The Defiant One

by Danelle Harmon

  "Fight, fight!" someone began chanting.

  "Oi! I didn't get up at the crack of dawn just to see a shoutin' match!"

  "Get on with it!"

  Sensing defeat, Celsie turned and stormed back to the sidelines, where the duke of Blackheath waited. He was smiling, his arms folded loosely over his chest. The sight of him made Celsie all the angrier. How unlike him to stay out of things. And how like him to find amusement in the plights of others!

  "Pity," he murmured, watching as Gerald gave his horse into the care of a villager and the two opponents prepared to fight. "I daresay I would have enjoyed watching you give my brother a run for his money."

  "I would have won," she said mutinously, unable to forgive him for the way he had treated both her and Andrew in the library. "I would have won, because he would not have taken me seriously enough to give me a real fight, would he?

  "I think he takes you very seriously indeed, madam. He would not be here, if he did not."

  Celsie ground her teeth and looked away.

  "You do realize, my dear, that if you had only consented to marry him, we all could have stayed abed this morning?"

  "I am not marrying him. The subject is closed."

  "Hmm. Yes. I suppose it is . . . And now, I must beg your pardon." He bowed and pulled out an elegant silk handkerchief. "It appears the fight is about to get underway. A second has his duties, you know."

  "Don't let him hurt him," she ground out, trying not to sound as desperate as she suddenly felt.

  "Don't let who hurt whom?"

  "Andrew. Don't let him hurt my brother."

  He inclined his head and walked away. Celsie's heartbeat began to quicken, and she felt the muscles in her back starting to clench, nausea seizing her stomach.

  Of course I'm worried about Gerald. But oh, Lord . . . I could never live with myself if something happened to Andrew. It is my fault that things have come to this. Maybe I'm the one who ought to be fighting Gerald.

  Oh, this was getting more and more ridiculous.

  And she was feeling more and more sick.

  She sat down on the grass and plucked a gone-to-seed dandelion, twirling its stem between thumb and forefinger, taking deep breaths to try and calm herself even as a nervous film of perspiration broke out all down her back. Don't think about the duel, she told herself. Don't think about the fact that someone might get hurt. Instead, think about the animal shelter you plan to open in Windsor next week. Think about the classes you've scheduled for the village children on proper pet care and management. Think about the turnspits, and how you'd buy up every one in England if only it would save them . . .

  A charged hush had fallen over the crowd. She heard Lucien's smooth, urbane voice reciting the rules of dueling. She heard him calling for first blood only — thank God. And as she sat there, bravely watching this horrible affair and beginning to shake with unexplained terror, Freckles ambled up beside her and sat down, leaning his body into hers.

  She pulled him close, taking comfort from his presence. "Oh, Freck, I can't believe such foolishness has come to this!"

  "En garde!"

  The fight began.

  Celsie wanted to cover her eyes. She wanted to run back to her carriage and drive until she reached the end of nowhere. Around her, the villagers began shouting, cheering, yelling encouragement.

  She didn't want to look.

  She couldn't not look.

  The two men circled each other, each trying to maneuver the other so the sun was in his eyes. Andrew moved with an easy, dangerous grace that caused Celsie's heart to catch in admiration. Gerald was clearly nervous. Neither men was smiling.

  Gerald broke first. He charged forward, lunging hard, and in that moment Celsie knew that he was fighting for more than just first blood.

  He was fighting to kill.

  Horror filled her. She leaped to her feet and would have run forward, but no, that would be foolish, that would be fatal, she could not, would not, dared not break either man's concentration. Again Gerald attacked, and Andrew, grinning, expertly parried his thrust, moving easily and looking as if he was relishing what must be, to him, nothing more than a little early morning exercise. He was toying with Gerald, that much was obvious, though only Celsie's — and surely the duke's — trained eye recognized it. Gerald certainly didn't. So desperate was he to score a fatal hit, he was unaware that his opponent was drawing the fight out, allowing him to salvage his pride and retain his dignity. Celsie's heart swelled with gratitude for Andrew's noble gesture, and though her hands were so tightly gripped they were going numb, she tried to relax.

  To simply watch the fluid movements of a master swordsman.

  To almost be thankful for the fact that she remained on the sidelines, not needing to concentrate, with nothing else to do but admire what was indeed a very splendid, agile, and breathtaking male body in action . . .

  A very splendid, agile, and breathtaking male body that had, only hours ago, made her a woman.

  Steel rang against steel. Rapiers flashed in the sunlight, carved arcs in the air. The tip of Andrew's sword caught Gerald's sleeve, slicing it from cuff to elbow, though no blood appeared, and Celsie knew, with mounting awe, that Andrew hadn't intended there to be any. Not yet. Oh, bless him! Gerald made a clumsy charge. Again Andrew neatly sidestepped it, his own blade singing in to tear a matching slice in Gerald's other sleeve. He began to maneuver Gerald into the sunlight . . . prepared to deal the coup de grace . . . and suddenly staggered back, the sword falling from his hand, his staring gaze fixed somewhere in the tree branches overhead.

  "Andrew!" Celsie screamed, thinking he'd been hit —

  And then all hell broke loose.

  "Cheat!" cried Gerald. "You knew I was winning and thought to turn the tables by faking an injury, you cowardly wretch!"

  Everything happened at once. Andrew, still staring up into the trees, sank down on one knee. Gerald lunged forward, ready to drive his blade straight through his heart.

  And then Lucien was there.

  Celsie never knew how the duke moved so fast, or just how he managed to snatch up Andrew's blade from the ground and deflect Gerald's killing blow with a ringing clash that nearly broke her stepbrother's sword in two. Gerald paled and staggered back, his eyes bulging with terror. Never, never, had she seen such murderous fury on anyone's face as she saw in Blackheath's.

  And unlike Andrew, Blackheath wasn't toying.

  He was going to kill Gerald. And he was going to take a savage enjoyment out of doing it.

  "No!" screamed Celsie, running headlong onto the dueling field. "Don't kill him! He's no match for you and you know it!"

  The duke ignored her.

  Andrew was shaking his head, getting to his feet, his face paling with alarm as he realized what was happening.

  And Blackheath — cold, ruthless, vengeful Blackheath — was smiling a thin little smile that made Celsie's blood turn to ice as he circled her brother.

  Celsie hurled herself between them, her sleeve catching Gerald's sword and ripping a bloody swathe across her arm.

  "Stop it!" she screamed. "Stop it, Blackheath! Spare Gerald and I swear to God I'll marry your brother!"

  Chapter 11

  He had known.

  In that heartbeat of an instant, as time seemed to stop and all eyes turned to her, Celsie felt her world sway sickeningly. God help me, Blackheath knew all along that I would sacrifice myself to save Gerald's worthless hide. He knew it. He was counting on it. Why else did he not slay Gerald immediately?

  He was waiting for me to rush in and save him!

  A roaring started in her ears. Some three hundred people were all staring at her. Gerald, pale and shaken, looked like he wanted to murder her. The duke's cold black eyes were triumphant. While Andrew . . .

  She couldn't read his expression. And it was so terrible that she didn't even want to try.

  The field of spectators began to revolve slowly around her. The clamor in her ears rose, drowning out
the hum of voices, becoming as one with the roaring. Celsie, shaking, turned away, her head high. She briefly shut her eyes so she could not see her world spinning, and bravely, determinedly, began the long walk back toward her carriage.

  Please, God, don't let me faint in front of everyone —

  But God didn't seem to be looking out for her today.

  For at that moment, she happened to catch sight of her sleeve, upon which a very red, very bright, very gruesome blotch of her own blood was seeping through the bleached linen. She staggered. Swayed dizzily —

  "Celsiana, are you all right?"

  And heard Andrew's voice, seeming to come from very far away, though he was only a few steps behind her, running to catch up.

  "Celsie?"

  "I think I am going to swoon," she managed in a little voice, and the last thing she felt before darkness claimed her was his strong arms catching her before she could hit the ground.

  As indeed they did.

  For a moment, Andrew stood in surprise, for he hadn't thought that the mettlesome Lady Celsiana Blake was the sort of woman given to fits of the vapors. But then, he really couldn't blame her. Subjected to the near-slaughter of her brother, a sudden and unwanted betrothal, and worst of all, the knowledge that her prospective bridegroom was something of a freak, it was no wonder she had lost her senses.

  He felt a flash of sympathy. Of protectiveness. And then he happened to glance up and see Lucien approaching with his sword, and all tenderness exploded into fury.

  "An heiress," the duke murmured benignly. He slid Andrew's blade back into its sheath. "Well, well. I always knew you'd make an advantageous match. Shall we post the banns?"

  Andrew's reply caused the blood to drain from the faces of several nearby spectators, for nobody dared speak to His Grace the Duke of Blackheath like that. Lucien, however, only raised an amused brow. "Such language," he chided, not blinking an eye as a red-faced Somerfield galloped past, beating as hasty a retreat as his horse could give him. "Really, Andrew, why don't you set the girl down? Not only are you making everyone think you enjoy holding her, but I daresay she'll be none too pleased to find herself in your arms when she awakens."

  "And why don't you wipe that satisfied smirk off your face before I do it for you?" Andrew seethed through clenched teeth.

  "Now, now," the duke murmured, letting the smirk remain. "That is no way to speak to the man who just saved your life."

  "You're right. Speaking to you is the last thing I feel like doing."

  He turned and headed toward the coach, holding Celsiana close to his chest and feeling oddly, disturbingly, protective of her.

  "Off to procure a special license, are you? Ah. No wonder you're in such a hurry . . ."

  Andrew was so angry he thought his head might explode. "I am taking her away. From everyone. From you. She's going to be upset enough as it is, without waking up to a crowd of strangers gawking at her and offering felicitations on her upcoming nuptials." He glared at Lucien, thinking it was a good thing his arms were occupied, because otherwise Lucien wouldn't be looking quite so smug. "You're a complete and utter sod. A despicable bastard. A contemptible, soulless monster. I hope you're damned proud of yourself."

  "For saving your life? Hmm, yes. I don't think 'proud' is the right word . . ."

  Andrew snarled a curse and kept walking.

  Beside him, Lucien reached into the inside pocket of his coat and pulled out a flask. "Very well then, go. But at least take this. I think both of you could use a little sustenance."

  "What is it?"

  "Brandy. I brought it in the unlikely event you sustained a wound and needed bracing up, but it appears to have found a much better use."

  Cradling Celsie in one arm, Andrew snatched the flask from his brother's hand and shoved it into the side pocket of his waistcoat. And then he spun on his heel and strode toward the coach, angry with Lucien, angry with fate, angry that now everyone in Ravenscombe — let alone the woman in his arms — must know there was something more than a little peculiar about him . . .

  Bloody hell. At least her desperate declaration to marry him had distracted people from his own unfortunate plight. He had that to thank her for, at least.

  Not that he intended to, of course. The less attention he called to himself, the better.

  He put Celsie on the seat and climbed up behind her. Then he took her in his arms, slammed the door, and pounded a fist on the roof. "Drive on!" he ordered harshly.

  "But His Grace —"

  "His Grace be double damned, I said drive on!"

  "Where to, my lord?"

  "Anywhere. Just get us out of here, and now."

  The coach jerked and began to move, showing Andrew a sea of faces just outside the window as it wheeled through a wide turn. Irritably he yanked the shade shut. The team broke into a canter and moments later the well-sprung vehicle was hurtling out of Ravenscombe.

  On the seat, Andrew held his burden and stared straight ahead, his jaw hard, his heart pounding with a cacophony of emotions, all of them turbulent, none of them pleasant. He would not look down at her. He would not. No matter how easy it would be to steal a glance at that splendid bosom without her ever knowing. No matter how much he wanted to run his gaze — and his hands — up and down those long, shapely legs so sinfully wrapped in a man's riding breeches. No matter how much the very thought, let alone the possibility, of either caused his manhood to harden against the taut little bottom that lay so innocently pressed against it.

  It was a fight that even The Defiant One could not win. Mutinously, he glanced down — and found himself looking into a pair of wide, silvery-green eyes that were staring dazedly up into his.

  "Thank you," she murmured.

  "For what?"

  "Taking me out of there." She closed her eyes, her nape resting on the hard curve of his forearm, her queued hair spilling across his thigh, the seat. "I've never fainted before in my life. How humiliating . . . and to do it in front of several hundred people . . ."

  Andrew said nothing. He knew all about how it felt to be humiliated in front of several hundred people.

  "Are you all right now?" he asked gruffly.

  "Yes. No. Oh, I don't know . . . Things happened so quickly, my head is still spinning."

  "Yes, well, yours isn't the only one."

  He was angry, and Celsie knew he had every right to be. Beneath the back of her neck and head, his arm felt like a bar of steel. He was staring out the window, his gaze flinty and hard. His jaw was clenched. She could hear his heart beating beneath her ear. She could feel his chest rising and falling with each breath that he took. And she knew that she ought to get up and move to the other seat. In another minute or so, when she felt a little steadier, she would.

  "Andrew —"

  He stiffened beneath her. "Yes?" he snapped.

  "What happened to you out there?"

  "Somerfield nearly killed me, Lucien nearly killed Somerfield, and you threw yourself into the fray as some sort of sacrifice on the altar of our mutual freedom, that's what happened."

  "I'm not talking about that."

  "Then I don't know what the devil you are talking about, except that whatever it is, I don't want to talk about it, is that clear?"

  "No, it's not." She searched his face, undaunted by his anger. "I just don't understand any of this . . . such as why you fell out there on the field in the first place. One moment you were toying with Gerald, allowing him his pride and dignity, and the next, you were —

  "Nothing happened," he said savagely.

  "But —"

  "I said, nothing happened."

  "It looked like he must have hit you, stunned you, when I wasn't looking. Except I was looking — I mean, I couldn't help but look. Is that what happened, Andrew? Did he stun you with the hilt of the sword or something?"

  "Yes, that's exactly what happened, so now that we've got that clear, let's talk about something else, all right? Better yet, let's not talk about anything at all. I'm
sick of talking. Just leave me alone."

  His abrupt and angry dismissal stung. Reality began to press in on Celsie like frozen hands thawing after a snowball fight. Except it wasn't her fingers that were thawing. It was her head. Her heart. Oh dear God, what have I done? She had just committed herself to marrying this man, that was what she'd done. She had just ruined both his life and her own. And as the layers of protective shock faded, her emotions surfaced: disbelief, guilt, grief, anger, humiliation, denial; they were all there. She wanted to curl up into a little ball and shut everything out. She wanted to run away and never stop until she reached the ends of the earth. She wanted Freckles. What she didn't want was marriage to this man. To any man.

  So why did the bitterness in his eyes, his all-too-obvious resentment, hurt so much?

  "Andrew," she said tentatively, "I know you're angry, but just because I said I'd marry you doesn't mean you have to marry me."

  "And how do you think that will make me look in front of three hundred witnesses, eh?"

  "I wouldn't have thought you cared."

  "Well I do care. Besides, my brother obviously wants this marriage, and it's quite clear to me now that he's been wanting it from the moment we met at the ball, if not before. Now that he's got what he wanted, don't think he won't blackmail us both if either of us tries to back out."

  "He has nothing with which to blackmail me."

  "Oh? Do you mean being found on the floor with me in the final throes of passion isn't enough?"

  Celsie blushed. "He wouldn't . . ."

  "Trust me, madam, he would. And as for me, all he has to do is say one word to the right people and my chances of getting into the Royal Society are ruined. I can't risk the scandal, and if you want to continue to move in high circles so that you can beg the plight of your precious dogs, neither can you."

  Celsie pressed her lips together in rising anger. He was the most impossible man, equally given to flashes of temper and random gestures of kindness. Just when she was starting to warm up to him, he turned on her like a badly bred cur. She was getting tired of his short, one-word answers, his ill manners, his brusque treatment. She knew he was capable of being nice; she'd seen glimpses of it in his laboratory, when she had taken an interest in his work and he'd shown her the drawings. That Andrew was a whole lot easier to handle than this hostile, bad-tempered, bristling one. That Andrew was actually quite pleasant and engaging. This one . . . She knew German guard dogs with better temperaments.