The Devil's Love (46 page)

his head to where the two men scuffled.

Abbey dragged her gaze back to the ruckus, her heart skipping several beats.

Michael, his face dark with fury, was wrestling with Routier. She stifled a scream when Routier stepped forward and quickly delivered a blow to Michael’s

jaw that snapped his head backward. Michael stumbled, and Routier

advanced on

him, swinging. But Michael managed to sidestep him and Routier’s fist slammed

into the hedge.

Michael leapt through the air and knocked Routier to the earth with a thud, pinning him on his back. He pounded his fist into the man’s face and quickly

followed it with another blow. Routier tried to get his hands up, but Michael was too intent on killing him. It was Abbey’s anguished cry that filtered into

his consciousness, and he paused for a split second, but it was enough.

Routier

leveled an almost lethal blow, knocking him from his perch on his chest.

Before Routier could pounce, Sam grabbed him from behind, locking his arms

behind his back. Alex quickly grabbed Michael and likewise locked his arms

behind his back.

“Gentlemen,” Alex said roughly. “You can settle this at dawn in an affaire d’honneur.”

Michael angrily shook Alex off as he brought a hand to his jaw and moved it

gingerly from side to side, testing it. “Gladly,” he spat out. “Consider this your challenge, Routier, if you are man enough.”

Routier laughed. “I can hardly wait. If there was light, I’d suggest we finish this now.”

Abbey gaped in horror as she listened to the exchange. A duel? “Oh, God, no’t”

She moaned.

Routier looked at Abbey and smiled wickedly. “That’s right, Marchioness. I intend to kill him. I should have killed him when I had the chance at Blessing

Park, but unfortunately, at that time you seemed to be the better target.”

“Pistols or swords?” Michael roared as Sam stepped between them.

“Swords,” Routier shot back. Michael nodded and stepped away from Alex, his eyes

riveted on Abbey. Without a word, he marched toward her, removed his coat, and

placed it around her shoulders. His dark expression made her shiver. He turned

her away from Routier, and for the first time, she saw Galen standing at the

entrance to the little clearing, glaring at Routier.

“Sam, will you act as my second?” Michael asked in a low tone. Sam must have

nodded. “Carrey, get my coach. I’ll take her around the side of the house.”

He

threw his arm around her shoulders and hauled her closely into his side.

He

started out of the maze, never looking back.

There was silence in their coach as the vehicle hurtled through the fog-enshrouded night to the Audley Street mansion. Michael dragged his gaze from

the window to Abbey, who, with cheeks stained pink, was looking down at her torn

bodice. As if feeling her eyes on him, she glanced up. A longing clouded her

violet eyes for the briefest of moments, then faded rapidly as she cast her eyes

to her lap.

He felt so goddammed responsible. He should have been looking out for her,

protecting her. He should have never let her leave the house. It was not as if

he had not been warned her life was in danger, a fact driven home quite roundly

when Routier had confirmed Abbey had been the target of that shot. But even that

was eclipsed by his stupidity for having believed she was part of Carrey’s scheme.

When the carriage reached the town house, Michael jumped down, then grabbed

Abbey by the waist and wordlessly lifted her down. Neither of them said a word

until they reached the foyer.

“Go to bed,” he said softly, afraid anything more would betray his dark emotion.

Abbey did not argue. She ran up the stairs and disappeared from view.

Michael

turned on his heel and marched for the main drawing room. He could not think of

her now. After he killed Routier, then he could decide how to repair the damage

between them.

Sam and Alex joined him to wait for dawn, and despite their best efforts, he was

not able to keep Abbey from his thoughts. Shortly before the appointed hour, he

made his way to her room and opened the door, his only intent to look at her

before he went to meet Routier. Abbey bolted upright at the sound.

Obviously she

had not slept; wearing a silk wrapper, she was lying on top of the counterpane.

Michael stepped across the threshold, holding his candle high. Abbey swung her

legs over the side of the bed and gripped it on either side of her knees.

“Is there anything I can say that will keep you from this?” she whispered hopelessly.

Almost afraid to speak, Michael shook his head and slowly crossed the room. He

gazed down at her, his eyes sweeping her face, the swell of her breasts, taking

in every detail of her. God, but she was beautiful. With dark hair spilling all around her, her violet eyes vivid and clear, he realized it was an image he might carry to his death. His gaze slid to her abdomen and the life she carried

there. Her hand—unconsciously, he thought—slipped protectively across her

middle. Michael went down on his haunches next to her. There was so much to say,

simply too much, and he had no idea where to begin. Did he say he was sorry?

That he was wrong? Did he tell her he loved her? Time was running out.

“If I don’t come back-—”

“No! Don’t say that, please don’t say that,” she begged, catching a sob in her

throat. Michael reached for her hand and squeezed it reassuringly.

“Abbey, listen carefully. Sam is the executor of my estate. Listen to him, do as

he says. And promise me…” He broke off, finding it difficult to go on in the face of her silent tears. “Promise me,” he whispered hoarsely, “the child you

carry will bear my name.” Abbey’s eyes fluttered wide before she doubled over.

Grief as she had never known swallowed her. “You will come back,” she whispered

through her sobs. “I know you will. You will!”

Michael did not say anything. His dark gray eyes were red-rimmed; she

did not

know if it was fatigue or emotion. “Abbey…” His voice trailed off. He looked at

her for a long moment, his heart in his eyes, and then he pressed his lips to

hers. In that brief touch was an eternity of heartache and hope that said everything they could not voice. Then he slowly rose to his feet and turned away. When Abbey heard the door shut behind him, she buried her face in the

counterpane and prayed as she had never prayed in her life.

She might have lain there all day, had someone not begun pounding insistently on

the door to her chamber. She jumped to her feet and looked at the clock.

It was

too early; he could not possibly be back. She flew to the door and yanked it

open.

A very grim Galen was standing on the other side. “Come on,” he said.

“Get

dressed.”

“Galen, what are you—”

“We are going to watch him duel for you. Come on, don’t dally! We haven’t much

time,” he snapped. Abbey did not have to think twice. She forgot all pretense of

modesty and quickly donned the first dress she could lay her hands on.

The curricle Galen had hired raced through the deserted London streets and over

the Thames. As they neared the very private Tarkinton Green on the outskirts of

town where Michael would meet Routier, Abbey could see two carriages, a mount,

and a group of men gathered. She strained to pick Michael out in the crowd, and

brought a hand to her mouth and muffled a cry.

The duel had already begun.

Galen brought the curricle to a screeching halt; Abbey was already leaping from

her seat.

“What in the bloody hell are you doing here?” Sam barked at Galen, who purposely

ignored him. Alex was also there, with a gentleman carrying a black bag.

Another

man, unknown to her, was standing off by himself, obviously acting as Routier’s

second. Beyond this cursory glance, Abbey’s eyes were riveted on the sword

fighting, and she rushed to the edge of the field.

Michael, stripped down to his shirt, was quite good, but Routier was better. She

cringed as the sharp-edged sabers clashed and a deafening clang echoed across

the small green. Routier was steadily advancing on Michael, pushing him backward.

But Michael was fighting from an inner strength Routier could not possibly have

gauged. He regained his footing and, with a surge, moved forward aggressively.

He caught Routier by surprise, he thought, because he stumbled backward a couple

of feet before finding his footing again. His yellow eyes narrowed and he picked

up the level of his swordplay. Undaunted, Michael continued to make steady

progress forward, matching Routier’s lightning speed with his own saber.

Incredibly, he heard Abbey’s voice call to him. He could not believe it; his mind was playing tricks on him.

Neither man could gain ground on the other. It seemed to Michael that they had

been fighting for hours; his arm was beginning to burn with the weight of the

saber. Sweat poured from his brow, and at times, he had difficulty seeing his

foe. Routier seemed just as worn; twice now he had dropped the tip of his sword,

and twice Michael had lunged, just barely missing the man’s black heart.

He

believed, given one more opportunity, he could fell him.

The two men had made a mud pit in the ground they covered. With a forward

thrust, Routier sent Michael skidding toward the edge of the field. His consciousness registered the spectators; they were very close. Why in the hell

didn’t they move? His boot slipped in the mud; he managed to avoid the fall, but

Routier definitely had him at an advantage. He thrust again, this time

knocking

the sword from Michael’s hand and sending it flying through the air.

In a desperate bid to live, Michael pitched to the right, found his feet, and lunged for Routier, blinded by his own sweat, as the man thrust his saber one

last time. Suddenly he was hit hard in the chest by something blue. He stumbled

backward, grabbing the weight thrown at him, and looked up just in time to see

Routier’s saber lifted high above his head. In a fantastic, surreal display, Routier’s eyes suddenly went wide and riveted on Michael. He teetered there, his

sword waving precariously above him, then toppled onto his side. Galen was

standing behind him, his chest heaving, Michael’s bloodied sword in his hand,

staring at Routier’s body.

Michael looked down at the blue weight that had hit him and heard an agonizing

howl—his own—as he recognized Abbey, limp in his arms. He struggled with her to

the ground as a line of rapidly spreading blood stretched from below her breast,

across her side and arm. Michael was stunned; she had thrown herself in front of

him and had caught Routier’s blade. She had saved his life.

He scooped her limp body into his arms and clutched her to his chest.

Her head

fell back; streams of dark mahogany hair floated to the ground. She did not

appear to be breathing. “Oh, God, please no! Please, no!” He buried his face in

her neck; beneath his lips he could feel her weak pulse. He became aware of Sam

forcing his arms apart and lowering Abbey to the ground so the physician could

see to her wounds. In the fog of fear that surrounded him, he heard Alex bark

commands to remove Routier’s body and for Galen to flee at once.

“It’s very deep. She’s losing a lot of blood—we have to get her to town,”

the

physician said.

Michael came immediately to his feet with her limp body held tightly

against his

chest, staring into her ashen face.

“Come on, we must go!” Sam barked. Michael nodded and began stumbling toward his

coach. His fear was overwhelming; God forbid, if she did not survive… He could

not think that! Lord, how he loved her! How he needed her. “Abbey, sweetheart,

you must fight,” he whispered into her hair. “I need you, darling. Please fight!” He climbed quickly into the carriage, Sam behind him, and shouted at the

driver to head into town.

Blinking rapidly, Abbey grimaced at the pain that shot through her head when she

finally awoke after swimming in darkness for what seemed like eternity. It was

dim, nothing more than a dull glow in the recesses of the darkness, but it was

light. Her tongue darted over her dry, cracked lips as she focused on the light.

Am I dreaming? Abbey wondered She had to be; it was the only thing that explained the hazy image of Michael in a chair beside her, his elbows propped on

his knees, his face buried in his large hands. Dark curls of his hair fell forward, shielding his face from her. Something was wrong. It had to be a dream.

She was freezing. She licked her lips and tried to focus her gaze on the image

of Michael.

“Cold,” she said, her voice raspy and light.

Michael’s head jerked up and he stared at her with bloodshot eyes.

“Abbey?” he

whispered, almost inaudibly.

“I’m cold.” The dream heard her then, suddenly disappearing from view, and just

as quickly reappearing with a blanket. He gently laid it over her and tucked it

securely about her leaden limbs. He knelt beside her.

The dream did not speak but his lips trembled faintly as he gently stroked her

hair. His tortured gaze darted across her face and finally settled on her eyes.

Abbey blinked, unable to focus clearly, but cognizant of the omnipresent sorrow

about him.