Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 04] - Love's Duet (45 page)

"Yes. We were both lucky. Luckier that Ariel found us." Damon felt his ribs tentatively, and Clay laughed.

Ariel was working over the prone Trask. The Runner looked up as
Damon walked over and managed a quivering grin. "Really knocked up a
lark… didn't we, sir?" he muttered. "Had me fambles almost on the
perishers and… let 'em diddle me! Never hear the end on it, I won't!"

"Don't worry," said Damon. "We'll get 'em!"

The man's face brightened. He sighed, closed his eyes, and lay
still. Damon shot a look at Ariel. "Never worrit, milord," said the big
man. "He'll be right as rain." The cook's hair was all but singed away,
his beard a remnant, his shirt hanging in scorched tatters, his face
blackened by smoke. "You"— he grinned—"look like you been run through a
mangle, sir."

Damon slipped a gentle hand onto one blistered shoulder. "Were it not for you, my friend, I'd look a hell of a sight worse."

A heart-stopping roar and a great gout of flames and sparks
announced the collapse of the barn's roof. They all stared at that
pulsing nightmare, knowing how close tragedy had come.

Damon swung around, looking anxiously for Whitthurst.

"I must get my racing curricle, and fast, if I'm to reach Tottenbury in time!"

"Never!" Clay said gravely. "Even if I rode to the Priory and
brought your curricle back, we could not be in time! It's better than
fifteen miles, Cam! And it's almost sunrise!"

Damon groaned, glancing frantically at the lightening sky.

Whitthurst rode up and, slipping wearily from the saddle, gasped,
"Not a blasted… nag for miles! I'll have to take Rajah, Clay. If I ride
cross-country, I can lop seven miles off the journey. I just might—"

"Devil you will, you shatter-brained cinder!" Clay expostulated. "I'll go!"

"Neither of you shall go," said Damon quietly. "I'm the only one who has the least chance of stopping them."

Ariel turned and gaped up at him. Whitthurst and Clay stared at one another, then faced him in stunned astonishment.

"Go
…? You
?" The Viscount looked from the ragged scarecrow
that was Damon to the splendid and spirited bay gelding and back again.
"You never mean…
ride
?"

"I refuse to carry him," said Damon dryly. "Why does he dance about like that?"

"Scared," said Clay. "Told you."

Damon looked at Rajah, shuddered, and started forward on rubbery legs.

"You cannot go, you gudgeon!" said Clay. "You've lost your boot, and—" He checked with a strangled gasp.

Whitthurst caught his breath. Damon smiled. "I'm lame," he said
calmly. "Always have been. Sophia won't allow me to conceal it any
longer."

"Is
that
it?" Clay beamed. "By Jove! I thought you'd have been over there with us if you'd had the choice!"

"Wouldn't I just." It hadn't been so hard. And Clay didn't look
repulsed—not with that great grin spreading across his face! Damon
proceeded to commandeer Whitthurst's right boot and, having found it to
be a size smaller than his own and the fit not totally hopeless, again
forced himself to approach the bay. He took two brave strides. The
gelding laid back its ears and eyed him with loathing. He felt sick.
Try as he would, he couldn't go any closer.

Whitthurst, having experienced pure unreasoning terror, said sympathetically, "Get out of the way, Cam. You cannot!"

"I… must!" gritted Damon. But his feet would not obey him. His hands
were wet. And Rajah, sensing fear, pranced and snorted. "Clay," said
Damon hoarsely, "hold him steady."

Clay shoved his pistol into Damon's belt, grunted, "You may need
it!" and moved to take the reins and speak softly to the beautiful bay.

"Luke," quavered the Marquis, "you shall have to lift me into the saddle. My… my damned feet have… taken root!"

Ariel begged, "Milord… let
me
go! Even if I
was
to lift ye up there, wouldn't do ye no good!"

"You
have
helped me, my friend. This… is something… I must do myself."

"But—sir… first time he kicks up his heels, ye'll be head over tail! Ye ain't rid since ye was a little shaver!"

"All… the Brandens," said Damon faintly, "have a good seat. It'll come to me, Luke."

"But—"

"
Lift
me, dammit!" he roared. "Lift me!"

At once, those mighty arms closed around him. He shut his eyes
tight, but the smell wafted to him. Hands were thrusting his feet into
the stirrups. Fighting a sick weakness, he bowed forward.

"For God's sake!" Whitthurst"' pleaded. "You cannot ride to Tottenbury with your eyes shut!"

"Oh, hell!" groaned Clay. "Catch him, Luke!"

But Damon got a grip on the pommel and somehow dragged his failing
body upright. He could feel sweat pouring down his face; horror was
rushing over him in debilitating waves, but he slapped the reins feebly
against the glossy neck and croaked, "Come… on!"

The bay trembled and ignored him.

Clay, his face grim, reached over and gave Rajah a swat on the rump.
The bay lunged forward. Whitthurst shuddered and awaited the inevitable.

Damon was flung back. He gave a gasp and wrenched himself forward.
The animal's mane slammed against his bruised face, awakening a sense
of
deja vu
as brief as it was terrifying. He twisted his
shaking hands in that coarse hair and hung on somehow, the smell
gagging him. His brain reeling with the nightmarish need to escape, he
dug in his heels.

Whitthurst, watching that indomitable effort, gave a slow smile.

Clay said softly, "By God! Old Hookey never fought a battle more valiantly!"

Ariel's face was twisted with anxiety. "Look at him, milord! He'll break his neck surely. Already, his boot fell iff!"

Whitthurst said gravely, "All the Brandens have a good seat."

Ariel groaned.

By half past five the rain was being swept into flurries by the
gusting wind. A sullen daylight touched the hill with grey fingers, and
the crumbling ruins of Tottenbury Castle crept stealthily into view and
crouched there, grim and forbidding.

A luxurious carriage already waited beneath the dripping trees,
lamps burning brightly. Inside, the Duke of Vaille trimmed his
fingernails with a steady hand. Seated opposite him in the chill
interior, Geoffrey, the Earl of Harland, watched his friend, his smoky
blue-grey eyes, unusually beautiful for a man, now shadowed with worry.
"Philip," he murmured, "is there nothing I can say to dissuade you?"

Without looking up, the Duke replied, "Nothing."

Harland leaned forward persistently. "But he is your cousin!"

Vaille lifted his head, ice in his blue stare. "And Ninon was my loved wife."

"But—surely…after twenty years
…
?"

"Admittedly, a regrettable delay." The Duke unbuttoned his magnificent coat and pulled his watch from his waistcoat pocket.

"And what," frowned Harland, "of poor, patient Charlotte?"

Vaille's fingers clamped convulsively over the timepiece. "Damn you,
Geoff," he said unevenly. "To remind me of… of her… at this moment!
Damn you!"

A low rumble of thunder delayed Harland's response, but he had no
intention of neglecting the chink in Vaille's armour. "You love her,
you blasted idiot!" he accused angrily. "Oh, save your breath! You may
fool everyone else but not me! I've seen it in your eyes this year and
more whenever you think she is not looking at you! You push her away
because your nonsensical moral values say you are too old for her! Much
she
cares! If you die today—
she
will die an old maid! And not very long after you, I'll warrant!"

"
Be done
!" Vaille snarled, his face twisted. "Good gad, but you've a merciless tongue, Harland! Lucian has my sympathy!"

"We do not speak of my tongue—nor of my son!
Must
you add this folly to—"

"To my incredibly long list of follies?" Vaille's smile was bitter.
"Yes! This has hung over all of us for too long. Now I've proof of
Ridgley's treachery! He must be dealt with— and… if I do not… emerge
victorious…" He shrugged. "As well, perhaps. Charlotte
will—eventually—find someone of her own age."

"Fool! She adores you! Must you break her heart, as well as—"

Vaille's eyes narrowed a trifle, the sudden glare stilling his
friend's impassioned utterance. Harland sighed, gave a helpless shake
of his handsome head, and leaned back against the squabs. Vaille held
his watch to the lamplight and peered at it. "Half an hour. Typical!"
He replaced the watch and frowned into the gloomy morning.

A chaise splashed up. Harland said, "It's the surgeon, I believe.
With Moulton." He put on his high-crowned hat and buttoned his coat.
"I'd best get over there." Stepping into the rain, he muttered,
"Beastly morning."

Ridgley's carriage tore into the clearing. He alighted and came
toward them with his seconds. At once, Vaille joined them, also. "My
apologies," said Ridgley with a nod to his cousin. "Overslept."
Vaille's brows rose, but knowing the man, he didn't doubt it and
assured him gently that it was, of no least importance.

The surgeon, accustomed to these early-morning encounters and far
from entranced despite the fat fees they paid him, begged them to
reconsider and, this plea having fallen on deaf ears, assured them he
would do his best in behalf of whichever of them might require his
services. He then acquainted them with the fact that they were a couple
of damned fools and he'd say the same if it was the King of England and
the Pope he addressed. Vaille murmured that he believed this an
unlikely confrontation. Ridgley, a twinkle appearing in his brown eyes,
allowed that "By Jove! That would be something to see!" The other
gentlemen, exchanging resigned glances, indicated their readiness, and
the small, grim group stepped into the rain.

The protagonists having disdained to have the distance paced off and
the preliminaries having been dispensed with, Ridgley, his back to his
cousin, waited out a grumbling peal of thunder, then said softly,
"Philip—whatever you may believe—I did nothing of which I am ashamed."

"It grieves me to learn that," said Vaille acidly. "But—I suppose we all have our standards."

Harland's clear voice began to count off the paces. The two straight
figures moved steadily apart, in each hand a gleaming duelling pistol;
blue eyes and brown drinking in the glories of this morning that most
men would have found dismal. Again, thunder pealed ominously, as on the
count of ten they spun around.

A muddied, lathered bay gelding, his rider more out of the saddle
than in it, galloped over the far side of the hill and halted between
the duellists. A croaking voice was raised indistinctly; one hand flung
upward in a restraining gesture. But in vain. The thunder was echoed by
the sharp and deadly reverberations of two shots. The bay horse reared
with a scream of fright, and the rider toppled to the ground, started
up, then slumped back and lay motionless.

An agonized cry was torn from the Duke. He threw the smoking pistol
from him and rushed forward. Ridgley was already running. Together,
they fell to their knees beside the sprawled figure.

"Now—may God forgive me!" cried Vaille on a near sob.

Damon, watching that tortured face between his thick lashes, lay as one dead.

"Oh, hell! Oh, hell!" Ridgley groaned. "Where is he hit? Don't say…
Please
don't say… we've killed the boy!"

The surgeon and the seconds ran up as Vaille raised that limp and battered head into cherishing arms.

Harland, appalled, gasped, "Camille! Dear Christ! What the devil's happened to him?"

Damon, peering up at the ring of horrified faces, sighed, "
Mon père
... thank God!"

The doctor knelt beside him, heedless of the mud, and said an
astonished "Sir—you look more like a man who's walked through the fiery
furnace than the victim of a duel! Where are you hit?"

"Nowhere," Damon murmured. "Awful shots… both of 'em. Didn't even
come close to—" Through the wet shrubbery nearby, he glimpsed a
hate-contorted, scowling face—a hand that aimed a long-barrelled pistol
at Vaille's back. With an inarticulate cry, he wrenched upward, shoved
his father roughly aside, and pulling Clay's pistol from his belt,
fired with lightning speed.

For an instant, Phineas Bodwin stood rigid. His fingers tightened
about the weapon he held. A shot rang out, but he was already falling.
By the time the surgeon reached him, it was too late. Lord Sumner
Craig-Bell's second-in-command had slid into whatever dark future
awaited him beyond the fringes of this life.

Standing with one hand on the mantle, the Earl scowled into the fire
in this best parlour of "The Oaken Bucket" in Tottenbury and breathed,
"Bodwin!" He glanced to where a grim-faced Vaille was engaged in
converse with the village constable and, shaking his head for the
fourth time, said, "I still cannot credit it!"

Damon, sprawling in the deep armchair, was feeling considerably
better. His head still ached; his face felt raw and painful; his
bandaged wrists throbbed; and he was aware of the discomfort sustained
by those who, not having ridden for a number of years, suddenly
undertake a lengthy journey on horseback. But he had bathed and, thanks
to his father's crisp and unquestioned commands, now enjoyed the
comfort of clean clothes. A hearty breakfast, washed down by scalding
coffee, had also gone a long way to restoring him. He started up as
Vaille approached, only to lean back to the authoritative wave of one
white hand. The Duke scanned his son's unfortunate features and swore.
"When I think of what that animal did to you… and young Whitthurst!"

"Do not forget… Ninon!" grated Ridgley.

Vaille drove a fist into his palm. "Damme! I'm not likely to!"

"Speaking of Mama," said Damon. "While I was…more or less… riding here—"

"More or less?" Ridgley interrupted curiously.