Chapter 10

Gerald, mounted on a fleet chestnut mare, galloped onto the duelling field just as his stepsister, damn her eyes, was preparing to fight.

Incensed, he sent the horse charging through the spectators, not caring who he hurt or nearly trampled, not caring about anything but a blind need to reach the field in time to redeem himself. Not only had Celsie humiliated him by locking him up, she was stealing his only chance to permanently dispose of Lord Andrew de Montforte and remove the threat he presented to Gerald's financial well-being. Gerald just couldn't let that happen. Thank God he had been found by his valet, who had released him.

If he could only kill Andrew in the duel, he could keep Sir Harold Bonkley in the picture as a prospective bridegroom. And if Celsie continued to refuse the baron, well, Gerald could think of a score of other desperate suitors who wouldn't mind being married off to an heiress . . . at his price, of course.

He burst through the last of the crowd.

"What are you doing here?" cried Celsie, glaring at him as he yanked the mare to an abrupt halt. "This is my affair and I don't need your interference!"

"You are my sister and therefore it is my duty to defend your honor. So put the sword down, Celsie. Put it down now."

"Get off my dueling field, Gerald. Get off it, and get off it now."

He flung himself off his horse, the indignity of having this ridiculous argument in front of not only the de Montfortes, but the entire village of Ravenscombe, sending his temper beyond control. He stormed up to his stepsister, fists clenched, teeth bared. He wanted to throttle her. "I was the one who challenged de Montforte. He was the one who accepted. This is not your fight, damn it!"

"If it concerns me, it is my fight!"

"It concerns you only insofar as you were the cause of it!"

"And I will be the finish of it!"

"The devil you will!"

Celsie stamped her foot and, with a snarl of fury, turned away, trying to rein in her temper. She might have given in. She might not. She was never to know, for at that moment, Andrew, who was watching her with a mixture of sympathy, disbelief, and — could it actually be an admiring smile, of all things? — stepped forward.

The two men bowed stiffly to each other.

"Somerfield," said Andrew coolly. "No offense, but I daresay your sister is concerned about your welfare. She has just agreed to fight for certain stakes. I propose that you and I take up the duel, but allow these stakes to remain."

"And they are?"

"First blood only," Celsie cut in. "First blood only, and then we each win the right to be left alone."

Gerald frowned, and looked at her. "Is that all your maidenhood, your innocence, was worth, Celsie? A mere drop of blood?"

She felt herself blush. "I don't want anyone dying over me."

"And what would happen if you were to fight de Montforte here, slipped, and managed to seriously injure if not kill him?"

"Come now, Gerald. Eva herself taught me all I know about swordplay. That is highly unlikely."

Gerald's frown deepened. Around them, the villagers were starting to grow impatient.

"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!"