by Candace Camp
Rutherford let out a curse, struggling to hold her up as Priscilla let the full weight of her body sag against him. “Bloody hell, woman!” he began, bringing the arm that held the gun up to catch her under the shoulder.
At that instant, there was an earsplitting yell from behind them, and before Rutherford could even turn, a heavy weight thudded into him from the rear. He staggered forward, carrying Priscilla with him, and they crashed into the desk. Priscilla, as soon as she heard the noise, grabbed for Rutherford’s gun hand with both her own hands, and she hung on even when they fell against the desk. Her breath was knocked out of her, but she clung to Rutherford’s arm like a limpet.
She could see nothing but darkness as the three of them struggled. There were curses and grunts as the men grappled atop her, driving the last of the air from her lungs. The gun went off with a loud bang, and something crashed across the room. Sparks danced before Priscilla’s eyes, and she was certain that she was about to faint when suddenly there was a loud crash much closer by, as a stick slammed into the desk, not far above her hands—and right across Rutherford’s arm.
Rutherford let loose an inhuman yowl, and suddenly the two bodies were off her. Priscilla looked up to see Bryan lifting Rutherford from the floor and throwing him against the bookcase.
“Careful, Bryan. I may have broken the man’s arm,” the Duke said calmly behind her head.
He reached down and slipped an arm under Priscilla, lifting her up into a sitting position on the desk. Priscilla looked up at him. In the other hand he held a long stick with a clamp at the end, useful for getting down hard-to-reach books. Rutherford’s gun was lying useless on the ground at his feet.
Bryan, who had just slammed his fist into Rutherford’s gut, let out a growl to the effect that he really did not care about the other man’s arm. He followed his words with an uppercut to Rutherford’s chin. Rutherford’s eyes rolled up in his head, and he slid to the floor in a heap. Bryan looked down at him, clenching and unclenching his fist.
“Don’t,” his father told him calmly, bending down and picking up Rutherford’s gun. “It’s unsportsmanlike.”
Bryan cast him an expressive look. “You forget. I’m not English.”
“True. But you are not entirely a savage, either.”
Bryan sighed regretfully. “I suppose you’re right.”
He turned away, and his eyes went to Priscilla, who was sitting on the desk, still trying to recover her breath. He was at her side in one quick stride, pulling her off the desk and into his arms, burying his face against her neck.
“God, I was scared to death. I thought he would make a mistake and the gun would go off. Or I wouldn’t hit him right and he would have enough time to shoot.”
Priscilla smiled brilliantly, surprised to find tears suddenly coursing down her face. “You did it exactly right.”
“No, it was you who made it work.” He kissed her again and again as he spoke—quick, eager kisses. “You are so damned clever, getting him to open the window. And then to grab for the gun. You are a jewel. A woman in a million.”
Priscilla giggled through her tears, returning his kisses.
“No, wait, sir, wait!” came the agitated voice of the Ranleigh Court butler.
A moment later Florian Hamilton burst into the room, brandishing the large dueling pistol that had belonged to his father. “Damn you!” he shouted. “Release my daughter.”
Right behind him were Miss Pennybaker, clutching her parasol in a death grip and looking as if she were ready to dispatch a scoundrel or two with it, and the vicar, carrying no weapon and looking anxiety-stricken.
“Release her, I said!” Florian raised the old gun and pointed it straight at Bryan.
Bryan groaned. “Not that damnable pistol again!”
“No, Florian, wait,” the vicar exclaimed. “That isn’t the one who dragged Priscilla off. It was Mr. Rutherford. Where is he?” He looked over at the person in question, who was lying on the floor, clutching his arm and groaning. “Oh. My. I—I guess the situation is in hand.”
“Yes, Papa. I am fine. See?” Priscilla slid out of Bryan’s embrace and went to kiss her father on the cheek. “Thank you for trying to rescue me, though. It was very sweet.”
“Well, you are my daughter,” Florian replied reasonably, setting the dueling pistol down on the nearest table. He peered across the room at Rutherford, adjusting his spectacles. “I say, what happened to him?”
“Bryan saved me from him,” Priscilla explained.
“I see. Handy fellow with his fists, Bryan.” He came over and shook Bryan’s hand. “Good work, lad. I’m proud of you.”
“Thank you,” Bryan returned. “I am glad to hear that, since I intend to marry your daughter.”
“Do you, now?” Florian looked faintly surprised, but not concerned. “Lot of that going on these days, isn’t there?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Marrying. Seems to be an epidemic of it.”
“Papa and Miss Pennybaker have decided to tie the knot, also,” Priscilla explained to Bryan.
“Ah, I see.”
“Your father, too,” Florian pointed out. “Well, that’s good. Priscilla’s a trifle bored at home, what with the boys gone and all. And now Isabelle can do my copying, so it will work out nicely.” He nodded, satisfied.
“Wait.” Priscilla turned to Bryan. “I…I’m…you must not go about telling everyone that we are getting married. Not until…”
“Yes? Until what?”
“Until I tell you my…the secret. The scandal. I cannot in good conscience marry you unless you are aware of it.”
“All right.” He looked unconcerned. “Then tell me.”
“I—I am Elliot Pruett.”
He looked at her blankly. “Pardon?”
“I am Elliot Pruett. I mean, that is my nom de plume.” When Bryan still said nothing, she went on, “I write books.”
“Yes. And…?” Bryan said encouragingly.
“And what?”
“The scandal. I thought you were going to tell me what the scandal was.”
“That’s it. I write books. Not just books. I write adventure stories.”
“Really?” Bryan looked intrigued. He glanced over at the Duke. “Did you hear, Father?”
“Yes. It’s rather unusual.”
“You wrote that book that I read,” Bryan went on in a tone of discovery. “That was good. Well, no wonder you always want to be in on the adventure. It gives you something to put in your books.”
“I had never been on any adventures until I met you.”
“You hadn’t?”
“No. I think the adventure arrived with you.”
He grinned. “Well, you performed admirably your first time, then.”
“Bryan…aren’t you even going to get upset?”
“No. Should I?”
“If it ever got out that I wrote adventure novels, it would be a terrible scandal, and the scandal would be far worse if I were the Duchess of Ranleigh.”
“And that is why you refused to marry me? Because of the scandal of your writing books?”
Priscilla nodded. Bryan threw back his head and laughed. He laughed so hard tears came to his eyes. Priscilla, watching him, began to grow a little aggravated.
“Bryan! Would you stop? This is serious. Everyone else will take it seriously. They will talk. There will be gossip. I don’t know how we could possibly keep it a secret forever, not when I am married to you.”
“I’m sorry.” He tried to calm down. “But I can’t be serious about this. You think I should worry because a bunch of people I don’t know and couldn’t care less about will gossip and be offended if they find out that my wife writes novels?”
Priscilla hesitated. “Well, yes, essentially.”
“Priscilla…when are you going to believe me? I don’t give a damn about the British people, most particularly the peerage. They could talk about me every day of the week, and I wouldn’t much care. I
won’t be here to hear them most of the time, and when I am, I still won’t care. As for their talking about you, I think I can guarantee that they won’t do it long.”
Priscilla looked aghast. “Bryan, you can’t go around threatening everyone with all that Indian talk.”
“I shall use a different tack.” He reached out and took her hands, pulling her closer. “You silly goose. Did you honestly think I would care? That it would bother me that you wrote books?”
“It would many men.”
“I am not ‘many men.’ I liked your book. And it fits in perfectly.”
“With what?”
“With our life. We will be at sea a lot, and writing will give you something to do to pass your time aboard ship. You can see all the exotic locales you want to, write stories set there….”
Priscilla’s stomach quivered with eagerness. She squeezed Bryan’s hands hard. “Tell me this is not a dream.”
“No one ever accused me of appearing in their dreams. Nightmares, perhaps. No, I would say that this is utterly, completely real.”
“Oh, Bryan.” She threw her arms around his neck. “I love you. I love you.”
He turned his face into her hair, kissing it. “I love you, too.”
Priscilla leaned back and looked up into his face, smiling. “Do you know what I’ve learned?”
“What?”
“You just never know when something wonderful is going to show up on your doorstep.”
Bryan smiled and bent to kiss her.
ISBN: 978-1-4268-6412-4
SCANDALOUS
Copyright © 1996 by Candace Camp
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