The Irish Duchess (40 page)

A woman screamed below.
Mrs. B
. Fiona scowled but didn’t slow her step as she passed the stairs. Her erstwhile lady’s maid and Colin had both been on the premises when she’d arrived. Mrs. B. swore they had followed the kidnappers in hopes of capturing them, but Fiona didn’t believe anyone right now.

She heard Durham’s awkward gait close at hand. She could nearly smell the stench of whiskey on him. Stupid fool. Surely he didn’t really think she’d welcome his overtures or believe his lies?

“Damn you, you Irish hussy!” her tormentor called as she slammed the billiard room door in his face. “I’ll wager you’ve spread your legs for half Ireland before this, and I’ll have you before this day’s done.”

There was no fool more stupid than one who thought with that worm between his legs, Fiona thought spitefully as she clambered onto an ancient blackened oak chair. The chair’s massive weight held it in place as she stood on the arm and reached for the rapier just above her head. She’d carve the wretch into stew meat.

Durham pulled the chair out from under her just as her fingers gripped the rapier. Fiona grabbed a shelf of filthy tankards, and still clinging to the rapier, leapt from the chair arm, slowing her descent to the floor by hanging onto the shelf. The shelf jerked loose from the crumbling plaster and heavy tankards bounced across the warped wooden floor, but she was on her feet again, rapier pointed directly at Durham’s bulging belly.

“Don’t be a fool, woman.” Durham hiccuped, batting at the thin sword point with his arm. “You’ll all hang for treason before the month’s out. I can save your pretty head if you’ll just give me what I want.”

Fiona didn’t give this nonsense the courtesy of a reply. With an agile upward twist of her wrist, she split all Durham’s buttons. He tottered in a puzzled attempt to catch one. When it came right down to it, she hadn’t the courage to split his guts in the same way. Just the idea of blood nauseated her. She backed away while he drunkenly studied their predicament.

Concentrating all her thoughts on the immediate enemy, she didn’t hear the first shouts in the yard, but the rising noise through the cracked window panes caught her attention now. Michael! Michael had escaped and roused the household. Fiona didn’t know whether to cheer or be afraid.

“That was my last decent waistcoat, you slut!” Durham cursed, looking down at his shredded clothing. “I’ll make you and your damnable husband pay for that.”

“You want my coin now, or after you’re behind bars?” a calm male voice inquired from the doorway.

Neville! Fiona’s eyes widened at the sight of her husband still garbed in rags yet striding into the room as if he wore a suit of armor. The blasted man didn’t even have a weapon! She would kill him when this was over and done. Did he think himself invulnerable as well as omnipotent? All the same, her heart thrilled at his appearance.

To her surprise, Durham shrank into a whimpering, stoop-shouldered caricature of a man as he backed toward the far wall, out of Neville’s reach. “I never hurt her, I swear.”

“Watch it! He’s after the sword,” Fiona cried as she caught the glint of metal in the dim light of the room’s one lamp.

“Give me yours,” Neville commanded, holding out his hand while keeping his gaze fastened on Durham.

At any other time, with any other man, Fiona would have hesitated at surrendering her hard-won weapon, but not with Neville. She flung the light rapier toward his outstretched hand.

He caught it easily, swinging it in an experienced grip before pointing it at the hapless Durham. “How would you like to do this, Durham?” Neville asked, as if discussing a hand of piquet. “Shall I cut you into tiny ribbons, or will you come peacefully and tell all to the authorities?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Durham sputtered, jerking a broadsword off the wall with some effort. “I’ve not done anything any other man hasn’t tried.” He tilted to one side before adjusting to the weight of the sword. “You can’t attack a man for no reason in his own home.”

“If I did not mistake, I believe you just insulted my wife,” Neville continued in a voice of deadly calm. “You’ll get down on your knees and beg her forgiveness.”

Fiona couldn’t believe her ears. They stood in a house occupied by two treasonous Bedlamites, surrounded by who knew how many enemies, and the arrogant duke played gentlemanly games of honor? She’d rip the ears off his head if that tone in his voice hadn’t warned her to stay clear.

She’d never heard that tone before. If she didn’t know better, she’d believe it nothing short of murderous. Not Neville. Not her stoic duke. Surely he wouldn’t...

“I’ll not—” Durham began to protest.

The rapier lunged, whirled, and returned, at ease, to Neville’s side. Durham’s waistcoat and shirt fell in shreds to the floor, and he stared blankly at the X just beginning to leak red across his chest. With a groan of anguished shock, Durham dropped any pretense of holding the heavy sword, slipped to his knees, and stared at his chest.

“I didn’t hurt her, I swear,” he whispered, vainly stanching the blood with torn pieces of linen and the rough tweed of the coat he still wore.

“Apologize,” Neville commanded curtly.

Something about that coat struck Fiona as familiar, but she had no wish to linger and ponder the puzzle. “Neville, let’s just get out of here,” she urged. “We must find Michael and Effingham.

Her skin tingled in terror as the full impact of Neville’s determined stance hit her. Neville meant to kill the man just for insulting her. She could see it in his eyes. Never, in all her life, had she thought her studious duke would resort to such violence, but he was on the edge of berserk. He was doing this for her. The knowledge scattered her thoughts to the winds.

“Effingham won’t be going anywhere soon,” a new voice intruded.

Before she could so much as squeal, a hard arm caught Fiona’s waist, hauled her up against a tall frame, and slammed a hand over her mouth.

Townsend.

Thirty-nine

Fiona bit at the hand covering her mouth. Townsend smacked her.

Her cheek stung, and she didn’t need to look to see how her husband took this new development. Neville’s rage swept the room in a force so powerful she thought the storm striking outside had entered through the windows. She slumped forward, dumping all her weight on Townsend’s one arm. She damned well wouldn’t stand between Neville and this object of his fury.

Townsend staggered at the unexpected drag of her full weight. Neville’s rapier whooshed over Fiona’s head before she even reached her knees. Fortunately for her, she was well-balanced. Townsend screamed in pain and released her, and she rolled to the floor, before crawling indecorously out of the field of battle.

Safely behind the huge oak chair, she finally dared to observe the situation. Blood dripping from the gash on his cheek, Townsend hauled a battle-ax off the wall and wielded it expertly. A battle-ax against a slender rapier—Neville didn’t seem to notice the disparity. Roaring, he slashed at his opponent.

Thunder crashed outside, startling Fiona. In a flash of lightning, she saw Durham lift the broad sword again.

With no more effective weapon at hand, Fiona grabbed a cue stick and lurched to her feet.

“Good show, cuz, but I really don’t think he needs your help,” Michael drawled from the doorway. “Our illustrious duke appears capable of tearing His Majesty’s Navy into tatters right about now.”

Breathing a sigh of relief that the earl had escaped, Fiona glanced toward the door where her noble cousin leaned lazily against the frame, arms crossed over his chest. He wasn’t looking at her, however. He was glaring at Durham.

The frightened lordling had regained the broadsword and raised it over his head, prepared to strike. Before Durham could act, Neville spun from his first target, sliced his rapier across Durham’s bare midsection, and returned to cutting Townsend’s weapon arm into neat pieces.

Fascinated, Fiona stared as Townsend cried out in pain, staggered, and dodged the repeated blows, waving his ax with faltering strength, never once coming close to the more nimble duke.

“You’re the magician, Michael. Turn him off.” Effingham appeared behind the earl, watching the duke’s furious attack in almost as much fascination as Fiona.

Michael snickered. “That’s Fiona’s job. Let her at him.”

She shot a glare of fury at both the lackwits. Neville was in the process of single-handedly murdering two men, and the two nobles stood and watched as if it were some entertaining play of Shakespeare’s. Men were all mad.

As the next burst of lightning illuminated the grim scene, she located a pewter tankard rolling on the floor. Dodging the melee to grab it, she slammed it over Durham’s head before he could lift his sword again. He slumped to the floor and stayed there.

Townsend was still reeling about the room, attempting to reach Neville with his ax. She had no idea exactly of which crimes he was guilty, but his actions proved his murderous intent. She couldn’t hope to reach his much taller head with any degree of the strength.

Grabbing her abandoned billiard cue, she slipped into the shadows closest to the battling pair, waited her moment, and jabbed the stick between Townsend’s legs. With a howl of dismay, he tripped and pitched forward.

Fiona watched in horror as the tall lord stumbled directly toward Neville’s pointed rapier. She hadn’t meant to kill the man, but Neville...

She gasped her relief as Neville easily sidestepped, allowing his opponent to crash to the floor. Before Townsend could consider rising again, Neville pointed his rapier at the back of his neck.

“Had I a cudgel, I would give you a taste of how it feels, your bloody lordship,” Neville growled.

“There’s always one of Fiona’s tankards,” Michael suggested as he sauntered into the room. “I vote we
each
crown him one before hauling him to the authorities.”

“I vote we find out what the devil is going on before beating him senseless.” Effingham strolled in behind his adopted brother. Without compunction, he smashed a wooden chair against the hearth and threw the pieces into the dying fire, stirring a small blaze to light and warming the room.

Fiona was beyond hearing them. Heart stilling, she stared at Neville, who stared back at her. He’d lost his ragged cap and his golden hair fell across his brow, framing eyes that commanded orders she was finally ready to accept. Despite the cold and damp of the room, perspiration streaked his filthy face. He looked far from the impeccable duke she’d first known. Yet standing there with his sword pointed at his enemy’s neck, he looked more the duke than ever. Her heart pounded as she finally accepted that she’d married a man she could respect, and respect required understanding and recognition of his wishes.

Battening down all her raging emotions, she wordlessly lay down her billiard cue and left the room.

At the sight of Fiona’s departure, Michael lifted a questioning gaze to Neville. “Perhaps you should go after her.”

Neville shook his head. “No, Fiona’s leaving this to us. She’s gone to see about the others.” Fury still coursed through his blood, but the sight of his brave Fiona obediently leaving the battle scene to him tempered his violence with wonder—and with an odd tranquility, as if something had been settled between them.

“She should be going to her bed and resting,” Effingham protested.

Neville smiled. “Would you care to suggest that to her?”

He wouldn’t tell them that he ached to rush after her, gather her in his arms, and haul her screaming and protesting straight to the first bed he found. In the moment she’d met his eyes, they’d made promises to each other, or so he hoped. His heart still swelled with all the knowledge that look had imparted. He’d seen her respect, her willingness, and something he prayed he hadn’t misinterpreted.

He’d had little enough experience with the softer emotions, but he’d thought he’d seen it in the way her full lips softened, her eyes brightened, and her cheeks blushed. He could do no less than offer her the same respect she gave him. She would do what was best for her and for their child, without his interference.

Neville thrilled with the knowledge that he could do what he must, and Fiona would support him in whatever way he needed. He hadn’t married just a wife or a brood mare; he’d married an equal partner.

The idea was such a new one to him that he needed to study it further, work it over in his mind. But for now, he exulted in the freedom his wife offered.

Swinging his attention back to his friends, he threw down his rapier and kicked Townsend in the ribs. “Who murdered Burke?” he demanded.

***

Gowned in a thick night shift against the damp air of Durham’s derelict castle, Fiona leaned against the massive headboard of some long-forgotten Irish chieftain, and sipped her hot chocolate.

“It’s that grateful I am that it’s all done and said.” The Widow Blackthorn bustled around the room, pressing clothes with her fingers and folding them into neat stacks in Fiona’s trunk. “He’s a butcher and a knave and no two ways about it.”

“Durham?” Fiona asked idly. The last hours had taken a toll on her strength, and she reserved it now for the scene yet to come. She’d spoken with Eamon and McGonigle, but the men in the billiard room had not condescended to explain anything to her as yet.

“Aye, Durham, the wicked, wicked creature, and he with a lily-pure wife who wouldn’t so much as let a drop of cream pass her lips.”

Mrs. B. had a warped way with words, Fiona mused as she sipped her chocolate. Had she not already pried some of the story from Eamon, she would be at a loss for reply.

“He seems little more than a blithering idiot to me, completely under his father-in- law’s thumb.”

Mrs. B. snorted. “Did he look a blithering idiot when he came to your room? Oh, don’t think I don’t know about it,” she warned, shaking out Fiona’s traveling cloak. “For all your clever ways, I still worried when I saw him drinking as he does when he’s into one of his fevers. I worked in this house far too long not to recognize the signs. He’s a mean drunk, is what he is. But it’s usually the servants he goes after, not the guests. There’s not a thing one of us can do. It’s a pure blessing the duke brought him down like he has, although what will become of his tenants, I cannot say.”