Brenda Joyce

by The Rival

  He felt detached. He had not slept at all last night, furious with Olivia for refusing to leave, furious with himself for ever touching her in the first place and bringing this all down upon them, hating Arlen, wanting to kill him, knowing he would not. There had been fear, too; he was not ready to die. But now, in the cold light of dawn, he felt oddly detached. There was no fear. There was nothing but regrets.

  “Here. Maybe this will help,” Lionel said, handing him a silver flask.

  Garrick shook his head.

  “Garrick. Contrary to what you think, I do not want you to die,” Lionel said, taking a long draught himself. “I was up all night. Damn it. You were rotten with a sword as a boy. I do not want you to die!”

  Garrick turned to look at him, aware that Elizabeth, Manion, and Arlen were staring in their direction. Both Elizabeth and Arlen had dressed for the occasion, Arlen in a peacock green frock coat, Elizabeth in a stunning turquoise ensemble with matching hat and black veil. Did she mourn his passing already?

  Garrick regarded Lionel. His eyes flashed with anger, and Garrick shivered, seized now with the certainty that Lionel was telling the truth. But that was impossible. “I expect you to dance upon my grave,” he said flatly.

  “I will do no such thing! I am your brother, God damn it!” Lionel’s voice was raised.

  “You are not my brother,” Garrick retorted, unable to keep his own tone down. But he stared, feeling ill. Was he wrong? He could swear that Lionel’s concern was genuine.

  “I am your brother,” Lionel said, softly now, his gaze holding Garrick’s.

  Garrick turned away, disturbed. He jumped out of the carriage and almost fell in the mud but he righted himself, shoving aside his confusion and thoughts about Lionel. He stared down at the sloppy ground. The mud might kill him, or it might work in his favor.

  Lionel also leapt down, but he did not lose his balance. “I sent a messenger to Father last night. He should know what is happening.”

  “He will also dance on my grave,” Garrick said grimly.

  “No,” Lionel said. “You are his son. In spite of his ways, he loves you.”

  Garrick flinched, meeting Lionel’s gaze. Lionel finally smiled, very slightly, and touched his shoulder, the gesture encouraging.

  Manion was approaching, holding two rapiers. “My lords,” he said, bowing.

  Garrick bowed curtly. He inspected both weapons and chose one. Manion turned with another bow to bring the remaining sword to Arlen.

  That was when Garrick became aware that something was wrong. He paused, uneasy, uncertain of what was now happening. The hairs on his nape prickled and he turned, not quite sure what to expect. And rushing up the muddy road was Olivia, on foot, holding Hannah’s hand, the pair fighting the wind in their long, hooded cloaks. The setter was with them.

  Garrick cursed. He shifted in order to see Arlen staring down the road at his wife and child. Arlen’s gaze wavered, and he nodded at Garrick. “Let’s get this over with. I did not think you would show, Caedmon.”

  “You thought wrong,” Garrick said grimly, trying to put Olivia out of his mind. To Lionel he muttered, “Keep her out of this.”

  “My lords, ready yourselves,” Manion was saying.

  But Garrick really didn’t hear him. Olivia was shouting, trying to be heard over the wind. “Arlen, please! I beg you! Do not do this!”

  Garrick met her frantic gaze, but only briefly, because she was beseeching her husband. “Arlen! I will come home—”

  “Lady Ashburn,” Arlen said coldly, cutting her off, “it is a little late for regret. I shall deal with you later. After I have disposed of your lover.”

  Lionel took Olivia’s arm, clearly sustaining her weight while preventing her from running forward. “Please, Lady Ashburn, your interference now will not help anyone. You are only a distraction. Especially for my brother.”

  Tears streaked Olivia’s face as she slumped against Lionel. Garrick turned away. His gaze met Arlen’s, and he felt the other man’s sizzling hatred. It was more than tangible, it was a heated, seething energy coiling about them both. But his own hatred was equally fervent. This man would imprison Olivia and Hannah if he could, in more ways than one.

  He could not die. He could not let Olivia and Hannah be returned to this man’s possession.

  “My lords, you may begin,” Manion cried.

  Arlen smiled, advancing, sword held in a classic position. Garrick readied himself.

  Arlen struck, clearly intending to deliver a fatal blow with the first thrust. Garrick managed to deflect it, and their swords locked, ringing loudly in the early morning air. The two men disengaged. Arlen lunged again. Garrick managed to lock swords with him a second time, but suddenly Arlen’s blade was beneath his, and he felt the point ripping through his clothing and his side. He stepped back, panting, a shocking pain lancing through him. He glanced down and saw a bright red blossom of blood appearing on his clothes, spreading rapidly.

  Olivia screamed.

  Garrick stared at himself. He had not expected a wound so soon.

  “I like the smell of your blood, Caedmon,” Arlen taunted him, driving forward with a series of thrusts.

  Their blades rang. Garrick did not know how he responded, crossing swords again and again, because Arlen was fast and deft and knew exactly what he was doing. Garrick was being driven backward. He knew he continued to bleed; he was growing dizzy. Arlen kept slicing Garrick’s blade with his own, advancing ceaselessly. Garrick knew he intended to drive the sword from his hand. Then he felt Arlen’s blade slicing across the top of his knuckles.

  And in spite of his intense determination not to drop his sword, the blade fell from his hand.

  Arlen shouted, triumphant, surging forward to deliver a blow to Garrick’s heart. Garrick’s spine hit the wall of the keep. He could retreat no more.

  “Touché.” Arlen smiled, poised to thrust forward.

  “Arlen, no!” Olivia shouted.

  From the corner of his eye, Garrick saw Lionel wrestling with her, locking her in his arms to prevent her from running to them. Hannah cowered behind them. The setter was barking.

  Arlen moved. Garrick faced him. He saw him lunge and waited for that one terrible instant when Arlen’s blade would rip into his heart.

  But it never came.

  Time seemed to slow as Arlen stepped forward, thrust his sword toward Garrick’s chest … and tripped. And then time resumed its normal pace. Arlen went sprawling facedown in the mud, but his blade remained firmly in his grasp.

  Garrick realized he had stopped breathing. A deathly silence seemed to have fallen upon the heath.

  Arlen looked up, murder in his eyes. He began to get up—when he cried out.

  Again he slipped, onto his face, but this time his fingers opened and the sword slid through the mud, stopping a few inches away and just out of his reach.

  “A deadlock!” Manion shouted, rushing forward.

  Garrick had not realized that he was clutching his side with his bleeding hand, but now he became aware of his pain, and his immense relief. Dear God. He had not been run through, he was not dead. His knees buckled as he leaned against the rough wet stone of the keep, slowly sliding down it and to the ground. He was very light-headed.

  “No—” Arlen spat mud; trying to rise. “Damn it, I was tripped, and someone stepped on my hand!”

  Manion was helping him up. “My lord, there was no one here but you and Caedmon. You slipped, I’m afraid, and lost hold of your sword. According to a gentleman’s rules, the duel is over.”

  Treve was licking Garrick’s face, whining. Garrick looked down. There was so much blood. He stared. His entire right side was soaked with it, and blood drenched his hand. He was not even sure that he had all of his fingers. Would he die after all?

  “Garrick?”

  He glanced up at Olivia. Tears streaming down her face, she rushed across the muddy heath, stumbling as she raced toward him.

  If he was dying, he needed her n
ow. He needed her desperately, had never needed anyone more. His love knew no bounds. He had to tell her good-bye.

  Suddenly Arlen was there, intercepting her. His body barred her way.

  “Let me go to him!” she screamed, pushing at his chest with both hands.

  He seized her wrists. “Get in my coach, Olivia. We are going home.”

  “I cannot. Let me go! Damn you!”

  Arlen threw his arm around her. “Get Hannah,” he snapped to his sister.

  Garrick’s world was fading in and out of sight. Treve continued to whine. It kept growing darker, and he knew that he fought unconsciousness. No, he wanted to say. Get your filthy hands off her. But he did not have the ability to speak. Olivia, he tried. I love you.

  “Garrick is hurt,” Olivia panted, trying to break free of Arlen. “Is he dying? Oh, God, if you have murdered him, I will never forgive you!” she shouted.

  Garrick somehow managed to open his exceedingly heavy lids, which felt as if they were weighted down with stones, in time to see Arlen dragging Olivia to the empty coach. He actually pushed her up and inside. Elizabeth handed up Hannah. The two burly male servants climbed in after them and the door was closed.

  But Olivia clung to the door, her face in the window. “Garrick!” she screamed.

  How lucid his mind was. He wanted to tell her that he was all right, lie that it was, in order to reassure her. He wanted to tell her that he would love her forever, but he knew now that he could not, and would not be able to. He was filled with an odd knowledge, too. Death was intent upon claiming him, but he would see her again. If only he could tell her that. He watched her coach roll away, its image blurred and distorted. He closed his eyes. The blackness was welcome.

  A very final silence fell.

  And then he opened his eyes. Staring, he continued to watch the coach departing, but it was very strange, because he was looking down now, on the coach, and even on the keep. In fact, he could see his bloody, inert body crumpled there at the foot of the ruins.

  The silence felt eternal. But then it was broken. “Garrick?”

  The voice came from very close by. It sounded as if it were in his left ear. There was blackness again, and he fought it. This time, when he opened his eyes, the coach and keep were gone. “You cannot die. It is not your time. You cannot go.”

  Garrick’s eyes closed. His body felt weightless, he felt as if he were floating. And he was aware of his heart, pumping the blood now, hard, with vast difficulty, through his body and his veins.

  “Go back,” Lionel said.

  Garrick blinked, fighting to see. His vision was blurred, filled with spots and shadows and darkness. And he was filled with surprise. “Lionel?” he whispered, thinking, This is a dream. Either that, or I am already dead.

  His thirteen-year-old brother smiled at him.

  And the blackness came again.

  PART THREE

  The Heir

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  The pain was immense. There was never real oblivion, in spite of the unconsciousness he slid in and out of repeatedly. The pain always remained, hellfire.

  Olivia. Hannah. He had to help them. Her cries filled his tortured mind.

  “Garrick?”

  The blackness was enfolding itself over him again, in dizzying, nauseating, throbbing waves. He did not want to fight it. There was less pain when he slept. It was as close to peace as he could get.

  But there was a reason why he must not sleep. A reason. He struggled to remember it.

  “Garrick.” The voice was harder, less kind, and far more insistent now.

  Lionel. Lionel was here, the man claiming to be his brother, a man who might be a pretender, a fraud, a thief. That was the reason he must not sleep, must not be vulnerable, must not die. Or was it? Garrick tried to ward off the blackness with a huge effort. He began to sweat. He wanted to vomit; his insides curdled and heaved. He knew he must focus, he must think. It was a matter of survival; lives were at stake.

  Then Lionel’s handsome face was swimming before his eyes, coming in and out of focus. His cheekbones and jaw danced and wavered in and out of his vision. His blue eyes lightened and darkened and lightened again.

  “Can you hear me?” Lionel asked. “Thank God you are alive!”

  Garrick did not even try to answer. He did not think he could speak, in any case. Olivia. Was she all right? Arlen had her now. She was Arlen’s prisoner, she and Hannah. That was the reason he must awaken, must get up. Olivia and Hannah needed him—they were in jeopardy.

  And rage filled him, in spite of the pain, making it worse.

  “Surely you are not trying to get up?” A hand pressed on his right shoulder, the uninjured side of his body. It felt hard, ungentle. “You must rest. I do believe you have been at Death’s door,” Lionel said, his visage still blurry. He smiled. Garrick felt his palm on his forehead for an instant. In spite of the horrific pain that seared the entire left side of his body, anger continued to consume him. Suddenly he was aware of just how helpless he was. If Lionel were an impostor, then he hardly wished him well.

  “It is probably a miracle that you have lived. You lost so much blood. I want you to know that I have done everything I could to save you.” Lionel smiled. “I have sat here with you all night, Garrick. I did send for a physician. I imagine a good doctor should be here at any moment.”

  Garrick took one last look at the man calling himself Lionel before closing his eyes, doubting his every word. Even if he were Lionel, no love remained between them. Had he sent for a physician? Or was he sitting at his bedside wishing him dead?

  He recalled the duel. Lionel had been his second, Lionel had seemed genuinely concerned for his welfare. Arlen had run him through. It was a miracle that he still lived. Or was it? Had he seen the ghost of his real brother, still thirteen years of age?

  It had been so real. But he had been close to death, so very close, for he had lost a tremendous amount of blood, he had been dizzy and barely conscious, and perhaps he had imagined the encounter. That is what a sane person would think. Garrick felt tears burning the backs of his closed eyelids. He did not know what to think.

  Lionel was staring at him, unsmiling. But the moment he realized Garrick was returning his regard, he smiled back. “Here,” he said, holding out a glass. “Drink this. The little I do know is that you need water and other fluids. This happens to be broth. I did hire a servant after all.”

  Garrick reached out, but not to take the glass. What if the broth were poisoned? He struck it from Lionel’s hand. “Get out.”

  STANHOPE HALL

  If he died, dear God, she would be free.

  Susan stood with her father in the pebbled driveway as the huge black town coach halted in front of the house. She clasped her gloved hands tightly, finding it difficult tó breathe. Her thoughts were terrible, truly sinful, deserving hell.

  Lionel alighted first. Seeing him, Susan found it difficult to breathe and her urge to weep instantly passed. She had never seen anyone more spectacular, more devastating, more resplendent and noble. Clad in a dark green frock coat and pale blue breeches with white stockings, sans peruke, he glanced her way with a slight smile. She sniffed, using a hankie, forgetting her terrible thoughts, smiling back.

  The earl and countess had also clambered out, followed by a darkly clad man carrying a physician’s black satchel. Sir John gripped her elbow, and as Garrick De Vere was carried by servants from the coach to the house, she was led forward. “My lord, my lady,” Sir John intoned gravely. “We came as soon as we heard. We wish to offer condolences.”

  The countess, almost as white as her injured son, burst into tears, and ran after the two servants who were carrying him inside. Susan stared after them, feeling terrible now. Garrick had been unconscious, his head lolling, his coloring gray. Clearly he had been severely wounded. Then she glanced up and found Lionel regarding her. Her pulse raced.

  The earl bowed, his expression bleak, grim. “Thank you, Sir John. If you w
ill excuse me?” And he strode after his wife, disappearing through the Hall’s front doors.

  Susan and her father were left alone with Lionel. The two men bowed. “We do appreciate your concern,” Lionel said, and then he faced Susan with another bow. She was certain that his blue eyes, holding hers, held a special message in them, for her alone. She smiled back, her heart fluttering wildly.

  “How is he?” Sir John asked pointedly.

  “Dr. McCaulkin says he will live, a true miracle, for he lost much blood.”

  Sir John stared. “I am glad,” he said gruffly. “You were there?”

  Lionel nodded. “I arrived early the day before the duel. Arlen arrived perhaps an hour after I did.”

  Susan felt herself flushing. She knew the story; everyone did. Arlen had challenged Garrick De Vere to a duel. Apparently Ashburn had been convinced that Olivia was having a liaison with Garrick. Susan knew it was not true. Susan knew her good friend would not do that to her. She knew there was an explanation as to why Olivia and Hannah had been at Caedmon Crag.

  “Well, let us go inside,” her father said.

  Susan found Lionel gazing at her, and his gaze was mesmerizing.

  “Susan? Are you coming?” Sir John asked from the Hall’s front steps, staring at them.

  “In a moment, Papa,” Susan said hesitantly. Sir John left, and Susan turned to Lionel, only to find his warm gaze sliding over her in a way that thrilled her.

  “This is a wonderful surprise,” he said softly.

  “Papa insisted we come.” She remembered why they had came, and her face fell. “Because he is my fiancé. Oh, my lord! I cannot marry him!” she wailed.

  “Come,” he said, his hand under her elbow, and they walked around the side of the house, then began strolling across the green lawns. Susan remained thrilled, forgetting about her extremely ill fiancé. When they were safely out of earshot of the house, standing now not far from the gazebo, shaded by a trio of oak trees, Lionel let her go. Susan was disappointed. He said, “Miss Layton. May I be so bold as to address you as Susan?”