One shot to shut the mouth of this swaggering popinjay for good. Morgan gave the man a grin that belied the twisting in his gut. He hadn’t known when he’d challenged Mr. Saville that the dandy was an expert marksman. Morgan’s own skill with pistols had much to be desired. Swords was another matter. He should have insisted on swords.
But it was too late for that.
Hadley slapped him on the back then leaned in to whisper. “Do be careful. I would hate to lose you, brother.”
“I’m touched.” Morgan took his position at the center of the small clearing. Unfortunately, he faced Adalia. He hated that she would witness this. Hugging herself, she leaned against a tree. Her windblown hair tumbled over her shoulders and down her gown like raven silk. Her cheeks were flushed. Her eyes pools of tears. He knew he’d hurt her by not standing up to his father. Sweet, sweet Adalia. He must find a way to make her his wife.
If he survived.
Fabian took his position behind Morgan.
“Ready,” Hadley shouted.
A stiff breeze cooled the perspiration on Morgan’s neck and chest and swirled the mist around his boots.
“One.”
Morgan took a firm step forward, staring straight ahead into the gray shadows, suddenly realizing this misty morning scene could be the last thing he ever saw.
“Two … Three … Four.”
Three more steps and the gun slipped in his moist hands. He gripped it tighter.
“Five … Six … Seven.”
His legs felt numb. The frogs quit croaking.
“Eight … Nine.”
He took one last glance at Adalia—if only to forever imprint her beauty in his mind.
“Ten.”
God, if You exist and You give a care, I could use some help.
“FIRE!”
Morgan spun around. Fabian’s dark form took shape. He aimed his pistol.
Crack! The shot echoed through the mist. Smoke curled from Fabian’s gun. He chuckled, but his smile soon faded when Morgan took a step toward him.
That was when the pain hit. Like a brand to Morgan’s shoulder, it seared down his arm, then across his chest. Morgan glanced down to see blood dripping from his fingers onto the grass. Still he did not lower his gun.
Adalia screamed.
“You’re hit, brother,” Hadley exclaimed in a worried tone.
“I won. It’s over.” Fabian’s voice lacked its normal swaggering tone. In fact, he sounded quite frightened.
“Morgan hasn’t had his shot yet,” Hadley remarked, his tone strained. Morgan turned to see him holding Adalia back from rushing to his aid.
Ignoring the pain in his shoulder, he leveled his pistol at Fabian’s chest.
Yet, instead of crumbling into a whimpering ball, Fabian’s eyes hardened. He straightened his spine. Morgan would have to give him credit for courage, at least. His finger twitched over the trigger. Just one push and the world would be relieved of one more villain. One more unscrupulous villain.
But Adalia’s whimper struck him from behind. “No, Morgan. It’s not right.”
“Finish him!” one of the witnesses shouted.
“Apologize to Miss Winston at once, and I will forfeit.”
“You cannot forfeit, Mr. Rutledge,” Mr. Richards said as if he were presiding over a courtroom, drawing Fabian’s angry gaze. “You must fire your pistol.”
“Do you wish to live?” Morgan asked Fabian.
Fabian seemed to be pondering the question as his eyes bounced from Morgan to Adalia and over the other gentlemen present as if dying were a more honorable option than apologizing.
Blood trickled from Morgan’s left hand onto his boots. His head spun, and the pistol shook.
Fabian watched the barrel waver over his chest, fear making an appearance in his eyes.
“Answer me or die, sir,” Morgan demanded.
Fabian must have seen the determination in Morgan’s eyes. Better yet, he must have believed it, for he released a ragged sigh. He glanced toward Adalia then lowered his gaze. “My apologies, miss.”
Morgan fired his gun. As intended, his shot landed in the dirt beside Fabian, who stumbled backward, horrified, checking for wounds on his chest.
Mr. Richards chuckled.
Sunlight streamed into the clearing, chasing away the mist. The warble of birds filled the air. Adalia’s beautiful face appeared in Morgan’s vision. His last thought before he dropped to his knees and everything disappeared was that he must have died and gone to heaven.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Bring him in here,” Hadley instructed two footmen as they carried Morgan up the stairway and into a chamber on the left. Keeping pace with the men, Adalia pressed a cloth to Morgan’s bloody shoulder and squeezed through the door alongside his prostrate body. The servants laid him on a bed and then left the room, allowing two chambermaids to scramble in after them, their faces masks of alarm.
Opening her satchel, Adalia handed a pouch of nettle to one of the women. “I need hot water, clean cloths, bandages, and please boil these leaves,” she ordered. “And have someone call for the doctor immediately.” One nod from Hadley sent the maids scurrying off.
“Will he live?” Hadley peered down at his brother, his face pinched. Adalia couldn’t tell if he was worried or just curious.
Sitting beside Morgan on the bed, she tore open his shirt and ripped the sleeve down his left arm, exposing the wound near his shoulder. Blood gurgled from the opening, and she placed the nearly saturated cloth back onto it. Morgan groaned.
Hadley did too. “I think I’m going to be sick,” he said, holding his stomach.
“Then leave.” Adalia hated to be curt, but she had no time for weakness. Especially when there was a circle of maroon advancing over the silk coverlet beneath Morgan’s arm. She tried to lift him to check the damage, but he was far too heavy. “Help me, Hadley.”
With face turned away, Hadley slid his hands beneath Morgan’s side and raised him while Adalia looked beneath his arm then scanned the bed stand for anything she could use. Grabbing a stack of handkerchiefs, she stuffed them against the exit wound. “That’s good.
Thank you, Hadley. The bleeding should stop soon.”
Releasing his brother, he stepped back.
Lifting the bloody cloth, Adalia peered into the bullet hole. Relief sped through her. “The bullet went clear through him.” She glanced out the door, anxious for her supplies, then back up at Hadley, whose face was chiseled in white. Perhaps he did care for his brother, after all.
“Don’t vex yourself, Hadley, he will live. I’ll do my best to clean and bandage him until the doctor arrives.”
Hadley released a heavy sigh as the maids returned, pots of boiling water and cloths in hand. Adalia got to work, thankful Morgan was still unconscious. Within minutes, she had the wound cleaned, stitched, and a eucalyptus and nettle poultice spread over the opening. Somewhere in the middle of her ministrations, Emerald swept into the chamber and gasped in horror before flying to Morgan’s other side.
“It’s all my fault,” she sobbed as she clutched his hand.
“What did you think he would do when he saw my back?” Adalia snapped.
“I thought he would dismiss you.” Hate sparked behind her glassy eyes. “As he should have.”
Adalia shook her head. The lady was all peaches and cream on the outside, but on the inside, nothing but rotting fruit.
“Will he live?” Emerald’s voice caught as she gazed at Morgan.
“Yes.”
Hadley made his way to a side table at the far end of the room, poured himself a drink, and then sank into a chair in the corner.
Two chambermaids remained at the foot of the bed gazing at their master with concern.
Adalia wiped the blood from her hands and sat back, watching the rise and fall of Morgan’s muscled chest and the way his eyelids fluttered as if he were reliving the duel. No blood marred the white bandage she had just wrapped around his firmly sculpted arm.
Good.
Emerald brought his hand to her lips, her eyes turquoise pools. “Why hasn’t he woken?
“He lost a lot of blood.” But he should be conscious by now. Adalia dabbed a damp cloth over his forehead. Surely she had done everything right—hadn’t missed some scrap of bullet somewhere. Where was the doctor, anyway? Come on, Morgan. Please wake up.
Voices lured Morgan from his quiet repose. One angelic voice in particular tugged on his consciousness, bidding him wake. Trouble was, the more he attempted to reach it, the more pain coursed through his body. Finally, he opened his eyes and was rewarded with Adalia’s radiant face leaning over him. She smiled, that adorable little smile of hers that sent his troubles scurrying like rats before the light. Not even the pain pulsating in his arm could keep him from basking in that smile.
“How are you feeling?” she asked.
“Like I’ve been run over by a carriage.” His chuckle faltered on his lips.
Hadley’s tall figure appeared behind Adalia. “Welcome back, brother.”
Someone kissed his right hand, and he turned his head to see Emerald, teary-eyed and timid, giving him an adoring look. So unlike her. Not the adoring part. But the timidity and tears.
He faced Adalia again. “Where am I?”
“Our townhome in Charleston,” Hadley answered. “You beat that blackguard, Fabian.” He snapped his drink to the back of his throat with a proud huff.
Ah, yes, the duel. It all came back to Morgan now. The mist, the gray haze, the shadows, French pistols, Fabian’s apology. It seemed like a chilling dream.
But the pain in his arm spoke otherwise.
“And me, fainting like a woman.” Sudden embarrassment swamped him. He struggled to sit. Both Adalia and Emerald tried to help him, but he swatted them away. “I’m all right, ladies. Just a bit light-headed.”
“You need your rest. You’ve lost a fair amount of blood.” Adalia gathered the red-stained rags proving her statement and dumped them in the pot of water.
Ignoring the pain, Morgan propped himself up on his pillows and met her gaze. Her ebony hair splashed around her shoulders in waves that reminded him of the sea at night. Lips the color of brandywine flattened as she looked at him. And those eyes. Those dark, deep eyes he’d thought he’d never see again. They captivated him. Particularly with the look he saw in them now—a mixture of desperation, joy. And love.
“You saved me.” He tried to reach for her hand, but pain shot through his shoulder.
She shook her head and looked down. “You were lucky—the bullet went through your arm. I only dressed your wound.”
“Such a brave girl.”
“Such a foolish man,” she retorted. “You could have been killed.”
Pulling his good hand from Emerald’s grasp, he clutched Adalia’s. “I would happily do it again for you.”
A squeal slipped from Emerald’s lips—barely discernable, but there nonetheless. Rising, she moved toward the door. Morgan knew he had hurt her, but it was time the woman understood where his affections lay. Besides, he couldn’t tear his gaze from Adalia’s eyes. Though now confusion rolled over them, clouding her affection. He supposed he couldn’t blame her. “I’ve been a fool, Adalia. I will find a way for us to be together. I promise. I will make Franklin see.”
Hadley let out a snort and made his way to Emerald, who appeared as though she would faint.
“Come, love. Let’s leave them alone.” Hadley’s voice held more compassion than Morgan had heard in quite a while.
Storming down the hall, Emerald tore from Hadley’s grasp. “Everything I do—even this ridiculous duel—only brings Morgan closer to that … that … ill-bred, goose-witted slattern.”
“Perhaps it’s time to quit the game and count your losses, love.”
“Never!” She reached the bottom of the stairway and faced him like an angry lioness. “We must think of something else.”
Something else? Hadley had only gone along with her schemes to appease her, to befriend her, to make her see that he would do anything for her, that he was the man she wanted. Of course he had no desire to see his brother married to a commoner. It would besmirch the Rutledge name beyond repair! But hadn’t he been in Morgan’s shoes once upon a time? He knew the pain of not having the one woman he loved. Besides, he wondered if he wasn’t doing himself a disservice in the long run. If Morgan’s pursuit of Adalia ended, he’d be free to receive Emerald’s advances. And where did that leave Hadley? Yet how could he turn her down? She’d hate him forever if he refused to come to her aid. He loved her. He would spend a lifetime making her happy. Why couldn’t she see that?
“But what else can you do?” Hadley forced a sympathetic look that was lost on Emerald, who gazed up the stairs to where Morgan lay.
Grief and jealousy burned within him. After Sarah, he didn’t think he’d ever love again. For months, regret and guilt had eaten away at his soul until he took to the bottle to dull the pain. He’d lost the one woman he loved because of his own stupidity. He would not lose another.
He knew Emerald well enough to know there was only one course of action that would keep him in her favor. He must continue to help her in her quest to separate Morgan and Miss Winston. And hope that her infatuation with his brother would fade over time. Perhaps when Morgan was free, he would continue to refuse Emerald’s attentions. Either way, Hadley would be there to comfort her. He would be her rock, her knight. She would see that he was the only one who truly cared for her.
He leaned toward her, drawing her sea-blue eyes his way. “I said, what else can we do, love?”
Taking Dr. Willaby’s hand, Adalia stepped down from the phaeton. She clutched her satchel and waited for him while he ordered Mr. Gant to settle the horses for the night and stow the carriage. They’d spent the day making house calls, and Adalia was pleased when the doctor allowed her to administer her herbs and teas on more than one occasion. After witnessing the effectiveness of her remedies, he seemed willing to give her elixirs a try on less serious illnesses, especially when most of his patients adored her. For the first time in her life, Adalia felt worthy, useful, and productive.
Doc Willaby placed her hand in the crook of his elbow and led her up the stairs to the front door. “It’s been quite nice to have you home these past few weeks. Especially at night.” He gave her a curious look that begged the question she knew he wanted to ask.
Was she still seeing Morgan Rutledge?
But how could she answer him if she didn’t know herself? She’d neither seen nor heard from Morgan in two weeks. Not since the duel. Not since he’d sworn he’d find a way for them to be together. Was it just the emotion of the moment? His gratitude for her medical care? Or had his father said something to him?
“It has been nice to be home,” she answered the doctor, though she couldn’t say that was entirely true. She missed the soirees, the concerts, the beautiful gowns—the attention, the approval she received from Charleston society.
Doc Willaby ushered her into the foyer, where Adalia quickly checked the silver platter on the front table for any calling cards or posts. Empty as usual. Seeing a flash of white down the hallway, she shouted for Joy.
Within seconds, the young slave came running, wiping her hands on her apron, her smile a half-moon of pearly white teeth. She stumbled over a porcelain planter, tipping it over and spilling dirt across the tile floor.
“Oh, of all the …” Doc Willaby grumbled as he hung his hat on the hanger.
Kneeling, Adalia helped Joy gather the dirt.
“Stupid, clumsy girl,” the doctor exclaimed. “Adalia, no need for you to assist. Joy can take care of it.” He took her arm and all but dragged her into the sitting room.
Why was he so kind one minute then so uncaring the next? Suddenly Adalia didn’t feel like spending any more time with the doctor. Untying the ribbon beneath her chin, she removed her hat, her anger bolstering her courage. “You shouldn’t treat Joy that way.”
With a heavy sigh
, he sank into his favorite chair. “She’s always bumping into things.”
“She’s a human being with emotions just like us.”
He gave her a perplexed look. “She’s but a slave.”
He might as well have said, “She’s but a horse” or “She’s but a cat” for all the value his tone implied. Staring at him, Adalia wondered what he would think if he knew he’d spent the day with a slave—entrusted his patients to a slave.
Feeling nauseous, she excused herself and went to her chamber to rest. Yet, she could find no rest. Instead, she paced across the room, the creak of the floorboards thrumming a rhythmic tune that only ceased when she stopped long enough to gaze out the window at her herb garden below. Which was doing quite nicely now that the weather had grown hot.
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