My Saving Grace

by Harmon, Danelle

  29

  At about the time Grace went running to Lady Falconer for help, a coach carrying three men left the courtyard in front of the stables and wheeled its way down the drive, through the sleepy village of Burnham Thorpe and past the church and rectory where the famous Lord Nelson had been born and raised. Cocks were crowing and the scent of rain, which had let off for the moment, hung in the air. The sun wanted no part of the coming contest and hid its face behind a low, roiling cloud bank before disappearing altogether. To the west the sky was dark, the wind starting to kick up as the weather moved closer.

  Nobody spoke. Sir Graham was silent and moody, and the dark circles under his handsome blue eyes testified to a restless night. Colin seemed marginally more cheerful, but he’d discreetly tucked the wooden box that was his surgical kit beneath the seat, a fact that wasn’t beyond the notice of his younger brother. He made idle talk, but the words seemed out of place in the dark and silent coach, and eventually he gave up altogether.

  The vehicle rocked and rattled, pitching and yawing like a frigate buffeted by a beam sea as its wheels found well-used ruts and then bounced back out of them again.

  Del just looked out the window, his face pensive. His eyes and the mind behind them were focused far beyond the spots of rain that began to hit the glass. Far beyond the flat misty pastures beyond, far beyond the heavy gray line of the distant sea, even, and on a kiss that had rocked him to his core. A woman who loved someone else.

  “Doing all right, Del?”

  Sir Graham’s low voice brought him back to himself. “Just another day, Sir Graham.”

  “You still prefer pistols?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  His stomach growled. Sir Graham frowned.

  “Didn’t you eat anything before you left the house?”

  Del shrugged and looked away. “Hunger will keep me sharp.”

  Rain was falling in earnest now, leaving long streaks on the window. A gust buffeted the coach.

  “Damn the rain,” Del muttered. “I’ve no wish to get my trousers muddy.”

  Sir Graham just arched a brow, shook his head, and looked away. “Your fastidiousness has no place at the moment. Just get this damned affair over with as soon as it’s feasible so we can put it behind us all.”

  “My intentions, sir.”

  The coach was turning, going down a long narrow track bracketed by hedgerows, and then they were in a clearing. A small brook ran alongside the track and beyond it, a stand of oak. A conveyance stood beneath them, waiting. As they approached, its door opened to emit James Akers and his second, a man in a marine’s uniform who must have been hastily summoned from Ponsonby’s ship. Leaving Akers standing in the lee of the vehicle against the rain, the marine approached.

  Sir Graham had his hand on the door handle. “You sure you want to go through with this?”

  “I will not revoke my charges against that blackguard.”

  The admiral sighed, nodded, and picking up the fine case of dueling pistols he had brought, let himself out of the vehicle to go meet Akers’ second.

  Colin had been so quiet that Del had almost forgotten he was even there, so lost in thought was he.

  “You must be quite fond of the girl,” his brother said.

  Del turned from watching Sir Graham, now opening the case so that Akers’ second could inspect the weapons within. “For all the good it does me. She’s in love with another.”

  “And why isn’t he here defending her honor?”

  “He did not witness what I did. Therefore, he has no charge to bring.”

  “I see,” Colin said, nodding slowly. And now Sir Graham was coming back, his face grim.

  “Akers will not apologize, so this affair will proceed,” he muttered. “Let’s go.”

  Del stepped down from the coach, Colin right behind him with his surgical kit. Del ignored its implications, as well as the thought of what creatures the instruments it contained had last been used on.

  He didn’t want to know.

  Both combatants removed their hats and handed them to their seconds. For the first time, Del felt a momentary twinge of... something. Not quite nervousness, nor was it alarm, but something related to both that left his mouth dry.

  Sir Graham, sensing it, offered Del a quick sip from a flask. It was brandy, smooth and bracing. Del allowed himself one swallow. No more.

  “The challenger chooses his distance, the challenged chooses his ground,” said the marine, a portly young man with sleepy blue eyes and reddened hands. He must have won the privilege of starting the duel. Faced with an admiral, he appeared nervous but efficient, and had a grandiosity about him that indicated he was quite enjoying his role. “We will follow the rules of the code duello, of course.”

  His voice droned on. Del smoothed a speck of white dust— actually, it was dog hair, no surprise given how many of them lived in his brother’s house— from his black silk shirt and chanced a look at his opponent. Akers, his mouth tight, was pushing the toe of his shoe against the ground as the seconds spoke in turn. He would not meet Del’s eyes, but kept his gaze downcast and on his toe as it worried and unearthed a tuft of damp grass.

  The rain was coming down hard now. The great branches of the oak above offered some protection against the growing deluge, but the rain was now splattered across the lenses of Colin’s spectacles and Del, having been handed his pistol after the weapons were loaded, put it under his forearm so as to keep the powder dry.

  Only then did Akers look up, and in his pale and strained face, Del saw something amounting to terror.

  He felt pity. Almost.

  And then he remembered that same toe coming down on Lady Grace’s hem, and the pity was lost to a cold fury.

  There would be no advantage with sun behind anyone and in an opponent’s eyes. There would be no advantage of ground, though Del was offered the choice of where to stand. He put a hand over the lock of the pistol, balancing the weapon in his hand, getting the feel of it.

  “Take your positions, gentlemen. You will stand back to back, proceed twenty paces to your marks, and fire at will.”

  Del stood there, his hand over his pistol to keep the powder dry. At his back, he could feel the raw terror of his opponent, and that concerned him more than if Akers had been confident. Terror might mean the man would be more interested in self-preservation than avenging his bruised honor, though it might also mean his hand would be shaking so badly he might miss his aim entirely.

  “Are you ready, gentlemen? When I drop this handkerchief, you may begin your paces.”

  Del flexed his shoulders. A whiff of Akers’ sweat caught him and he wrinkled his nose in distaste. He turned his head, fixed his gaze off beyond the stand of oaks, and there, saw color.

  Not the green of grassy pastures, not the rich browns of soil, but a smart periwinkle-blue riding habit.

  Lady Grace.

  He shut his eyes and swore.

  The handkerchief dropped.

  30

  Lieutenant Akers was shaking so hard he could barely breathe. When the white scrap of fabric dropped, only to be pounded by rain toward the ground, he all but ran to the mark, desperate to get there first, desperate to fire in what he now knew, having seen the cold fury on Captain Lord’s face, would be his only self-defense.

  For not the first time, he wondered how he’d become involved in this dreadful affair with a man who was rumored to be very exacting, very self-governed, and when provoked, very dangerous.

  And it wasn’t even Delmore Lord that Akers had an issue with— it was that hussy, Lady Grace Fairchild.

  But all these thoughts flashed through his head with the fleeting speed of the shot he intended to discharge, and he ran to the mark, whirled, brought his pistol up just as his opponent was starting to turn— and fired.

  Behind the pungent cloud of blue-gray smoke, he saw Lord flinch, but the man didn’t go down. And now he raised his arm, brought it up to sight all the way down its length, and then, quite delibe
rately, aimed high and fired into the tree branch above Akers’ head.

  Akers stood there feeling sick, his heart hammering so hard in his chest that he thought he was going to cast up his accounts right then and there. Through a haze of relief and yes, even guilt for his unfair rush to the mark, let alone Delmore Lord’s deliberate sparing of his life, he heard the seconds asking if honor had been satisfied. His own voice came from his mouth, detached, and through the now-driving rain that hammered the earth all around them, he saw Lady Grace Fairchild herself emerge from the shelter of the trees and wondered where she had come from. Blood was dripping from Captain Lord’s arm but he seemed oblivious to it, even as the girl ran to him with a cry of dismay and the blond doctor who was, Akers had been told, Captain Lord’s brother, grimly carried a wooden box toward the stricken man.

  “Damnable rain, sir,” said Donahue, the marine. “If it’s all right by you, I’d like to get back to the ship and dry off.”

  Akers nodded his agreement, and as they headed toward the coach and stepped inside, he saw Delmore Lord turn his head and regard him.

  The captain’s mouth turned up ever so faintly in a little smile of malice. And Akers didn’t need to hear what he was saying; it was clear enough in the man’s cold gray eyes.

  Mind what you do from here on out, Akers. Because I’ll be watching you.

  * * *

  As Akers’ conveyance melted off into the rain, the horse lowering its head against the sudden deluge, Sir Graham made it all too clear that he did not welcome his niece’s sudden appearance in what was supposed to be a private affair between gentlemen.

  “What the devil are you doing here?” he exploded. “You could have been injured by a stray shot! You could have seen things you should never have seen! You could have distracted Captain Lord and caused him a fatal wound! Devil take it, Grace, what were you thinking?!”

  Del had seen men sink like butter in the Caribbean sun under the admiral’s wrath, had known naval officers who’d had seen death and destruction turn white when faced with it.

  Instead, Grace just ignored him and reached for Del’s arm.

  “You’re hurt,” she said simply, her eyes shimmering with tears. And in that moment, Del would have gladly suffered a hundred such wounds in every extremity of his body if it meant that such a perfect woman would turn that worried face, that kind and gentle heart, those huge blue eyes, on him.

  “’Tis merely a scratch,” he said.

  Colin was there, guiding him toward the base of the tree and out of the worst of the rain. “Take off your shirt, Del. Let me have a look at that.”

  “Here?”

  “No, back in London, you fool. Of course, here. For God’s sake, Del, you’re bleeding.”

  Del glanced at Lady Grace.

  “Take off your damned shirt, and do it now. That’s an order,” grumbled the admiral.

  Del sighed and seizing the tails of the shirt, pulled it off over his head, leaving his torso bare to the rain, to the morning— and to Lady Grace’s eyes.

  Eyes that widened quite suddenly, though what was in them, Del couldn’t quite read.

  His attention had been caught by the bloodied flesh of his forearm.

  The wound was worse than he’d anticipated, and now that it all but stared him in the face, he felt a swift hit of dizziness that passed as quickly as it came. Poor Lady Grace was not so disaffected; her hand went to her mouth in dismay, her cheeks lost all color, and without a word, she snatched the black silk shirt from Del’s hand and, using one sleeve, proceeded to tie a tourniquet just above his elbow.

  As Colin set his case on the ground he happened to look up, and saw the girl deftly doing work that he’d been about to do, himself.

  “Well,” he said mildly, “It appears I have an able assistant.” He pulled a flask from his bag and offered it to Del. “Here, drink this. Not all of it, though, as I’ve need of some. Do you want to do this here or in the coach?”

  “Do what here? It’s just a flesh wound.”

  “We’ll know that after I have a look at it.”

  “He’s still on his feet so he can bloody well walk to the coach,” Sir Graham muttered. “No sense all of us standing out here in the rain.”

  “Really, sir, I would implore you to mind your language around a lady,” Del said, and Sir Graham flushed darkly, muttered something unintelligible and turned away.

  The young woman’s gaze lifted and found Del’s. The awkwardness he expected to feel after that impulsive kiss was absent. There was only concern there. Guilt, even. And seeing it only brought the temporary dizziness roaring back.

  “Let’s just do it here,” Del said, thinking that the close and steamy confines of the coach were not a place he particularly wanted to be. Not with an irate admiral. Not with that same steamy, hot interior filled with the tinny scent of his own blood. No, he preferred the fresh air, and under the massive branch of the tree overhead, the shelter was quite acceptable. “But you, Lady Grace. Why don’t you and your uncle take refuge in the coach. My brother is quite competent. He’ll have me fixed up just fine.”

  “I will stay,” she declared firmly.

  Colin’s gaze met Del’s above the girl’s head and Del saw the sudden twinkle in his brother’s eyes.

  “Sit down then, brother.” he said. “If you faint, you won’t have as far to fall.”

  “I don’t faint,” Del returned with righteous indignation. “And besides, the grass is wet.”

  But Lady Grace sat. Lady Grace had no worries about getting her lovely blue riding habit either wet or muddy, and as she looked up at Del and cocked her head, he sighed in defeat.

  And sat.

  Colin was pressing the flask on him again. Del drank and handed it back to his brother. Colin’s strong, competent fingers were now against his forearm, and Del directed his gaze elsewhere. Sideways, to the rough, rain-stained bark of the oak that sheltered them. To Sir Graham standing against its massive trunk and gravely looking down at them. Up through the leafy branches to the clouds moving swiftly overhead. To the long, damp tendril of Lady Grace’s hair that had escaped her hat and hung on her shoulder and trailed down to her bosom. He swallowed hard and shut his eyes. Around them the rain beat down, carried by a sudden wind that blew in from the sea, and he longed to retrieve his coat and put it over the girl’s shoulders to protect her, but then Colin was pouring brandy over his raw flesh and the sensation caused him to suck in his breath and clamp his teeth down hard on the same language he’d just chastised his admiral for using.

  “For God’s sake, Colin!”

  “Be still.”

  “Why are you wasting that by pouring it over my arm?”

  “I have found it useful in preventing wounds from going bad. Now please. Let me do my work.”

  Del leaned his head back against the tree and shut his eyes. Rain dropped steadily from the leaves overhead, plopping against his forehead, his eyelashes, his cheeks. Damn, but his arm hurt. Hurt even more as Colin’s expert fingers began to probe it. Del clenched his teeth and opened his eyes. A raindrop hit him in the eyeball.

  “Passed clean through,” Colin pronounced, drawing back. He threaded a needle. “You’re lucky. Especially after that blackguard rushed the mark and fired before you’d even had the chance to turn around. There’s no honor in that. I’m tempted to call him out myself.”

  “You are correct, Mr. Lord! He didn’t play fair at all!” Lady Grace added heatedly. “If I were a man, I’d go call him out myself!”

  “If you were a man, your honor wouldn’t have needed defending,” Del put in.

  “Yes, my honor. And for what absurd reason did you two even get into a duel over me, anyhow?”

  “That is none of your concern.”

  Colin pinched his skin shut, pushed a needle through his skin, and Del bit down on a muffled curse.

  “It is too my concern, since it was fought over me!”

  The needle went in again, and Del felt the slippery slide of the
thread through his skin. It was an unnerving feeling, and something must have shown on his face because Colin’s voice was suddenly there, far away and then close, as though coming to him through a sea of murk.

  “Holding up okay, brother?”

  “Just get on with it. I want nothing more than a bath and a fresh change of clothes.”

  “D’you know what I want?” Lady Grace was saying, and she was so close that Del could smell the fragrance of her wet hair, feel the brush of her clothing as she adjusted her position beside him. He didn’t resist the natural inclination of his body, and soon enough he was leaning against her, tentatively at first and then, when she did not move away, with abandon. He shut his eyes, taking what bliss he could.

  Damn you, Ponsonby. Damn you to hell and back for having her heart.

  “No clue,” he said, in answer to her question.

  “I want to go find that wretched man who did this to you and tell him just what I think of him!”

  Colin was pulling another stitch through.

  “You will do no such thing,” Del said, trying to think of anything but the needle. “You’ll say something to anger him and then we’ll be right back out here fighting another duel this time tomorrow.”

  “Then I’ll have my uncle punish him for what he did! Uncle Gray? You will punish him, won’t you? Won’t you?”

  “Grace, I really think you should leave this affair to us.”

  “Leaving it to you three nearly got him killed! Oh, no, I won’t let this stand. I’m going to tell everyone I know how cowardly that wretched man is and what he did! And I’m going to start the moment we get back!”

  “It’s over, Lady Grace. And trust me, I’ll be— ouch! For heaven’s sake, Colin, I’m not fabric in an embroidery hoop!”

  “Almost done.”