CHAPTER 7
The Dragoon
No. Maggie took a step forward and drew in her breath.
The duke was on his feet, but holding his side. Blood flowed through his fingers, and in the rosy light of the rising sun, she saw the snarl of perfect fury on his face.
He might’ve been making sardonic jokes about all this earlier, but now he looked tempted to give Bryce the thrashing of his life.
Amberley ripped off his jacket and stalked toward his carriage, where his eye-patch friend had taken out a physician’s bag with cool, calm efficiency.
Throwing his coat on the ground in disgust, the duke shrugged out of his waistcoat, stepped somewhat behind the open door of his carriage, and lifted his bloodied white shirt off over his head.
A collective gasp went up from around the grove, especially from the ladies.
Maggie’s eyes widened with shock at the sight of his towering, herculean physique. In all her twenty-two years, she had never glimpsed so much of the male form before, but for his part, the warrior duke did not seem inclined to give one damn who saw him shirtless.
Not that he had anything to be ashamed of.
On the contrary, Maggie thought with a gulp. His shoulders were massive, his chest thick with smooth, sculpted muscles; his arms bulged; and when he turned away, his back was a glorious expanse of rippling strength, his lean waist chiseled as though by a sculptor’s tools.
Unfortunately, across the right side of his waist, the bullet had torn through his flesh. He twisted about to peer down at the wound, then muttered a curse, and lifted his arm out of the way so Mr. Godwin could assess the damage.
Time seemed to slow as Maggie stared at the scarlet liquid running down Amberley’s side.
His very lifeblood.
Some girls might have fainted at the disturbing sight. But for the well-behaved Lady Maggie Winthrop, it was as though something inside of her snapped.
A lifetime, perhaps, of always trying her best to follow the rules.
This man had been shot for her sake.
If not for her plea, Bryce would be dead, true—but he was the one who’d picked the fight. She had never meant for Amberley to be wounded as the price for his restraint.
The next thing she knew, she was in motion, launching herself across the grove without warning, without explanation, without looking back.
She lost all thought of anyone else there and went running to Amberley, her pulse slamming.
All that mattered in that moment was finding out how serious his injury was. If he would die.
She couldn’t bear it.
Near him and his companions, she skidded to a halt on the wet grass in her dancing slippers.
Mr. Godwin was already giving him bandages to press to his side, while young Will offered the duke a flask. Amberley swigged from it as Maggie barreled into their midst, breathless with terror.
“Is it serious?” she blurted out.
They all looked at her in surprise, having barely noticed her arrival.
She saw at once that the blue of Amberley’s eyes had darkened to that of stormy seas, while the red blood flowed down his side.
“Now you really owe me,” he said matter-of-factly.
“I’m so sorry!” she cried, gaping at the blood.
“Never fear, milady. ’Tis but a flesh wound,” Mr. Godwin reported. “Don’t worry, he’ll live.” The one-eyed surgeon clapped his large friend solidly on the arm. “He’s had plenty worse, this one.”
“True,” Amberley agreed.
Maggie pressed her hand to her chest, where she could feel her heart pounding. “Oh thank God. You gave me such a fright.”
“I’m touched by your concern,” the duke drawled.
“Lady Margaret!” Bryce called indignantly from across the grove. “Get away from there this instant!”
“Mags!” Delia brayed a loud laugh. “What on earth are you doing?”
Maggie glanced back at her sister, and then, scanning around the grove, discovered the whole audience staring at her in surprise.
Her cheeks flooded with belated embarrassment at her own utter breach of protocol.
“S-sorry,” she said faintly to no one in particular, “I-I don’t know what came over me.”
“Go back to your carriage, if you please!” Lord Bryce said. He stepped away from his companions as though he meant to march over and drag her back physically to her family.
Amberley went very still, narrowing his eyes at Bryce.
Maggie noticed the change in his demeanor; Bryce must have, too, for he said nothing more and stayed on his side of the grove.
She turned back to the duke in misery. “I’m so sorry he shot you. This wasn’t supposed to happen. I did try to talk him out of this madness, but he simply wouldn’t listen.”
“It’s not your fault, m’lady.” He gave her a rueful smile as he pulled a blood-soaked bandage away from his wound and quickly applied a fresh one.
She grimaced at the sight.
“Run along now, before you start a scandal. You can’t be of any help to me if you’re disgraced.”
She stiffened instantly at his pointed reminder of why he had shown mercy.
It was not from the goodness of his heart; he wanted something from her. Exactly what that might be, she had yet to discover.
“Don’t worry, miss,” said Private Duffy, “we’ll take good care of him. We’re used to this one bleedin’ all over the place.”
She winced at the realization that, indeed, they probably were.
“Go,” Amberley murmured softly. “I’ll call on you soon.”
Maggie eyed him in distrust, but accidentally flicked one last wayward gaze over his magnificent body, unable to stop herself.
He grinned, noticing her stray glance. His chin came up a notch. “Just say the word, darlin’.”
She sucked in her breath with embarrassment, shot the rogue a self-conscious scowl, then hurried back to her sister.
“What was all that about?” Delia asked in amusement.
“I…I don’t know. I just…”
Edward came to her rescue. “The sight of blood can be very disturbing for young ladies, obviously.”
So can the sight of a half-naked demigod. Maggie refused to let her gaze wander in that Irish scoundrel’s direction again.
“Are you all right, Mags?” Edward asked, laying a hand on her shoulder, searching her face.
She nodded. “Thanks. I’m not sure what came over me. I-I thought I could help.”
Delia chuckled. “At least you didn’t faint. I’d have lost all respect for you.”
You respect me? Maggie thought. Since when? Then she shook her head. “I hope I haven’t caused a scandal.”
“What, you? The girl who never does anything wrong? Mama’s perfect little angel? Don’t be ridiculous,” Delia said in a breezy tone, but Edward frowned at his wife’s snide comment.
Dismayed, Maggie lowered her head, while across the grove, the dragoons also seemed to find her unthinking response to the bloodshed quite diverting.
Some of them were chuckling as they studied her and her family, though one of their number, a sinewy, narrow-faced man with dark brown hair, neatly trimmed side-whiskers, moustache, and goatee, leaned against a carriage, staring at her with a motionless intensity that gave her a chill.
She almost preferred the other dragoons’ mockery to that man’s watchful detachment.
She quickly forgot about him, though, when she noticed Bryce headed her way—and, ugh, her suitor did not look amused.
Maggie braced herself when she saw him marching through the wet grass toward their carriage in high dudgeon.
“Lady Margaret! A word, please!”
The spectators paused from getting back into their carriages and turned to look. Hearing his bellow, they realized—no doubt with delight—that the morning’s entertainment was not yet over.
“Why were you over there talking to him?” Bryce demanded. “That man has no decency!”
“Because I thought you’d killed him, that’s why!” she burst out, much to her own shock, then quickly reined in her temper. “The surgeon said his wound isn’t serious, if you were wondering,” she coldly informed him.
“Pity,” said Bryce.
“My lord!” she said in startled reproach.
“What?”
She shook her head, speechless.
First, her suitor had made a fool of himself, accusing Amberley without proof. Then he’d shot the man and refused to acknowledge—despite the expertly placed hole in his hat—that he had been deliberately spared by a superior marksman.
After all, that bullet could have easily been placed two inches lower and dropped him dead to the ground like a mallard in hunting season.
But did he show the slightest gratitude?
Of course not. On the contrary. Unaware that she was the one who had bargained to procure his continued existence, now the little coxcomb dared to come over here and scold her.
“Well?” he demanded.
“You, sir, are quite beyond the pale.”
Bryce frowned at her. “Me? What did I do?”
Unable to stomach another minute of his company, Maggie simply held up her hand, shook her head, and climbed back into the coach.
“What’s wrong with her?” Bryce asked Delia.
“Who knows,” said her sister with a shrug.
Edward was distressed. “I should never have allowed you two to come here. Obviously, such things are too upsetting for a young lady’s sensibilities,” he said stiffly. “Now, if you don’t mind, I daresay my sister-in-law does not wish to speak with you any further at the moment, ol’ boy.”
“Women,” said Bryce.
“La, she’s always been temperamental. Moody,” said Delia, clearly unfazed by the bloodshed. “That was quite something, though! Lucky you came out of it unscathed. You were very brave.”
“Why thank you, Lady Birdwell…”
As Bryce chatted with her sister for another moment or two, Maggie stared out the opposite window, facing away from the grove.
She shook her head, furious in ways she could not even put into words.
The worst part was her grim new understanding of her suitor’s nature. Perhaps she had known all along. But after this whole obnoxious display, she could no longer ignore it.
All of a sudden, out of nowhere, she wanted nothing more to do with him, ever. She did not give one fig in that moment if she never even spoke to him again.
Maybe this anger would pass, but she did not see how she could possibly marry such a vain, reckless fool. Her heart sank as she realized there was no point in pretending.
Their courtship was over.
* * *
As a garish red sunrise crept across the grove, Seth Darrow leaned watchfully against a friend’s carriage, camouflaging himself amongst his fellow dragoons.
His heart still pounded from his fleeting, bloodthirsty hope that the pampered rakehell, Bryce, might get rid of his problem for him, without Seth having to lift a finger this time.
But no such luck.
Word swept around the grove that it was just a flesh wound—that the bullet had only grazed the duke. Once again, Amberley Number Four had proven irritatingly hard to kill.
Seth gritted his teeth. Damn.
His mates from the regiment seemed relieved by the news. A few decided to go over and congratulate the major on his fine shooting.
Seth declined to join them. It was enough of a risk just being here.
They had all been out drinking last night at the Officers’ Club when news had arrived that some marquess’s son called Lord Bryce had just challenged the Duke of Amberley to a duel.
Since some in the club had heard stories of the major and his supposed prowess, many had jumped at the chance to see “the legend” in action.
Everyone was sure he would murder Lord Bryce.
Seth had never heard these tales himself, but he certainly wished he had before he’d tried attacking the savage on those docks.
From what they had said at the club, the reason not everyone knew about it was because he had served in intelligence.
Bloody hell, Seth had thought, hearing this.
In any case, he had joined his companions so he might observe his enemy unnoticed.
But while his mates were firmly on the side of their fellow veteran, he, for one, throbbed with unholy hope that Bryce would shoot the Irish son of a bitch in the heart. Drop the bleeder like a stone.
For his part, Seth had failed twice now to expunge the last Duke of Amberley from the face of the earth.
Indeed, the first time, the bastard had nearly killed him. It had taken weeks for his broken nose and sprained wrist to heal after that debacle on the docks.
In hindsight, it was abundantly clear that he’d made the near-fatal mistake of underestimating his enemy. But that night, to be sure, he’d learned his lesson.
Namely, that Duke Number Four was nothing like his weakling forebears.
Those three had been easily dispatched. For Number One, a pillow over the face had sufficed. He was old. It was easy. For Seth, a matter of choosing his timing and picking a lock.
Duke Number Two really should have been more careful when out taking his daily constitutional. An older gent really ought to watch his footing, maybe use a walking stick so he wouldn’t lose his balance near those high precipices around the West Country…
Most unfortunate, and him so well regarded by his parishioners.
Yes, Duke Number Two had enjoyed wandering out across the moors, and finishing his daily walks with a meditative visit to that soaring promontory on the edge of his estate, overlooking a wild river in a deep, rocky gully.
No doubt the vicar-duke had felt inspired there, thinking his deep thoughts and praying his holy prayers.
Seth had soon sent him on to his eternal glory. He still smiled in amusement to recall the yelp the vicar-duke made when he’d been shoved off the cliff.
Rupert’s son, Duke Number Three, called Richard, had taken nothing but a bit of tinkering with the axle of his dainty curricle to bring him low.
Ah, Richard. Bryce’s friend. Spoiled young hellion, with his flawless clothes and perfect hair.
He seemed to enjoy being naughty as much as his father, the reverend, had striven to be virtuous. Between a few turns of Seth’s stealthy wrench and his own wayward habits, Amberley Number Three had practically killed himself, which had been convenient.
But now came Number Four, and for the life of him, Seth could not figure out how to get to the mean, giant bastard.
He might as well try smashing Gibraltar.
Worse, if he was honest, this Amberley had rather shaken Seth’s nerve after their first meeting.
He still could not comprehend how the duke had so fully trounced him. The whole experience had been humiliating, not to mention painful.
But the task of killing him remained Seth’s duty. After all, his younger brother was still dead, and Father was still disgusted that it was he who lived on, instead of his darling Francis.
Seth still wasn’t sure how to do the thing, and after two failures, he was in no hurry to risk a third. The third time simply had to be the charm.
After receiving the thrashing of his life from the duke, unable to use his weapon hand properly, Seth had begrudgingly resorted to the woman’s weapon: poison.
Of that, he was not proud. If his regiment ever found out, they’d shun him for certain. But not even that had gone as planned. The duke’s fat, loud hog of a friend had gobbled down the dish meant for Amberley.
Both failures had only managed to put the blackguard on his guard.
So here he was, and frankly, Seth had no idea what to try next… Until the moment the lovely little debutante had sprinted across the grove to the duke’s side, her face stamped with panic.
Well, well, he’d thought as he’d watched her skid to a halt and anxiously ask how serious the wound was. What have we here?
Does His Grace have himself a sweetheart?
Seth had stared, observing the whole scene with hawklike intensity, while his friends had chuckled at her reaction.
Neophytes who had never seen violence before could have all kinds of unexpected responses to their first look at bloodshed. Hell, they’d all been there. They’d seen it in countless new recruits.
Some fainted the first time they witnessed a man being shot in front of them. Others threw up; many fled, some froze like frightened rabbits, a few counterattacked, but a fair number rushed to the side of the wounded to see if they could help.
This chit must be one of the latter sort, Seth mused as he watched with all due vigilance.
Then Bryce boomed at “Lady Margaret” to get away from the duke, and Seth realized it was the curly-headed fop who was her suitor, not the major.
His fellow dragoons also figured this out. They began laughing.
“Aha, now I see why he spared him!” they said.
“Hell, I wouldn’t have the heart to make that angel cry.”
“Bryce is courting her?”
“Looks that way. Sweet little thing. Wasted on that ponce, you ask me.”
“Maybe the major will steal her away from him,” one of his friends jested.
“Maybe I will,” another replied.
“Not with that face, mate. You’ll need a dukedom first.”
“What? Your mother didn’t mind my face when she was riding it last night.”
“Fuck off, you’re disgusting.”
Halfhearted punches were traded, and then, amid laughter, questions exchanged about where to eat breakfast, “speaking of eating.”
Seth ignored the soldierly banter, watching the girl.
His stare tracked her like a prey as she returned to the couple she’d come with. He’d elbowed one of his mates. “Who are those people?”
“Ah, that’s Lady Birdwell and her husband, the marquess. Good chap.”
“And the girl?”
His friend shrugged. “I believe that’s Her Ladyship’s unmarried younger sister.”
“I see,” Seth replied.
He knew then that he’d keep an eye on her, this Lady Margaret, for he’d seen the soft way that Amberley had smiled at the girl.
And everybody knew that even a legend had an Achilles’ heel.