by Burke, Darcy
“You’d have to ask Sir Duncan why he’s in such a damnable hurry.”
She started toward the door. “Oh, I plan to do many things to Sir Duncan, and none of them involves talking.”
West grinned in spite of the dire situation. “I couldn’t imagine a better wife for Ax. I hope he appreciates you.”
“He does.” That wasn’t their problem. “You have your coach, I presume?”
“Yes.” As they stepped into the entry hall, West turned to the butler. “Tulk, please prepare for injury. His lordship is dueling again.”
Tulk pursed his lips. “He doesn’t get injured.”
“The challenger chose swords.”
“I see.” Grimacing, Tulk took himself off to do as West bade.
Emmaline grabbed West’s arm. “Why is that bad?”
West flinched. “Ax is terrible with a sword.”
“Which is why Sir Duncan chose them.” Fury burned up Emmaline’s throat as fear weighted her belly.
West opened the door for her. “Probably.”
She stepped outside and looked up as a raindrop fell onto her nose.
Once they were ensconced in the coach, she asked if the rain could delay or postpone the duel.
“It’s up to Sir Duncan, and I doubt he’ll decide to do that,” West said.
“Is he good with a sword?” The coach moved forward, and agitation curled through her, tensing her muscles and turning her stomach.
“Certainly better than Ax.”
She suddenly wished she’d practiced swordplay instead of shooting. “Do you have a pistol?”
“I do.” He patted the cushion beside him. “Beneath the squab.”
“Bring it with you.”
He shook his head. “I can’t do that. There are rules. Only those without honor break them, and Ax would never allow it. You don’t know this, but Geoffrey broke the rules. If he hadn’t, he’d likely still be alive.”
She couldn’t summon even an iota of surprise. “What did he do?”
“He fired before twenty. Ax fired in reaction, intending to cause a glancing injury in case Townsend decided to come at him. Townsend moved, and the bullet landed a more direct hit.”
“I’m beginning to think he wanted to die,” she said, shaking her head. She was suddenly quite done feeling bad that he’d died or guilty or that she somehow couldn’t allow herself happiness with Lionel because of what he’d done. Really, he hadn’t done anything except try to help a friend. Geoffrey had turned it into a disaster.
She peered over at West. “Lionel told you not to tell me.” Of course he had.
West nodded.
“Honor,” they both said in unison.
“Let us hope it doesn’t lead him to his death,” West said darkly. Rain pounded the coach in earnest, casting an even greater sense of gloom.
Her gut clenched as the coach turned into the park. She couldn’t lose him. Not now. Not like this. And definitely not before she told him how very much she loved him.
* * *
Lionel folded the parchment and set it on the cushion in his coach. He opened the door and jumped out, blinking at the rain streaming into his eyes.
He’d left his coat inside with the letter he’d written to Emmaline. If he didn’t see her again, he wanted her to know how much he loved her and how sorry he was to have found himself in this position once more.
Anguish sliced through him, and he doubled over. He took in several great breaths, trying to slow his pounding heart.
Sutton came up to him. “He still isn’t interested in a peaceful resolution.”
“No, I expect he isn’t.” Lionel stood, squaring his shoulders as tumult rioted within him. “Let us get on with it.”
They walked to the dueling field, where Sir Duncan stood with his second and a physician.
It was, by chance, the same man who’d attended his duel with Townsend. That didn’t seem to bode well.
Hell, he was dueling with a weapon he hadn’t used in years in the middle of a downpour and was fairly certain he wouldn’t be able to muster an adequate defense. None of it boded well.
A small audience—perhaps ten men—had gathered. Lionel preferred not to allow spectators, but this wasn’t his duel.
Lionel and Sutton approached the table that had been set up. On it laid the sabers.
Sir Duncan and his second joined them.
“Remove your shirts,” Sir Duncan’s second announced.
Lionel untied his cravat and tugged it off, letting it fall to the table. He unbuttoned his waistcoat next, stripping it away. He dropped the sodden garment next to his cravat. Finally, he pulled his shirt over his head, exposing his upper body so they could see he wasn’t wearing mail or any other sort of protection.
Sir Duncan did the same, moving quickly for a man of his years. “You know I served in the army?” he taunted.
“I do.”
The seconds unsheathed the sabers and measured them. Finding them equal, they handed the weapons to the opponents.
“The duel is to Sir Duncan’s satisfaction, which may or may not be first blood,” Sir Duncan’s second announced.
“So it could also be to the death?” Sutton asked with a wry tone that almost made Lionel laugh at the absurdity of it all.
Sir Duncan’s second smirked before turning and stalking to the edge of the dueling field.
Lionel hefted the sword in his hand. It was heavy and a bit awkward, if he were honest. He held it up and squinted through the rain at Sir Duncan, who was busy slashing his blade through the droplets filling the air.
“Take your places,” Sir Duncan’s second called.
Sutton edged close to Lionel. “It isn’t too late to refuse.”
Lionel didn’t bother replying. His mind darkened with thoughts of Emmaline. He didn’t want to contemplate the fact that he might never see her again, but he must. And maybe it was for the best. Maybe this was how it was all supposed to end for him.
Once they were on their marks, Sir Duncan’s second called for the duel to begin.
Lionel couldn’t move. He had to defend himself, but when he thought of going on the attack… What if he inadvertently killed Sir Duncan too? He couldn’t take that chance.
Sir Duncan thrust, spurring Lionel to finally move. He managed a weak parry as he darted to avoid the attack. Sir Duncan lunged again, and again Lionel barely avoided injury. This happened several more times before Sir Duncan howled. “Why aren’t you charging?”
Because he was just trying to find his damn footing and get used to the sword. Lionel didn’t answer but slashed his blade through the air to loosen his shoulder. Perhaps he could disarm the man. Yes, that was what he’d try to do. And pray to God he didn’t hurt him in the process.
Lionel danced forward, and Sir Duncan met him, his sword raised.
“Lionel!”
The sound of her voice distracted him just enough. Sir Duncan’s blade came down and sank into Lionel’s side. He staggered back and wondered why he wasn’t bleeding. He felt a sharp pain. Shouldn’t there be blood?
He looked down, his left hand coming against the wound. Red stained his flesh. There was, in fact, blood. And plenty of it. He hadn’t felt it because of the rain.
He staggered a few steps, then dropped to his knees. Mud sucked at him, and as he fell to the side, he saw Emmaline racing toward him. She threw herself to the ground beside him, her face pale but so beautiful.
She took the sword from his hand and stood, brandishing it toward Sir Duncan, who’d moved toward them. “If you come any closer, I will kill you. Axbridge didn’t steal me. I didn’t want you. I chose him. I love him. You are an abject fool, and now everyone knows it.”
Lionel couldn’t see Sir Duncan’s face. Rain had effectively blinded him as he lay on the ground, pain radiating from his side. He was vaguely aware of someone else approaching. Darkness threatened, but he didn’t want to go, not yet.
“Emmaline.” He fought to say the word and worried she
wouldn’t hear him.
But she was there, kneeling beside him. Thankfully, he could see her at least.
“I’m here, my love.” She stroked his face, brushing the rain away. It was a pointless endeavor, for it simply fell and drenched him once more.
“I wrote you a letter. It’s in my coach.”
The physician—at least he hoped it was the physician—began prodding at his wound. He winced, then let out a groan.
Emmaline cupped his cheek. “You’re going to be all right.”
He tried to shake his head, but had no idea if he was successful. “Doesn’t matter. Knowing you love me means I can die happy.”
She glared down at him, her eyes blazing and glorious. “Don’t you dare die!”
“I love you, Emmaline.” He closed his eyes and surrendered to the void.
Chapter 17
The physician covered Lionel’s wound with a white cloth. Emmaline watched as the fabric slowly turned red.
“We need to get him to the coach,” West said, seeming to come out of nowhere to crouch beside her.
“Lift him gently,” the physician cautioned, stepping back.
West and Sutton picked Lionel up and bore him across the muddy field.
Emmaline stalked to where Sir Duncan stood with another man, likely his second. Their faces were downcast, and they spoke in muffled tones.
“I hope you’re satisfied,” she spat. “Be warned, if he dies, you will never be able to live with yourself. I’ve seen what it does to someone—what it did to him.” She jerked her head toward Lionel’s coach. “I wouldn’t wish that on anyone, not even you.”
She turned and ran to the coach, but it was empty. The coachman wasn’t even to be found.
“This way.” West’s coachman touched her arm and quickly led her several yards away, where Lionel lay in the back of a cart. Yes, this made more sense. She’d no idea how they would’ve gotten him into the coach in his current state.
West climbed into the back of the cart and held his hand down to her. “Are you coming in this or taking the coach?”
“I’m not leaving him.” She placed her hand in West’s, and he pulled her into the cart.
The physician sat next to Lionel’s side, his hand buried beneath a blanket that had been tossed over Lionel’s body. Presumably, the doctor was still stanching the flow of blood. He leaned toward the driver—it was Lionel’s coachman, she realized—and yelled, “Hurry!”
Emmaline barely sat, positioning herself near Lionel’s head, before the cart lurched forward. She looked at the deathly pallor of his face and felt as though she might toss up her accounts. She couldn’t lose him.
“Is he going to be all right?” Emmaline asked the physician. The words came out strange, and she realized her teeth were chattering.
“If I can get him stitched up right away and keep infection at bay, he has a good chance.” The man lifted his head toward Emmaline, and the shock of recognition jolted through her. He was the same physician who’d taken care of Geoffrey.
The doctor seemed to recognize her as well. His color faded slightly. “You are Lady Axbridge now?”
She nodded. “He can’t die,” she whispered. She’d never wanted Geoffrey to die either, but this was somehow more vital. She truly didn’t know how she would go on if she lost Lionel. He’d suffered for so long. He deserved a chance at happiness, and she was going to give it to him.
The physician nodded firmly. “I don’t know what happened with Lord Townsend. He shouldn’t have died either. I will not leave the marquess’s side until I am confident he will survive.”
She looked down at Lionel’s face and wiped the rain away. “I won’t either.”
The cart arrived at their town house, and things happened quickly. The physician told Emmaline what materials he required. She nodded as she stood, eager to carry out his demands.
Tulk dashed outside and quickly assessed the situation. He helped Emmaline from the cart.
“I’m going to notify the staff,” she said.
The butler nodded, his face creased with distress. He went to work helping West unload Lionel from the cart.
Emmaline hurried inside and called for help. Mrs. Wells came running, and Emmaline instructed her as to what to bring to Lionel’s room. She then told a footman to stoke the fire in Lionel’s chamber. The servants ran to do her bidding as Emmaline raced upstairs.
She threw back the covers of his bed and found a blanket to throw across it to hopefully soak up the wet—and the blood.
Don’t think of that.
Hennings appeared with some of the implements Emmaline had requested of Mrs. Wells—a bucket of hot water and toweling. The room became a hive of activity as the physician came into the room, followed by West and Tulk carrying Lionel. They deposited him on the bed, and Hennings stripped his boots away.
The physician set his bag on the bedside table and withdrew a needle and thread. Emmaline stared at his hands, terrified for Lionel.
“My lady, you really need to take a warm bath, or at least change out of your wet clothes.” Lark had somehow crept into the room.
Emmaline wasn’t surprised she hadn’t noticed her arrival. “In a while. I can’t leave him.”
“You won’t be any good to him if you catch a chill.”
Knowing her maid was right, Emmaline reluctantly turned toward the sitting room. “We must be quick.” She hurried through to her chamber.
It took a frustratingly long time for Lark to help her out of her sodden garments. It was very difficult—and time-consuming—to undo laces that were cold and so wet that they were worse than knotted.
“Just cut them,” Emmaline had cried desperately.
When she was finally free of the clothes, she began to shake uncontrollably. Lark wrapped her in a blanket and pushed her in front of her fire, which had also been stoked. Then she pulled Emmaline’s hair down and did her best to at least partially dry it with a towel. “I’ll be right back.”
“Hurry.” Emmaline turned her head toward Lionel’s bedchamber and prayed.
A few minutes later, Lark had her dressed in a simple morning gown. She brushed her hair, moving quickly, which pulled at the knots that had formed in the rain. She apologized for every snag, but Emmaline urged her on. She didn’t care about such trifles. She needed to get back to Lionel.
At last Lark was done, and Emmaline dashed back to Lionel’s chamber.
“Goddammit!”
Lionel’s voice filled her with both relief and dread. She was so glad he was still with her, but could hear the agony lacing his tone.
“Nearly done,” came the physician’s calm response.
There was quite an audience collected around the bed—Hennings, Tulk, West, Sutton, Mrs. Wells, as well as a few footmen.
Hennings stepped to the side to allow Emmaline to move in. He put his arm around her and gave her a squeeze. Tears pricked the back of her eyes, but she kept them in check. She wouldn’t cry. Not now.
“A little more whiskey, perhaps?” the physician suggested.
Hennings took his arm from Emmaline, but she turned to him. “I’ll get it. Where?”
He nodded toward the bedside table.
She moved around the physician, who worked beneath the bright light of a lantern held aloft by Tulk. Averting her gaze from the wound, she located the whiskey decanter and an empty glass beside it. Before she could pour it, Lionel’s hand came around her wrist, clasping her tightly.
“Where were you?”
She turned to him, her heart aching. “Just changing into dry clothes. I’m here now. And I’m never leaving.”
He relaxed back against the pillow, but only for the barest second. His face contorted in pain, and he let out a searing groan.
“He needs more whiskey,” the physician urged.
Emmaline quickly poured some into the glass, then helped Lionel to drink. She glanced briefly toward the doctor. “Shouldn’t he have laudanum?”
“Yes, but he refu
sed it because you weren’t here.”
She shook her head at Lionel. “You’re a foolish man.”
Lionel looked up at her, his eyes bleary. “Unfortunately, yes. I wasn’t going to surrender consciousness until I saw you. I’ll take it now.”
“When I’m finished,” the physician said, his teeth gritted. “Almost there.”
Lionel swore again as his body tightened. She would’ve done anything to spare him.
He seemed to read her mind, giving her a weak smile and saying, “It’s no less than I deserve.”
“Stop saying that.” She sounded cross, but she didn’t care. She’d had quite enough of his self-loathing.
“Finished.” The physician stepped away and surveyed his handiwork. “A clean wound—thank goodness for razor-sharp blades—but it was rather large. I don’t believe it hit any organs. With a great deal of rest and care, you should be fine.” He winced as he looked at Emmaline. “Nevertheless, I’ll be staying for a while.”
“You’ll need a fresh change of clothes,” Mrs. Wells said. “Come, I’ll show you to a chamber.”
“Just a moment.” The physician went to his bag and poured something into the now-empty whiskey glass. He set it on the table and looked at Emmaline. “This is laudanum. Give it to him immediately. He will sleep, and right now, that is the best thing for him. I’ll be back forthwith to dress the wound.”
Emmaline nodded, and the doctor followed Mrs. Wells from the room.
Tulk set the lantern down on the other side of the chamber. “All right, time for everyone to let his lordship rest.”
Emmaline stroked Lionel’s face as people began to file out.
Hennings touched her gently on the arm. “I’ll fetch you something to eat.” He looked down at Lionel, and Emmaline could’ve sworn there were tears in his eyes. “You gave me quite a scare. Again.” He patted Lionel’s shoulder, then turned away and left.
West and Sutton came forward, both looking like drowned rats. Emmaline stepped back so they could speak to Lionel.
“If you don’t both get home and into dry clothes, your wives will kill me,” Lionel croaked.
“An ignominious way to go, considering everything we just went through,” Sutton said wryly. “But you are likely correct. I’ll be back tomorrow to see how you’re faring.” He turned to Emmaline and took her hand. “He’s very lucky to have you. It brings me joy beyond measure to see you together, and to see how happy you have made each other.”
