige," he whispered, meeting Lucien's cool, veiled gaze. "The woman Charles was to marry ... she's here ... downstairs ... with his baby. Don't send her away, Lucien. I swear I'll kill you if you do."
"My dear boy," Lucien murmured, with a chilling little smile, "I would not dream of it."
But he had straightened up and was already moving toward the door.
Gareth raised himself on one elbow even as the doctor tried to hold him down. "Lucien ... damn you, don't!"
The duke kept walking.
"Lucien!" With the last of his strength, Gareth lunged from the bed, but the effort — and the Irish whiskey — did him in at last. As his feet hit the rug, his legs gave out beneath him, and he crashed heavily to the floor in a dead faint.
Doctor, servants, and friends all rushed to his assistance.
The duke never looked back.
The Wild One Page 11
