Chapter Twenty-One

Y sella stood beside the tiny inn's back door next to a row of barrels, watching the innkeeper checking over the two pistols Kit had provided for the duel. Oliver stood close by, his eyes fixed on the innkeeper. Did he think Kit would cheat and give him a dud pistol? She added that to the growing list of things she didn't like, no, hated, now, about Oliver. It only served to make her more conscious of her own terrible behavior and bring fresh heat to her cheeks.

"She's not to watch," Kit said to Sam, who was also closely observing the innkeeper's actions. He'd turned out to be a retired mail coach driver with a good working knowledge of pistols, and quite happy to be asked to stand as a second when an unknown gentleman had come hammering on his door.

Although Ysella was now of the firm opinion that the term "gentleman" no longer seemed to fit Oliver.

Kit slipped out of his coat to stand in his shirt sleeves and brocade waistcoat, and Sam laid it on one of the barrels. Oliver had already removed his.

The innkeeper, clearly enjoying this interlude to his landlordly duties, had eagerly offered up his orchard behind the inn as the prospective battleground. And he'd informed all parties present that no one was likely to disturb them, and that the local constable never came to the village.

Sam nodded, a hint of relief in his eyes.

Ysella felt none of that though. What was it about these men that made them think they could keep on telling her what to do? They were all at it. Kit and Oliver were both tarred with the same brush. They both only saw her as an object, not a person. And now this object was to be fought over. Ridiculous.

The innkeeper set the pistols side by side on the lid of another of the barrels, and Sam approached Ysella, an apologetic expression on his face.

"Ysella," he said, his voice gentle and persuasive. "Kit's right. It's best if you don't witness this. It could be bloody. You should wait in the inn."

She looked him up and down. Everything about him was so familiar to her, from the top of his sandy head to his mud-spattered boots. He knew her as well as Kit did, if not better, as for years Kit had hardly been at Ormonde. He must know that she couldn't wait inside like a normal girl would. That she wasn't a girl to have the vapors at the sight of blood. She shook her head. "No. This is all my fault. I have to watch. You can't stop me."

By the makeshift weapons' table, Kit shook his head in exasperation and turned away. "Very well. Let this be the start of her penance. To watch her lover's punishment." He picked up one of the pistols and strode into the orchard.

Ysella bit her lip. No use pleading with him any further. He'd made his mind up and she might only make matters worse. She was going to have to watch this farce, for that was what it was, to the bitter end. What if she bolted now and took Abelard and ran? Would they still pursue their duel?

"Stay by the gate then," Sam said. "Keep well away from the line of fire. We don't want you being hit by a stray shot."

Ysella stopped at the open gate, one hand on the rough wooden gatepost, her heart hammering against her ribs. Did she want Oliver to die? Her heart was torn. Until so recently she'd considered herself in love with him, despite what he'd done last night and how much she hadn't liked it. Could she change her mind this quickly, or was it only pique that he'd said he didn't want to marry her without her fortune? But one thing she didn't want was for him to kill Kit.

"Twenty paces apart," Sam said to the innkeeper. "Does that meet with your agreement?"

"Twelve," Oliver said. "All the better for me to kill Ormonde."

The innkeeper shook his head. "This is my orchard and if I say 'tis to be twenty paces, then that's what it'll be." Presumably he wasn't keen to be left with an unaccountable dead body to deal with if they stood closer together. The local constable would have something to say about that, for sure.

Ysella heaved a sigh of relief. She knew from experience, as Kit had taught her to shoot when she was a girl, that at twenty paces it would take a crack marksman to hit his target. If only Oliver were not a soldier with a soldier's experience with pistols. But Kit was a good shot too. She didn't want either of them to die. Kit because he was her brother, and Oliver because she didn't want Kit jailed for murder. But there was nothing she could do to stop this.

An urge rose in her to tell Sam to kill Oliver if he should manage to kill Kit, but they were too far away now, lining up ready to fire, and she didn't think Sam had a gun of his own, anyway. Sam and the innkeeper had marked out the twenty paces, and both young men now stood facing one another, slightly at an angle so as to give a narrower target.

Both of them raised their pistols.

Ysella held her breath.

A sharp report rang out and Kit staggered backwards, his hand up to the left side of his head. Smoke rose from Oliver's pistol.

Ysella had to hang onto the gatepost to keep herself upright. Blood was flowing between Kit's fingers, but he was still upright, and his face had contorted with rage.

Ysella didn't need telling. Oliver had been aiming for Kit's head. The intent had been to kill him. This wasn't just a case of wounding an opponent for the sake of one's honor, or discharging one's pistol into the air and saving face. This was all-out war.

"Are you all right to continue?" The innkeeper asked Sam and Kit.

Kit nodded. "I am." He dropped his hand revealing an ear covered in blood that was now running down into the collar of his shirt. He lifted his pistol again and pointed it at Oliver, who stood very still, his face deathly pale. He must realize Kit knew his intention had been to kill, and now feared Kit would do the same to him.

The barrel lowered, now directed at Oliver's lower limbs, lingering near where his legs met his body. Kit held it there for a long moment before the nose of the gun rose towards Oliver's head. Would he take a headshot as Oliver had? Did he want to kill him? Was he the better shot of the two? Or might he have the better pistol? Or luck on his side perhaps?

Ysella caught her breath again.

Kit's shot rang out, echoing around the orchard. Oliver staggered and a red flower of blood blossomed on his right sleeve. The pistol he was still holding dropped from his slack fingers and his left hand shot up to cover the wound, but he didn't fall. Winged only. Not a wound he should die from.

To her immense surprise, Ysella felt nothing but relief. Relief that Kit hadn't killed him and would have to be arrested or become a fugitive, relief that it was all over and honor, at least for the two men, had been satisfied.

The innkeeper dashed forward with the box of bandages he'd brought with him to attend to his man, and Kit walked over to the gate, a handkerchief held to his bleeding ear, while Sam went to join the innkeeper to check on Oliver's wound, as etiquette demanded.

For one dreadful moment, Ysella thought she was the only one who saw what happened next. Oliver, who'd had his back to them all, swung around, his hand going to the top of his boot. As it came up, a small pocket pistol caught the sunlight as he leveled it at Kit's back.

Ysella opened her mouth to scream.

But she hadn't been the only one to see his perfidy. Sam, who was closest to Oliver, threw himself at the gun, and he and Oliver crashed to the ground. The pistol went off with a sharp crack, and now Ysella did scream. All she could see was Sam on the ground on top of Oliver, pounding him with his fists, and Oliver trying to fight back but very much on the losing side.

Kit ran back, and he and the innkeeper pulled Sam off Featherstone, who lay in the dirt with his nose and mouth bleeding and his face mottled red from Sam's furious blows, his chest heaving for breath. Sam's own nose dripped blood onto the front of his coat. He gave himself a shake. "That's for what you did to Ysella," he spat, and gave Featherstone a kick. "And for cheating in a duel. You're no gentleman, and if you breathe a word anywhere of what you've done to her, I'll make damn sure everyone in London who matters knows you cheated in a duel and tried to shoot your opponent in the back."

Ysella ran to Sam's side and clutched his arm. "Oh, Sam, that was magnificent. You saved Kit's life." How could she have ever fancied herself to have feelings for the creature lying on the ground at her feet, abject in the mud for the second time today. He would have murdered her brother in cold blood. She'd seen it with her own eyes.

Sam put an arm around her and led her away from where Oliver still lay sprawled. She went willingly, the realization that she never had to see him again filling her with relief.

Leaving the innkeeper to put a bandage on Oliver's grazed arm, Ysella, still with Sam's supportive arm around her, followed Kit back inside the inn. The taproom was empty of all but the old man who'd been sitting in the corner by the fire when they'd arrived. The innkeeper's wife, who had probably been watching the goings on in the orchard from the kitchen, bustled in. With a comforting smile for Ysella, she took her place behind a makeshift bar constructed of rough planks on top of barrels. "What can I get for you, Milord?"

Kit shot Sam a quick smile. "Brandies all round. For the old man in the corner as well. And tell us the nearest place we can hire a carriage to take us back to Wiltshire."

*

The journey home was a far slower affair than the madcap race north had been. In the end, they had to ride as far as Banbury to hire a carriage to take Ysella home, raising some eyebrows on their arrival with her sitting in front of Sam on Hercules.

They took a private parlor at the old Reindeer Inn, where a tolerable dinner was served to them by the landlord himself. While they ate, he enquired for them as to where they could hire a carriage and driver and came back as they were finishing the meal with the news that he'd procured one for them.

Sam, who'd not had much of an appetite, had been watching Ysella covertly as she pushed her own food around her plate and took only small sips of her claret. Try as he might, he couldn't put the unwelcome image of her being violated by that cad out of his head. Her whole demeanor had changed. Gone was the feisty girl he was used to. In her place, had appeared a downtrodden, unhappy young woman. And, perish the thought, what was she to do if Oliver was right and she really was with child? That awful scenario plagued his mind as he attempted to do justice to the good food.

Kit ate in a silence that matched the other two, but he at least managed to put away his food, as though his close brush with death had stimulated his appetite for living and all things associated with it.

At last, they were ready to leave. The carriage was not of the best, but it would do well to transport them to Oxford where Kit said they should spend the night. And tomorrow, they could hire a more respectable vehicle for the journey back to Ormonde. So, with Abelard and Hercules tied on behind the carriage, they set off back along the Oxford road, a somewhat subdued and silent party.

Once at Oxford, Ysella retired immediately to the room Kit had taken for her, leaving Kit and Sam to eat alone in their small private parlor. A fire blazed comfortingly in the hearth and the food again was good. Between them they finished off two jugs of claret and started on the brandy bottle the landlord brought them. At length, leaving the table, they took the two wing chairs to either side of the fire and settled down with their glasses.

After the cold of the day's journey, the heat of the flames came as a pleasant relief. Both Sam and Kit rested their muddy, booted feet on the fender and relaxed back in their seats. A warm sense of achievement settled on Sam. Ysella was safe from that cad, and the world was the right way up again.

"What am I supposed to do with her now?" Kit asked, swirling his brandy around in the glass and staring into the flames.

Unsure whether he was supposed to reply, Sam just shrugged. He'd imbibed enough of the brandy now to be feeling exceedingly mellow. He was going to sleep well tonight for the first time in days, secure in the knowledge that Ysella was safe again.

Kit crossed his legs at the ankle. "She can't go back to London, that's certain. Not now."

Beyond worrying if Ysella might indeed be with child, nothing else about her future had crossed Sam's mind, so glad was he to have her back safely "within the fold." He forbore from asking "Why not?" which would have been stupid but had been the first thing he'd thought of. No. Kit was right. She was what would be termed "spoiled goods" now, and no member of the ton would offer for her.

He heaved a deep sigh. If ever a girl needed a friendly advocate, it was Ysella, but arguing for her to continue with her old plans would take her away from him. Sam steeled himself to make a sacrifice. "Need anyone ever know?" He poured himself another brandy. "I doubt Featherstone is going to go shouting about it. Not after having tried to murder you, and what I threatened him with."

Kit nodded. "That's true, but it doesn't detract from the fact that she may be…" He hesitated, perhaps unwilling to put the thought into word.

"That she may be with child?" Sam said, the words sticking in his craw as well. How much it hurt to have to say them.

Kit nodded. "I can't let her go back to Town if we don't know she's… presentable. And she won't be, if she has a bastard growing in her belly." He sighed. "Morvoren would know what to do. I don't even know how long we have to wait before we can be sure she's not. We need to get home as quickly as possible so I can talk to Morvoren."

Sam took a long gulp of brandy, fiery heat burning a track down his throat. The thought of Ysella's belly growing to the proportions Morvoren's had taken on troubled him no end. With an alien, unwanted child. And her with her reputation in ruins. As it would be if anyone caught a whiff of the scandal she had caused.

Yes, calm and sensible Morvoren would know what to do.