In that instant, Bliss imagined she saw everything in Morgan’s handsome face. Regret. Anger. Sorrow. She saw love there, too, though he had never been willing to speak the words to her.
And now it might be too late.
Bliss shook her head at him quite slowly, an unspoken plea repeating in her mind. You cannot do this. I love you. I love you.
Morgan turned away. He pointed the barrel of his pistol upward and held the weapon at his shoulder. His face went as cold as stone, and his body—the lean and strong body that had brought Bliss so much pleasure—was now tensed in preparation for battle.
“Don’t, Morgan!”
He did not flinch.
Neville set his hands upon Katarina’s shoulders. “Move to safety.”
Katarina ran back to the meadow’s edge, her face ashen, tears pooling in her eyes. “What shall we do?” Katarina grabbed Bliss’s hand and squeezed it in her own. The women stared at each other in horror.
Dade raised an arm above his head and pointed a finger skyward. “Gentlemen, the dawn has arrived! Take your marks and prepare to fire at twenty paces!”
Dade sliced his arm in a downward arc. “One!”
No. This simply cannot be!
“Two.”
Bliss shook her head, lost, sick in her stomach, her thoughts racing as fast as her heart.
“Three.”
Bliss and Katarina watched in disbelief as the two men paced away from each other. Yet again it struck Bliss how similar in stature and coloring the brothers were. Even now, as they planned to murder each other in cold blood over a silly matter of pride, their strides were equally long, equally graceful.
“Four.”
Yes, Bliss admired both men, and for entirely different reasons. But in that moment she knew she had only given one man her heart and soul—Morgan. It was Morgan who had brought her to life, who had changed her forever.
“Five.”
Bliss knew what had to be done. She knew it was up to her to do it. Though such a notion was thoroughly unexpected, and quite possibly dangerous, Bliss steeled herself, took a deep breath, and prepared to put an end to this abomination.
Just then her attention was drawn to the line of trees behind Morgan. The rising sun had just illuminated a patch of unnaturally brilliant yellow shining through a curtain of leaves. Bliss stared in shock—there, dangling over a tree branch about a dozen feet from the ground, were glimmering folds of yellow silk.
“Six.”
“Oh my sweet word!” What was Attie doing here?
Bliss slipped behind the line of her male cousins, whose attention was now fixed on the action on the dueling field. Katarina clearly wanted to come along, but Bliss put a finger to her lips and shook her head.
“Seven.”
Bliss knew she had but seconds to end this folly, and her only advantage would be the element of surprise.
• • •
LORD OLIVER KEPT his head low and took another featherlight step, careful not to snap a twig or rustle a leaf as he made his way through the wood. His tortoiselike progress was horribly frustrating. If he did not reach the meadow’s edge before twenty paces were counted out, and take his shot exactly when the other pistols fired, his plan would collapse.
If witnesses heard three shots instead of two, all was lost.
“Six.”
Lord Oliver knew one of the brothers had to die today, and since he couldn’t trust either of them to carry out the deed, he must ensure that the job was done.
Sometimes it seemed he always had to do everything himself. How tiresome.
“Seven.”
Oliver crept on. He clutched his pistol in his right hand and pressed it flat against his right thigh. He noticed his palms were slick. He felt a trickle of sweat beneath his frock coat.
“Eight.”
He reminded himself to remain calm and focused, that he had only one chance to take his shot and escape. All must proceed perfectly.
And, when this was done, his grief would need to be extreme, and extremely public. He would insist on an inquiry, demand answers, seek justice for his nephew. Oh, how he would wail and weep over the tragic circumstances! He would tell everyone how that Worthington girl came between two loyal brothers. How she destroyed the Danton family name.
Yes. He knew exactly where to place the blame.
“Nine.”
Good Lord, still only on nine! Would that Worthington boy never get to twenty? Lord Oliver fought to remember what he was thinking about . . . ah yes . . . which brother should he shoot?
“Ten.”
Neville’s demise would bring about the quickest and most direct benefit, of course. With the unmarried duke dead and buried, there could be no risk of an heir usurping what was rightfully Oliver’s. But killing Morgan was an equally satisfactory option. Duels were against the law. Even a duke like Neville would surely be hanged for his participation in an illegal duel that resulted in death. Although it would take longer.
“Eleven.”
But in the final analysis, either demise would suffice, as either would deliver the Camberton title and fortunes into Oliver’s hands, where they had always belonged.
“Twelve.”
There was only one mitigating factor. Morgan’s death would leave White Rose Shipping without its most reliable and cost-effective captain, forcing Oliver to seek a replacement. What a bother! It would most assuredly cut into profits.
“Thirteen.”
He spied a thick chestnut tree at the meadow’s edge. Its trunk was wide enough to hide him but unobstructed by other trees, giving him clean a shot.
“Fourteen.”
He scurried to his hiding place, sighing with relief as he pressed his back to the solid tree trunk. A quick look about assured him he had not been spotted.
“Fifteen.”
Lord Oliver began loading his pistol with shaking hands, suddenly rewarded with an instant of clarity. Finally! He decided which brother would be cut down.
The one who, in the moment of truth, gave him the best target.
“Seventeen.”
Lord Oliver hefted the weight of the loaded pistol and turned. He straightened his arm and got into position, smiling at his own cleverness. By leaving the target up to chance, he could never accuse himself of playing favorites.
“Eighteen.”
Oliver took aim. He put his finger on the trigger. He waited, his whole body ready to spring into action.
What the bloody—?
Something sharp pelted down upon his bare head, then another, then an entire assault, as painful as the sting of a dozen giant wasps! Was it a sudden fall of chestnuts? He felt it again, this time one sharp and expertly aimed ping! to his scalp.
He tried desperately to keep his lit pistol at the ready, but a flash of yellow made him look up into the tree branches above.
• • •
THIS WAS ATTIE’S first duel, and she had to admit she found all the manly posturing and discussion of “honor” rather boring. She had located the perfect place to observe the action without being seen, and was now perched high in a chestnut tree at the edge of the meadow, the V of two branches providing comfort and shelter. Her brothers would never detect her in this spot and insist she return home.
This time she had managed to outsmart Cas, Lysander, and Dade. They never knew she had stuffed herself in the boot locker at the rear of the carriage. Thinking upon it now, she would have to rank it as one of her more brilliant stowaways. She had even pulled it off while wearing her yellow dress, which she had donned at the last moment just in case any of the captain’s crew came to support him during the duel. Not that she was interested in anyone specifically . . .
Suddenly, Attie’s attention was drawn to the forest floor below. She was surprised to see a silver-haired man slinking through the w
ood, his head ducked down and his back bent.
The old fellow was clearly trying his best to remain undetected, which was rather pitiful, since his footfalls crunched upon the leaves with all the grace of a water buffalo.
The skulking man was up to no good. Attie was certain of this. She had much firsthand experience with such endeavors and could detect all the signs.
Oh bother! Of all the trees in this wood, the old man had just selected her tree to hide behind. He was now directly below her, his head lowered, his hands busy with something.
With one portion of her mind, she kept track of the count. With the rest of her attention, she peered downward, practically hanging from her branch like an ape. Unfortunately, the angle was all wrong for Attie to see what the man was doing. She had chosen this particular nook for its excellent view of the meadow, not its direct sight line to the ground below.
Suddenly, the man spun around and raised his arm.
Attie stifled a gasp. He had a pistol! Absolutely not! She could not allow this man to shoot someone—but it appeared he was about to do just that!
“Seventeen.”
Attie took action. She reached into the pocket of her silk gown and grabbed a handful of musket balls, whipping them down upon the top of the man’s head. He ducked and grunted in surprise, giving her an opportunity to retrieve her slingshot. Attie loaded it and made a clean shot directly to his balding scalp.
“Eighteen.”
The man flinched in pain and looked up into the branches. Their eyes met. He scowled.
Attie screamed as loudly as she could, “Help! Help! He’s got a pistol!”
The man snarled, then took aim at the field once more. It was up to her to stop him. She swung around, dangled from the branch, and took flight.
• • •
“SIXTEEN.”
Bliss had made her way behind her cousins and was in position, ready to throw her body between Neville and Morgan. She was certain that under no circumstances would gentlemen endanger the life of a lady. It simply was not done.
“Seventeen.”
Cas turned to glare at Bliss, suspicion in his eyes. She smiled sadly at him. Satisfied, he turned back to the duel. Bliss prepared to spring into action.
It all happened at once. She hurled her body toward the center of the field and was running as fast as her legs would carry her when she detected a glint of metal near a tree trunk off to her right.
“Eighteen.”
It was a pistol. Held by Lord Oliver and aimed directly at Morgan, chest level. There was no time to ponder her actions. What she did next was pure instinct.
Her captain would not be shot down like a dog. Not on her watch.
“Help! Help! He’s got a pistol!” It was Attie’s voice. Bliss pivoted, crying out, “Get down!” She dove though the air, headfirst, hurling her body against Morgan’s. A great explosion cracked her ears. She was hovering, falling, and just as they crashed to the ground together, Bliss thought she saw a pair of bright yellow wings descend upon Lord Oliver.
That was when Bliss felt a terribly odd sensation—a hot, slicing agony, racing across her forehead.
She had been shot.
How unexpected!
Then blackness.
• • •
IT WAS A very short flight.
The gun went off. Attie landed on the man’s shoulders. He crumpled beneath her, his lungs emptying when he hit the leaves, his face smashed into the earth.
Attie had plopped sidesaddle upon the old man’s back, her legs stretched out before her. Her bones were rattled, to be sure, but she was still in one piece.
She called out, “I got him! I got him!”
Almost instantly, two strong hands reached under her arms and lifted her up and off. Attie turned to see Lysander, his eyes burning like dark coals. He said nothing, of course, but passed her off to Dade and Cas, who came running up behind him. Dade took a quick scan of Attie for injuries. Cas grabbed up the smoking pistol. Lysander reached down, grabbed the old fellow by the coat collar, and dragged him off toward the clearing like a sack of rocks. Attie and her brothers followed right behind.
The old man screamed at Lysander, limbs flailing about. “Get your hands off me! Do you know who I am?” Blood trickled from his crumpled nose. His red face was pasted with mud and leaves. Attie detected a pattern of raised welts on his head, no doubt the result of her musket ball assault.
She knew that now was the perfect time to press her advantage to her brother. “See? This is why it is in everyone’s best interests that I remain armed at all times!”
Lysander stared straight ahead. Dade and Cas also remained profoundly serious.
Only then did Attie’s attention turn to the meadow. She blinked in disbelief.
Bliss lay unmoving in Captain Pryce’s arms. Her head and borrowed surcoat were soaked in blood. The captain barked out a series of orders while his blood-covered hands pressed down onto Bliss’s wound.
No! Not Bliss!
Chapter 34
“OPEN your eyes, Bliss. Please.”
Morgan whispered his plea into her ear as he pressed his fingertips against her blood-slick throat. He moaned with relief when he detected a pulse.
He diverted his attention just long enough to shout out orders. “Bring round the fastest carriage! Someone ride ahead for the doctor! I need bandages!”
Morgan lowered his lips to Bliss’s ear once more, wiping away the blood. “Open your eyes and tell me what an ass I am. If you wake up I’ll let you go . . . I’ll set you free. Please, Bliss.”
What had she done? Had Bliss just thrown herself between Morgan and the barrel of a pistol? Foolish girl! Stupid! He should be the one bleeding on the ground, not Bliss. Not his brave, passionate, wonderful Bliss.
“Please, Bliss. Go on and marry Neville if that’s what you wish.” Morgan heard the agony in his hoarse whisper. When he wiped the blood from her exquisite cheeks, her eyelids flickered. She would live.
She would live.
He brushed his lips against hers. “I’ll sail away, Bliss. You’ll never have to see me again. All I ask is you open your eyes. Oh God, please wake up!”
Morgan heard a high-pitched cry from the wood. “I got him! I got him! Somebody help me!” The voice belonged to Attie Worthington.
Suddenly, he heard the pounding of hurried footsteps and looked up to see Neville skidding to a stop, his face blanched. Miss Beckham had already hiked up her skirt and was ripping apart her petticoat for bandages. Morgan and Neville locked eyes, saying nothing, until Morgan realized Katarina was trying to pry his fingers from Bliss’s wound.
He released his hold. Blood poured out. His coat sleeves were slippery with it. Blood was everywhere.
“I don’t think it is very deep.” Katarina spoke to Neville and Morgan while he helped applied the bandages. “The cartridge didn’t enter her skull. Head wounds often appear much worse than they are.”
“Thank God!” Neville dropped to his knees, his breath coming in shuddering gulps. He stared at Morgan with pleading eyes. “I didn’t even fire, Morgan! I didn’t fire my pistol!”
Morgan focused on his work. It made sense that Neville had not seen their cowardly uncle step out from behind a tree and fire, since he had faced the opposite direction to take his paces.
Neville would be devastated by the truth. But at that moment, Morgan’s only concern was Bliss.
He set to dressing the wound, wrapping the strips of muslin about Bliss’s head. The sight was shocking—a deep red soaked into her silky blond curls.
Morgan’s breath was quick and shallow. Whatever calm he might manage to display was a ruse for the benefit of others. Inside, Morgan was splintering, his heart shattering into a thousand needles of glass. He wanted to howl like a wild thing, let the sobs shake his body.
Bliss had sacrificed
herself for him.
He did not deserve her. Only a man as honorable as Neville did.
He glanced up, seeing the pain in Neville’s eyes. “You are not responsible for this.”
“Then who—”
A commotion broke out about ten yards away. All eyes turned to watch Lysander drag a kicking and screaming Uncle Oliver into the clearing. Lysander then yanked him up by the collar, cocked his arm, and was about to punch him when his brothers interceded. They pulled Lysander off and then sat squarely on top of Oliver, either to restrain him or protect him from Lysander—or both.
His uncle was nothing but a back-biting, bacon-fed pig . . .
Neville shook his head in disbelief, slowly turning to Morgan with a face as white as a block of salt. “Heavens,” was all he said.
The carriage came barreling toward the meadow.
“Let’s go.” Neville helped Morgan lift Bliss from the grass. When Morgan pulled her tight to his chest and insisted on carrying her to the carriage without help, Neville nodded in understanding. Katarina hurried along beside Morgan, keeping pressure on the wound.
Attie Worthington ran up to them, tears in her furious eyes. “Is she . . . Will she . . . ?”
Morgan smiled at her, still moving. “Miss Atalanta.”
She nodded, running alongside. The tears began to roll down her cheeks.
“You were quite brave today. Bliss will be fine—I promise you.” Morgan did not feel the confidence he heard in his own words. He knew it would be weeks before he could believe that statement.
They neared the carriage. Katarina was doing a fine job halting the bleeding.
Neville remained behind him, resting a hand on Morgan’s shoulder and matching him stride for stride.
“Bliss loves you, Morgan.”
Morgan did not reply.
“It was you she shielded from harm. Not me.”
When Neville moved up next to him, Morgan turned to look at him. “I was merely in the line of fire.”
Wedded Bliss Page 28