The Marsh Hawk

by Dawn MacTavish

  The earl did not stay on at Moorhaven. As soon as the arrangements were finalized, he departed along with Phelps and Crispin St. John for the Heatherwood Arms, a public house of rather dubious reputation near the dueling ground, whose name by far outclassed its image, to spend the night there until the duel the following morning.

  Jenna was relieved that the earl had left the manor. Her anger and embarrassment over what had occurred in the garden was overwhelming. But more alarming were the rogue waves of excruciating ecstasy his embrace had ignited that kept recurring whenever his image stole across her mind.

  She was also glad of Lady Evelyn’s absence. She couldn’t have faced her after what had happened between herself and Kevernwood, and worse still, she couldn’t endure the thought of the girl in those strong arms being touched and aroused, being made to feel what she had felt. Imagining it was unbearable. Unfortunately, Lady Evelyn’s absence did little to erase those images, either.

  The hunt was staged on schedule. By ten in the morning, the circular drive was swarming with mounted guests wearing traditional habits. Dogs ran helter-skelter over the courtyard, their discordant barks out of sync. Liveried footmen wearing royal blue and gold moved among them bearing silver trays of silver goblets filled with wine. The gaiety of the occasion in no way suggested that a duel loomed on the horizon.

  Jenna was among the best when it came to horseback riding, but her heart wasn’t in it that day. She wanted to spur her mount and ride like the wind until she’d put as much distance between herself and the circumstances as she possibly could. But Rupert was watching her with too close an eye for that to be anything but a fantasy.

  “You look rather pale this morning, my dear,” he said, maneuvering his spirited bay alongside her mild-mannered Thor-oughbred sorrel. “Are you unwell, Jenna? Because, if you are you’d best stay behind this morning. Enough of this weekend has been spoiled, I should think, without your coming down again in the middle of the hunt.”

  “I am quite all right, Rupert. You needn’t worry that I’ll spoil your hunt.”

  “Mmm. What did you do to your lip there?”

  She had tried to disguise a slightly bruised swelling that the passion in Kevernwood’s kisses had left behind. Evidently her attempt had failed.

  “You know perfectly well that I sometimes chew my lip when I’m overset,” she lied.

  “Self-mutilation. How utterly childish.”

  “And what is dueling, Rupert?”

  “There’s nothing to worry over you know, love,” he crooned. “I’m quite skilled with the épée, actually, albeit outdated for dueling these days. I can’t think why the fool chose it. I’m much better with swords than pistols—not that I’m any man’s piker with decent firearms, mind,” he hastened to add. “I told you how I beat him in the shoot.”

  Jenna rolled her eyes. “You told me,” she said on a gusty sigh.

  “Would you have rather had the blighter blow my head off?” he blurted, through an incredulous grunt.

  Jenna looked daggers at him.

  “I think you actually would, I’ll be bound!”

  “Don’t talk nonsense, Rupert.”

  “You know, Jenna, you need to take stock. You’re becoming more and more like your mother every day. I shouldn’t want to marry a harpy.”

  Woefully, there was some truth in that. She’d begun to realize it herself, but only where he was involved. She wasn’t prepared to admit it, however, least of all to him.

  “Well, I shouldn’t like to marry an insensitive brute who humiliates his bride-to-be in company, either,” she retaliated. “And while we’re on the topic of mothers, considering your take on chivalry under your mother’s tutelage, you’d have been better off if beasts in the wild had taken you to task!”

  Another incredulous grunt answered her.

  “What? Are you going to challenge me to a duel now, too, Rupert?”

  The grooms had come out with the fox, and the subject needed changing before the chaos began, but she was still flushed with rage, and anger spoke.

  “I don’t suppose you’ve given any thought to apologies?”

  Rupert stared, slack jawed.

  “You’ve got till midnight.”

  Before he could form his sputtering into an answer, the fox was freed, and Viscount Archibald Marner’s cry of, “Tally-ho!” began the hunt.

  Jenna proved her riding skills by keeping up with Rupert, who was an exceptional horseman when he wanted to be. Her preoccupation with that was all that mattered then—anything to keep her mind from straying toward Simon Rutherford. She wondered if Lady Evelyn was an accomplished equestrian; wished that she could flaunt her skills before the girl, and Kevernwood, too, come to that.

  The hunt went on for some time before the fox found its way back to its underground hole and dove down into it. Jenna and Rupert were at the forefront, their horses milling about while the dogs—small, sleek hounds—began to dig furiously at the opening until they’d widened it enough for the sleekest among them to burrow down into the fox’s den.

  The air, filled with the strident sounds of whinnies, snorts, and barking, was heavily scented with the pungent, musky odor of lathered horseflesh mingled with mulch, and rich, black earth sodden with damp. They had come to the part that Jenna had always found gruesome. The fox had cubs, and the dogs began dragging their mangled little bodies out first, one at a time, and setting them down at the hunters’ feet on proud display. That done, they went back in after the mother fox as the hunters cheered and clapped and egged them on. Jenna heard the guttural snarling of the dogs tearing at the cornered fox; she watched them fighting for possession as they dragged it out of the hole bloodied and still twitching, but not dead, and spat it out with the others. Then came the guns, and the mad volleys as the hunters blasted the poor thing to bits where it lay.

  She looked away. She’d forgotten how this ritual sickened her. All at once it wasn’t a fox at all lying there; it was a man all dressed in black writhing in the dirt on the old Lamorna Road, and she had fired the gun that killed him. The murderous scene brought it all back.

  Tears welled in her eyes and, moaning, she wheeled around and drove her horse hard at a gallop through the incredulous hunters grouped there—through the milling, yelping hounds, their mouths foaming with spittle, their coats streaked with saliva and blood—and rode straight back to Moorhaven Manor.

  Dawn broke dreary and damp over Bodmin Moor, with a fine, misty drizzle leaking from leaden clouds. Well hidden among the dwarf pines and hedgerows at the edge of the clearing, Jenna dismounted and picked a spot that offered her a good vantage from which she could watch the duel without being seen. She arrived just before Rupert’s brougham pulled into the clearing, and her heart leapt when she realized how close behind her he had been. The earl’s barouche parted the low-lying fog shortly thereafter from the opposite direction, and the men climbed out of their respective carriages and met in the center of the field.

  The heath was steeped in an eerie mist that swirled about them in the quiet. The rain had not yet chased it from the hollows. Lord Eccleston offered a selection of swords. Kevernwood chose first, and then handed his pick to Crispin. While Rupert was deciding, Phelps called the earl aside uncomfortably close to where Jenna hid among the shrubs.

  “My lord, this is sheer madness,” the valet said. “I beg you, do not continue.”

  “We’ve been all ’round this, Phelps. I must, you know that.”

  “Think of the exertion, and your leg—your balance, not to mention the rest. It’s too soon I tell you. Who gives a Tinker’s curse what these gudgeons think? I beg you, reconsider this.”

  “It isn’t a duel to the death, Phelps, for God’s sake. I’m going to try and disarm the blighter if I can. I don’t want him harmed. His betrothed would hardly appreciate it.”

  “Please, my lord . . .”

  The earl cast the valet a look that told him he’d wasted his breath, gripped his arm briefly, and turned back to the c
learing.

  It wasn’t until that moment, as she watched him limp out on the field, that Jenna admitted to herself that this wasn’t just a physical attraction; she was falling in love with him. What had he sacrificed to spare her betrothed? Her heart was pounding in her ears; the blood pulsing as it coursed through the artery in her neck. Not even the cold splinters of rain that had already begun to penetrate her riding habit could cool the fever in her skin.

  Crispin St. John took the earl’s coat while Sir Gerald Markham took Rupert’s. Lord Eccleston stood between them, and when he spoke, the solemnity in his voice made her hot blood suddenly run cold.

  “Gentlemen, the entire body shall be your valid target,” Lord Eccleston said. “Any wound sufficient to cause the hand to shake, or otherwise give reasonable evidence against continuance, will end the duel. When I give the command, you will stand en guard. You will engage until one of you is blooded, disabled, or disarmed, or in the event that you, Marner, should be wounded, or blood be drawn and shall at that time ask Kevernwood’s pardon—”

  “Yes, yes, Eccleston, get on with it,” Rupert interrupted. “I assure you that shan’t happen.”

  Jenna swallowed dry. It never occurred to her until Lord Eccleston spoke the rules that one of them could be seriously harmed, and gooseflesh that was totally unrelated to the elements inched along the length of her spine.

  “A disarm shall be considered the same as a disable, at which point the duel will end,” Eccleston continued. “He who still possesses his blade will be declared the winner. Are these conditions clear?”

  Both men nodded.

  “Then, seconds, arm your contenders!” Eccleston barked.

  Once Crispin and Sir Gerald had given Rupert and the earl their chosen blades, and they had saluted each other by kissing the crossguards of their épées, Eccleston called: “En guard!”

  The duel was begun.

  Rupert lunged at once. Jenna watched his back leg stiffen and his front leg move him forward with flawless grace. The earl met him with a thrust, threatening with the tip of his sword, and they closed in until their blade guards clashed together, making a clang that echoed in the stillness. She shuddered. The cold, metallic rasp of metal against metal ran her through as though their swords had skewered her where she stood.

  “Disengage!” Eccleston thundered. And then, “Recover!” and finally, “En guard!” The two men obeyed each shouted command.

  The earl advanced, and Rupert deflected his blade with a beat. Kevernwood staged a counterattack, and Rupert lunged, circling the point of the earl’s blade in a counterparry; but the earl counterattacked with a riposte.

  Rupert attempted to lure Kevernwood with an invitation, and the earl made a quick thrust, which was blocked by Rupert’s parry. Then they moved so fast that Jenna couldn’t tell who had the advantage. She did, however, finally realize the disadvantage that Kevernwood’s leg injury imposed upon him. He was tiring, losing ground. His strides had become ragged, and his heavy breathing was audible at her distance. Only then did she fully understand the valet’s warning and concern. Kevernwood was in pain, but he would not yield, and Rupert, thrusting like a man possessed, would give him no quarter. It seemed to go on forever.

  All at once Rupert made a running attack, but the earl countered the flèche brilliantly by closing in. When their blade guards came together this time, Jenna could have sworn she saw sparks fly from the steel, and her heart skipped a beat watching Kevernwood struggling with his stance. She could scarcely see the men’s feet for the mist that encircled their Hessians like ropes. But that was short-lived. Suddenly the heavens opened. The rain the black-edged clouds had promised sluiced down over them. And the mist drifted off in Jenna’s direction as if it had the intelligence to choose shelter among the trees.

  Again Lord Eccleston’s deep voice thundered the commands: “Disengage! Recover! En guard!”

  And the duelists began again.

  The earl advanced, taking short, deliberate steps, but a sharp tap from Rupert’s blade deflected his thrust. The earl counter-parried again, circling the point of Rupert’s blade. Rupert staged a feint, but Kevernwood’s glide countered the false attack, and another furious engagement of thrust and parry ensued in rapid succession.

  Both men were breathing hard and crying out with their thrusts now. Their ruffled shirts were plastered to their bodies. The ground beneath them had become slippery. The rain was undermining their balance, and even Rupert staggered, trying to keep his footing. Jenna gasped aloud as she saw the earl nearly go down in the morass their bloodlust had made of the field. Watching their every move, she had bitten into her lower lip. It was numb. Her heart was racing, rising in her throat with every deadly thrust and parry.

  All at once, the earl made a wild lunge. Jenna couldn’t imagine what it took for him to straighten his leg like that. Rupert hadn’t expected it, either. That was his mistake. He parried, but the earl staged a quick counterattack that caught Rupert off guard, and disarmed him with a well-aimed beat—a sharp, well-executed tap of his épée that sent Rupert’s sword flying from his hand.

  “Forfeit!” Eccleston cried out. “End of contest! Kevernwood has won!”

  Both men’s shirts were streaked with blood. They had moved so fast that Jenna had no idea when the wounds occurred.

  The earl handed his sword to Crispin and turned to Phelps, who now had custody of his coat. Lord Eccleston and Sir Gerald made a mad dash for Rupert’s brougham as a fresh tear in the cloud fabric overhead unleashed heavy sheets of horizontal rain over the scene, driven by a blustery wind that had risen out of nowhere.

  No one but Jenna was watching Rupert, standing, fists clenched in the teeming rain, his breast heaving with rage and his eyes narrowed to slits upon Kevernwood. All at once, he dove for the épée at his feet and made a running attack at the earl from behind.

  “Simon! Look out! Behind you!” she shouted, bolting from the thorn hedge.

  Startled, the earl froze for the space of a blink, then ordered himself and looked to his valet.

  “Phelps!” he commanded.

  The valet arrested Jenna as she ran out onto the field, and her breath caught as the earl spun around toward another skirmish. Crispin had stepped in Rupert’s path and engaged him.

  Battling wildly, Rupert executed a parry, then a thrust in rapid succession. Crispin met the thrust with a quick parry himself, but he was clearly no match for Rupert, and Jenna screamed as Kevernwood put himself between them and shoved Crispin out of the way, taking a wound in his side that brought him to his knees momentarily.

  Rupert hesitated just long enough in the confusion for the earl to snatch his épée from Crispin, and execute a thrust and beat that closed them in, blade guards locked, as he staggered upright.

  Lord Eccleston’s hoarse voice was thundering commands to deaf ears. Still tethered by the valet, Jenna screamed at the top of her voice. Why would no one hear her?

  A quick left-hand maneuver by the earl disengaged the swords and, in the blink of an eye, he executed a coup that sent Rupert’s sword flying a second time.

  Kevernwood plucked up the fallen épée from the heath, raised his knee, and broke the blade in two over it. A collective gasp issued from the onlookers trailing off on the wind as he tossed the broken weapon down at Rupert’s feet, since it was against the code of ethics of the duel for the challenged party to break the challenger’s sword, no matter the circumstances.

  “You haven’t heard the last of this, Kevernwood,” Rupert snarled, his eyes still wild with battle madness. “Our swords will cross again, sir.”

  “Then mine will be the only one you’ll ever have to fear,” the earl sallied. “No self-respecting gentleman in the realm will engage with a backstabber. You lost more than the duel today, Marner. You lost your reputation. I shall see to that.”

  Jenna, who had finally broken free of the valet’s restraining hands, rushed into the earl’s arms. “You’re hurt! You’re bleeding!” she cried, seeing
the bloodstains on his torn shirt. The wound was low, just above the right side of his waist.

  “So I was right after all?” he murmured, searching her eyes deeply. “You gave yourself away just now . . . you called me ‘Simon’ back there. I am in your debt, my lady.”

  They had nearly reached the earl’s chaise when Crispin caught up to them.

  “Uncle Simon, is it bad?” he cried.

  “Uncle Simon . . . ?” Jenna breathed.

  The earl dosed Crispin with a reproving glance.

  “I . . . I’m sorry. I forgot myself,” the youth regretted. “You’re bleeding badly, sir.” Only then did Jenna realize how young the boy was.

  “’Tisn’t serious,” Kevernwood assured him. “There’s a doctor in the village.” He turned to Jenna. “Did you come by carriage?”

  “No, I rode. My mount is tethered by the trees there,” she said, pointing.

  “Is that horse yours, or Marner’s?”

  “It’s Rupert’s.”

  “Turn that gelding loose,” he said to Phelps, nodding toward the snorting animal straining at the tether. “I am no horse thief.”

  “B-but . . .” she sputtered.

  “You shan’t need it,” he said. “You aren’t going back. You’re coming with me.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Simon dragged himself up the cobblestone walk that led to Holy Trinity Vicarage and addressed the arched door with his fist—three raps, a pause, then another—and rested his forehead on the thick, iron-hinged wood, waiting. He hadn’t been all that truthful with Jenna about his wound. The laudanum the doctor had given him had worn off, and the pain in his side was no longer bearably dulled. He gritted his teeth and soothed it with his hand. There was fresh blood on his shirt that had seeped through the bandages during the jostling coach ride from Bodmin Moor; his fingers came away wet with it. The doctor had warned him he ought to go to hospital for a proper mend, but, of course, that was out of the question. He would not leave Jenna vulnerable to Rupert’s threats.