Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 04] - Love's Duet

by Patricia Veryan

  "Don't be such a peagoose," he grinned. "Your life is your own, Sophia. You must marry the man of your heart."

  "Then—you'd give your consent?"

  He stared at her, at the end posts of his bed, at the rich rug on the floor. "No! Be damned if I would!"

  She burst into laughter. "But—you just said…"

  "I know I did. Hadn't really thought it would come to that, I collect. I don't really know why I don't like the fella." He scowled, thinking about it, then said sapiently, "Perhaps it's because he never says anything he fears might displease anyone. Everything is so carefully calculated—almost as if he plays a part. And—he's got such perfect white teeth!" He glanced at her in some embarrassment. "You think I'm cork-brained, I don't doubt. Not much to take exception to, is it?"

  "Not really. Cam—er, the Marquis, is much better looking, yet you don't seem to object to him."

  "You never asked me about the Viper." She gave a start at the use of her nickname for their host, and he chuckled. "Must admit I'd not realized you were considering keeping it in the family."

  "Of course, I am not!" she bridled. "As if he'd ask me! He knows I purely despise him!"

  Whitthurst, who loved his sister slavishly and seldom scolded her, now looked upon her with cold eyes and said sternly, "I sincerely hope you are not serious because until now I have not suspected you of being totally henwitted!"

  The air was crisp and fresh after the rain, and as Sophia guided the black Arabian mare through the copse of beeches, the sun burst from diminishing clouds to edge each leaf with diamonds and enrich the green of ferns and grasses. The mare was a spirited creature, her hooves prancing so rapidly they seemed scarcely to rest upon the earth before they were picked up again. It was a pleasure to exercise her, as Damon had requested, despite the fact that at first Sophia had suspected this was merely a ruse to separate her "overprotective" self from her brother. She had assented reluctantly but now could only be delighted of the chance to ride through such a bright morning after so many hours spent in the sickroom.

  She had come a long way and was circling back toward the Priory when the mare gave a snort of fright and began to dance in so frantic a fashion that Sophia was almost unhorsed. Leaning forward to quiet the animal, she checked in alarm. The turf sloped downward to her right, ending against a small belt of silver birch trees. Before those trees, two men wearing breeches and shirts with sleeves rolled back circled each other warily. The one, a young giant with hair like snow in the sunlight; the other, slim and tall, with dark hair. And seeing these things, Sophia was out of the saddle in a second. She lifted her skirts and ran wildly down the hill with no thought for ladylike propriety or revenge or anything but the bright crimson that streaked the side of Damon's mouth and the terrible crouching advance of the mighty Ariel.

  They closed even as she approached, Ariel's right arm flashing upward in a blur of movement. Damon swayed aside, leapt in to strike, and moved back awkwardly, his blow seeming to have made little impression, if any.

  "Stop! Stop!" Sophia shouted. "Are you both gone mad?"

  Damon, shooting a quick, desperate glance at her, called, "Stay back, Sophia! He is mad—poor fellow. Stay back!"

  "Aye!" Ariel confirmed, that deep voice a husky sob. "Mad I do be all right, milady. And ye'd best be gone—less'n ye want to watch me kill this… this filthy vermin, what calls itself a man!"

  With the last word, that mighty fist shot out. Damon ducked, lightning swift, and, eluding Ariel's guard, rammed home two savage blows to the midriff that staggered the big man. With a leap of the heart, Sophia thought, 'Well done!' but Damon was obviously already hurt and no match for Ariel, even had he been heavier by three stone.

  "Luke," Damon cried. "I swear you're wrong! Luke—don't be a fool!"

  If only, thought Sophia, she had not so cleverly eluded the grooms Damon had sent to escort her! What chance had she to stop this, all alone? She took up a rock and wondered if she could bring herself to smash at Ariel's great head with it. Damon, casting a quick look in her direction, called, "No!"

  For one split second, Ariel's attention shifted. And, without hesitation, Damon jumped in. His right fist shot straight and true for the bearded chin, and even as that deadly arm swung up to block him, his left smashed again into the big man's midriff. Ariel gave a grunt. Incredibly, he staggered, went to his knees, and, pitching forward, caught himself on one hand.

  Sophia ran closer and swung her rock high. And, again, Damon shouted a furious "No!"

  She halted, and the chance was gone. Ariel was dragging himself to his hands and knees, and she backed away while Damon, standing ready, watched him.

  Slowly, the abused head was raised, and a glitter of tears was in the cook's eyes. "Why did ye do this awful thing?" he groaned. "Ye that I loved like me own brother. Ye that took me up when everyone else wiped their feet on me… I'd have died for 'ee… don't ye know that?"

  And even then he was leaping forward with surprising speed for so large a man and striking out. Damon dodged aside, but this time the left fist followed too swiftly, and his attempt to block that battering ram was only partly successful. The impact was stunning. He hurtled back and, falling heavily, managed to retain sufficient consciousness to roll aside as Ariel ran and jumped. Small branches snapped, and twigs and leaves flew as those great boots landed. Sophia gave a sobbing whimper and shrank, her hands flying to her mouth. Damon, rolling desperately, was somehow avoiding those stamping boots. God help him if one landed! And then he was up once more, gasping for breath, clinging to a tree as he dragged himself on to unsteady feet, his face white and sweat streaked, his right arm tight against his side where that last blow had caught him.

  "Luke," he wheezed. "For… God's sake, man… Don't—do this!"

  Ariel, holding his own middle, groaned, "Ye knocked me right down, Damon! Right off my feet! Ye as was the last one I'd'a thought could stand up to me! How can'ee be so much of a man and so evil? Why did ye have to hurt her? Ye knows… how I do so love her."

  "Luke, I swear! Luke—don't!"

  But the grief-stricken Ariel was jumping forward. The movements of the Marquis were ever more faltering. He staggered under a welter of blows and fell yet again, but as the giant rushed him, he snatched up a branch and thrust it between those ready boots so effectively that Ariel also crashed down.

  Filled with a terror such as she'd never before known, Sophia found a large branch. No matter what Camille said, this time she would wield it even if she should kill him, though that horrible prospect made her grow cold with dread. But as she reached out, she saw a note on the ground, and, her eyes caught by one word, she snatched it up and read, "Luke, my dere. Dont ye come looking for me bekos I have ran far away where you wont never find me. O Luke—Lord Damon is just what they sed. Hees a devil. I dident no what they ment. I tride to get away for your dere sake as well as my own. But he was too strong for me. And so I must hide and you must find someone cleen and decent. And forget your poor, shamed Nancy."

  The paper fluttered from Sophia's hands. She looked up slowly and saw that they were both on their feet again, Damon weaving drunkenly as he backed away. Even as she watched, Ariel charged forward. Damon struck at him desperately, but Ariel only shook his head, gave a harsh broken laugh, and unleashed that terrible fist. Damon was smashed back, went down hard, and lay unmoving. Ariel stepped closer, his jaw set, his eyes shining with inflexible purpose.

  Sophia woke up and ran between him and that sprawled figure. The white bushy brows drew down. The narrowed eyes glared, and her heart seemed as if it must burst, so great was her fear. "Luke," she begged. "Luke—don't! They'll hang you!"

  "It'll be worth it. Stand away, milady!"

  He looked quite crazed, but she held out her shaking hands beseechingly. "Luke—he's not worth it. He's just… filth."

  "Yes," he said on a near sob. "That's just what he do be. And so I'll kill him, milady… and no more poor, innocent, gentle girls… will have to know that terribl
e fear… and disgrace."

  He gripped her arm, and, stepping closer, she said, "Ah— no! Do not! She'll need you. Luke—you must be free to take care of her."

  He took her up at the waist and lifted her aside.

  Damon struggled onto one elbow. There was a puffy discolouration along the side of his face, and blood had dripped from his mouth to stain his shirt. But Ariel had struck mostly for the body. Feeling as if he'd been galloped over by a coach and four, he said thickly, "I… blacked your… eye, Luke."

  Ariel touched that swelling. "And you caught me a good one in the breadbasket," he said chokingly, tears spilling down his cheeks. "No one never really hurt me before, Damon. Not in a fist fight. Whatever else you… are—you're a man." His fists clenched. "A dead man!"

  Frantic, Sophia screamed, "Who'll look after Nancy? Who'll care about her? She'll hide from her family, Luke. Nobody will help her—if you hang!"

  He halted. A puzzled look crossed his face and he turned to her slowly, as if he could not understand why she was there.

  Sobbing, she ran forward and caught at his sleeve. "Oh, Luke—don't you see? He's nothing! If you kill him, you make him something worth dying for! She's worth living for, Luke. Isn't she?" And shaking his arm passionately, she pleaded, "Isn't she, Luke? Isn't Nancy worth living for?"

  The light of reason dawned at last. "Aye… she do be that, milady."

  "Then come away." She pulled at him eagerly. "You must find her. And help her. She needs you."

  "Aye…" Some of the glare was leaving his eyes. "She do need me. My sweet little Nancy needs me now, don't she, milady?"

  She nodded, blinking rapidly. He brightened, took two great purposeful strides, then swung back. "He can't hurt'ee now, ma'am," he said with a toss of his head toward the silent Marquis. "But will'ee come with me?"

  "No, Luke. You go."

  "If ye ever needs me, milady…"

  "Thank you. If I ever need you, I shall call."

  He peered at her, then hurried away.

  Sophia turned wearily. Damon had dragged himself to where he could lean against a tree and half lay there, one arm pressed to his side, watching her.

  She thought of Nancy and the love that had been so teasingly concealed from the humble giant who worshipped her. She thought of the gentlemen she had known all her life and their relentless code of honour that decreed a man, whether bachelor or benedict, may have his bits o' muslin but that no gentleman worthy of the name would force his attentions upon an unwilling girl. Nancy had been unwilling—of that she was very sure. Wherefore, her lips curled with disgust as she pulled the inadequate wisp of fine cambric from her pocket and walked toward the Marquis.

  Dropping to her knees beside him, she asked, "Are you very much hurt?"

  "No," he replied in a strained, breathless voice. "Thank you."

  She wiped gently at the side of his mouth and said with detached calm, "I suppose you will say you didn't do it."

  "Do you?" he countered gravely.

  His left shirtsleeve was ripped and spotted with blood. She reached to it and began to pull the torn linen farther apart. "I suppose you and—your kind would say it doesn't matter. That she was just a country girl. Just a serv—" She gave a little cry, her hands flying back as though burned.

  His forearm was badly grazed, but the thing that appalled her was infinitely more hideous. A tattoo that stood out clear and sharp upon his upper arm. The outline of a scorpion.

  She stood, crept back a pace, and stared at him with total revulsion, her mind barely able to comprehend what should have been obvious for so long.

  Camille, Marquis of Damon—heir to that proud perfectionist, the Duke of Vaille—had been a member of Cobra!

  Chapter 15

  "It just don't seem right," said the Viscount peevishly, lying back in his corner of the sumptuous travelling coach and fixing his sister with an aggrieved eye. "Ain't like old Cam to vanish like that, knowing we was leaving! I'll tax him with it next time I see him, you may be sure!"

  "Yes, dear," said Sophia dully.

  "Besides, you would think he'd have at least come back to the Priory and…"

  She lost the thread of his words, her thoughts drifting. Damon had come back. She had sent Mr. Quinn after him the instant she reached the Priory. Whitthurst had been dozing and she and Patience busily packing when she'd heard wheels on the rear driveway and run swiftly to the window. The phaeton had pulled up below. Damon's dark head had been against Trask's shoulder and the man's arm about him, holding him steady. Quinn had jumped down and run around to help. She'd watched as the Marquis had roused sufficiently to stumble out of the vehicle and come into the house, the men supporting him on each side. His head had been erect then, but he had seemed to favour his right leg, and she'd wondered if one of Ariel's boots had caused the damage.

  "… go back!" cried the Viscount wrathfully. "By God, Sophia! You've been bamming me! You think I don't know a whisker when I hear one? Cam didn't cancel that meeting! You was afraid I'd get tired!" He read a confirmation in the horrified dismay in her face and leaned forward to call the coachman.

  "I wish you will not! Please, Stephen! There will be no meeting—there couldn't be. He is in no condition to…" She stopped as Whitthurst's face paled, and he searched her eyes with such an expression of terror that she was startled.

  "What do you mean? Is Cam—? My God!" He caught her wrist in a grip of steel, his green eyes reflecting a grimness she seldom witnessed, and demanded, "Tell me at once! Is Cam hurt?"

  "Stephen!" She touched the fingers, so tightly clamped around her wrist. He let her go at once but still waited tensely.

  Bewildered, she said, "He had a little… dispute with Ariel. But—"

  He gaped at her. "Ariel? Cam—and Ariel? But the man worships him! You don't mean they really went at it? Bare knuckles?"

  "Just a little, dear," she said, her conscience protesting that massive understatement.

  Awed, he muttered, "And Cam's still alive?"

  She nodded and, with what she hoped was a reassuring smile, said, "And when last heard from was shouting for a bottle of cognac."

  "By Jupiter!" He was quiet for a moment, then frowned. "Why? D'ye know?"

  "Something about a girl…"

  "Oh." He drew a deep breath, seemingly much relieved. "Is that all?"

  Under normal circumstances, such a remark would have caused Sophia to embark upon an impassioned denunciation of men and their intolerable conceits. Now she felt only a vague irritation and, sitting back, resumed her blind contemplation of the landscape. There was absolutely no reason why she should feel so shattered. No reason at all. The tattoo had merely been the final proof of his infamy, had she needed any. Her initial assessment of his character—or lack of it— had—

  She looked up as Whitthurst took her hand and asked gently, "Won't you share it with me, dear?"

  She forced away her silliness and said with real indignation, "I confess I'm in a taking! Damon had the unmitigated gall to send my maids back to Singlebirch! Did you know it? I wondered why they had not come to me, but it seems his noble lordship sent a groom to 'The Wooden Leg' the instant the bridge was repaired, and told them to go home! Scarcely to be credited, is it?"

  "More astonishing to me is the fact you didn't miss 'em until today," he observed dryly.

  "I had… other things to think of," she stammered. "You came and…"

  "And found you and Cam behaving quite civilized to each other. And since have the impression you're at daggers drawn, though I've not been given the straight of it."

  "What would you imagine to be the—'straight of it'?" she demanded tartly. "A lover's quarrel?"

  Unabashed, he grinned. She felt her cheeks burn. Her lashes drooped. And because sudden and unaccountable tears scalded her eyes, she said bitterly, "What a very peculiar standard of values you possess—that you object to someone as clean and decent as Amory Hartwell, yet would willingly bestow your only sister upon a member of Cobra!"
/>   Whitthurst gave a choked gasp, and the colour drained from his thin face. Sophia could have cut out her tongue. Steve loved Damon and had no conception of how unworthy was his idol. This was not the time to have destroyed his illusions. She clasped his hand and, finding it cold as ice, said contritely, "My dear! I am so sorry. I am—a little upset, but—"

  "What do you know of Cobra?" he demanded in a shaken voice.

  "Nothing love," she lied, trying to soothe him. "Now do not—"

  "What," he repeated, that appalled look on his face still, "what do you know of Cobra? Answer me, Sophia!"

  Frightened by his horrified intensity, she said, "That they were the dregs of mankind. The lowest, most wretched beasts who ever walked this dear land of ours. That they met in secret—and committed hideous crimes against the innocent, the helpless, for sport! That they should all have been hanged but could not even be found until they were destroyed by a fire. And some were caught and punished, though none would inform and, shamefully, most got away scot-free." She frowned and added slowly, "I once heard Papa say that if ever he had one of them before him and a pistol in his hand, he'd shoot without an instant's hesitation. And consider he'd done the world a service."

  There was silence between them. Lost in her desolate thoughts, Sophia looked up at length and found Whitthurst's eyes upon her, eyes so dulled with grief that she was filled with sympathy.

  "What makes you think," he asked, low-voiced, "that Cam was one of that miserable crew? The truth now, Chicky."

  "Many things. I suspected at once, I suppose, that he was—" She bit her lip. Damon had already threatened her brother—it would not do to precipitate a real quarrel between them—a Cobra member would have no least qualms about striking at a maimed man. "I went to try and help him after… after he fought with Ariel. His sleeve was torn. I— saw the tattoo."

  He closed his eyes as though his last hope had flown. "Of what?"

  "A scorpion." She shuddered at the memory.

  Whitthurst groaned. "What did you say?"