The Very Daring Duchess Part 43

He turned away from her and back toward Peac.o.c.k. "Tell her, sir, if she stays, she may see sights that she won't easily forget."

Peac.o.c.k bowed, genteelly agreeable. "She knew you'd say that, Your Grace, and told me to tell you that she is prepared for that possibility."

"Prepared, h.e.l.l." She'd never seen what a lead ball could do to flesh and bone at close range, or realized how much blood could drain from a man's body in only a minute, and he'd rather she didn't learn now, especially not at his expense. "She hasn't the faintest d.a.m.ned notion of what could happen here."

"Your Grace?" William's expression was uncertain. "Are you ready to proceed?"

"Aye, aye, I am." He yanked off his waistcoat and tossed it to Peart, and followed William to where the others stood. The spectators backed away to a more respectful distance, and a safer one, too, leaving the snow where they'd stood trampled and muddied. But here where Edward and McCray would stand, the new snow was still untouched, waiting for the stain of blood.

And a red hooded cloak fluttering in the breeze upon the hillside....

Edward nodded at the surgeon, a thin-faced man brought up from the hospital at Greenwich by William this morning. Then, for the first time that morning, he looked McCray squarely in the eye. The man didn't flinch-Edward would grant him that-but he was sweating so profusely that the hair was plastered to his temples, and his worn s.h.i.+rt clung limply to the softness of his belly. The collar of that s.h.i.+rt had been turned to mask the edge frayed by his beard, and beneath McCray's chin was a forlorn little darned patch in the linen, a sadly human detail that Edward desperately wished he hadn't noticed.

"Pistols, gentlemen." William presented the mahogany box with his father's guns, already loaded, and like a child faced with a choice of chocolates, McCray let his fingers hover greedily over first one pistol, then the second, before he finally pounced and grabbed one, pulling it away as if he feared Edward would try to take it.

Edward, of course, didn't. He'd tested both pistols last night, and knew they were equal. He held his lightly, warming the polished b.u.t.t in his hand. Like all the most modern dueling pistols, these were fitted with hair-triggers, extra springs in the lock that would make the pistol fire at the slightest pull, and without disturbing the aim. As William had noted before, it no longer took much talent or even nerve to blast a man's fool head off.

Solemnly William handed the empty box to Peart. "For the final time, gentlemen, and in the name of the king you have sworn to serve, I ask if you can be reconciled?"

"He's still married to a wretched foreign trollop," said McCray doggedly, "and I'm not about-"

"Enough, McCray," ordered Edward sharply. "Lord Bonnington, I believe you have your answer."

"Very well, Your Grace." William cleared his throat, the sound echoing so that Edward realized all the others had ceased to talk. "I shall ask you to take your positions, gentlemen."

Edward turned so his back was against McCray's. He held the barrel of the pistol with the muzzle toward the gray morning sky, the barrel resting lightly against his collarbone.

"Five paces apart, gentlemen, then turn inward."

Silently Edward counted his steps, his footfalls m.u.f.fled by the snow, then turned. McCray was already facing him, his eyes blank. Edward remembered what William had told him, how McCray would twist his arm before him to compensate for his weak eye, how he'd present a smaller square of white s.h.i.+rt. Better to aim a fraction lower, toward his belly.

Oh, Francesca, cara mia, are you still watching from the hill?

"I will count to five, gentlemen," continued William. "One, two, three, four, five. Upon the final word, you may fire at will. Are you ready, gentlemen?"

"One, two..."

I love you, la.s.s. Even if I die, that will never change.

"Three, four..."

This is the last time, Francesca, I swear it. I want the life, the love that you give me, not this. d.a.m.nation, I must be sure to watch McCray's arm....

The flash came first, brilliant yellow-white, the way only gunpowder can be, a half-second before William called five, and well before Edward's finger could squeeze the trigger.

And too late now to remember what else William had said. Be wary of a jumped start or misfire, for McCray will cheat any way he can....

He felt the sharp stab in his upper arm, the pain that began small and swiftly grew, streaking down his arm and up to his shoulder with the slower spread of blood, his blood, warming his own chilly skin inside his sleeve. Around him rumbled the shock and outrage from the other men, matched by his own furious oath at being gulled by the oldest trick in the coward's book.

But his fingers still held the pistol, no bones broken or tendons severed. He'd been winged, that was all, and ten paces away was McCray's ashen face, his mouth slack, hanging open with shock and terror. The wisp of gunsmoke drifted from the muzzle of his spent pistol, and his darned s.h.i.+rt was as broad a target as any man could wish.

"Take the b.a.s.t.a.r.d now, Harborough!" bellowed a man from the crowd. "Send McCray to h.e.l.l, the double-d.a.m.ned coward!"

Everything seemed squeezed into this single moment, as if it were being compressed through the narrow neck of a bottle: William's stunned face, the gaunt-cheeked surgeon kneeling to open his bag, Peart standing open-mouthed with his coat and cloak so neatly folded, the gray sky and the red blotches on the white snow there at his feet. But what remained clearest was McCray, dropping to his knees with a keening wail for mercy, his face turned loose with horrified antic.i.p.ation, hovering there just above the sight on Edward's pistol.

"Kill him, Your Grace! Give McCray what he deserves!"

Was Francesca watching? Waiting, weeping for him though his wound was slight? He hated seeing her cry, especially when it was his fault. But he'd promised her this would be the last time, hadn't he? No more killing, not like this. He loved her too much for it to be otherwise.

I love you, la.s.s.

With McCray kneeling in the snow before him, Edward raised his arm high, the pain slicing down its length and back again through the torn flesh, and pointed the muzzle upward. With a little grunt of pain, he squeezed the trigger, and fired into the sky.

"There is my satisfaction," he said. He let the pistol slip from his fingers and turned toward the hill, toward salvation, toward Francesca.

The hill was empty. She was gone.

She could not make herself look away.

Even though Francesca knew Edward could die as he'd lived, killed as surely by his precious honor as by the other captain, she watched. Even though she might see things that would haunt her as long as she lived, she watched. How could she not? This was Edward, her husband and her love, and her fate was too entwined with his for her to do otherwise now.

The morning was cold as death, the snow wet ice beneath her slippers, clinging in pellets to the hem of her skirts and cloak. Though Uncle Peac.o.c.k had told her to stay in the carriage, she'd come to stand here as soon as he'd left her, watching, watching. She'd seen her uncle make his way slowly through the other men, reaching Edward at the last possible moment. Though she couldn't hear the words, she'd known what her uncle said, because she'd given him the words. She'd held her breath, her hands twisting restlessly inside her m.u.f.f.

Then Edward had sought her out, his gaze like a caress across the distance, linking them together. Hope, sweet and pure, rose up in her heart as she dared to believe he'd choose her and her love instead of this awful fate.

But how could love ever triumph over honor? She watched him shake his head, refuse her plea, turn away from her and toward the other men. He chose his pistol, marked his paces, faced McCray, listened as Lord Bonnington counted.

One, two...

She whispered heartfelt prayers in Italian, anguished pleas and beseechings and bargainings for Edward's life.

Three...

Saints in heaven, but she loved him, her darling, dearest husband with the golden hair. She always would love him, no matter what happened next.

Four...

An eternity seemed to stretch between each number, yet time was racing past too fast for her to stop.

Five...

G.o.d help her, she could not watch any longer, and whipped around with a sob just as the shot echoed across the park. One shot, only one shot, and a disjointed garble of voices.

Not Edward, oh, dear G.o.d, not Edward!

"Your Grace, Your Grace?" said Albani, out of breath from running up the hill to her. "You have come!"