Tremaine's True Love (33 page)

“Horton is the only physician in the shire,” George said, “and you’ve agreed to face a fellow over a pair of loaded pistols. When you’re through dispatching Nash, you might consider shooting me. Nicholas is the magistrate and takes a dim view of ritual murder because it upsets his countess.”

Other people had woes and worries. Tremaine recalled that as he passed his coat to George. The cold air would wake Nash up, which struck Tremaine as fair, if loaded pistols were involved.

“What would the lovely Mrs. Nash have to say about your demise?” Tremaine asked, passing George two gold sleeve buttons and rolling back a cuff.

“As long as you kill Edward first, Digby will inherit Stonebridge, so Elsie would manage. I’d like to survive until my wedding night though.”

“I thought as much,” Tremaine said. “Never did favor public school, myself. Will Bellefonte truly be upset with you?”

George draped Tremaine’s coat over William’s saddle. “He’ll be upset that he couldn’t be here and must instead bide at home with the womenfolk, pretending he’s not worried to death about you. Nash is not accounted any kind of shot.”

“He’s no kind of man,” Tremaine said, “though I won’t be his executioner. Did you know his brother had taken liberties with your sister?”

A man facing death lost his tenuous grip on the niceties of polite conversation. Then too, George was apparently a friend willing to waive those niceties. Across the clearing, Nash was bouncing around as if boxing with an imaginary sparring partner.

“Norton Nash was a handsome charmer,” George said, “but he’s a dead handsome charmer. Nita never said a word, but Addy Chalmers’s situation bears consideration. Addy was a decent girl until she turned up with child shortly after Norton joined up.”

“And we’re told life in the country is boring,” Tremaine said.

He was not afraid to die. Every shepherd stranded in the high pastures in the midst of an early winter storm came to terms with death. A businessman impersonating a Frenchman on a Continent wracked by war attended to the same reconciliation.

But Tremaine St. Michael did not want to die. He did not want Nita burdened with his death, and he did not want to give up hope that somehow, he and Nita might come to terms.

“I’ll see if your opponent is done impersonating Gentleman Jackson after a few pints too many,” George said, clapping Tremaine on the shoulder and crossing the clearing.

Tremaine had no patience with the aristocratic lunacy of “the field of honor.” Life was precious, and he’d no more blow Edward Nash’s brains out over a few stupid words than he’d drive his sheep into the sea.

And yet Lady Nita Haddonfield’s good name could not go undefended any longer. Her brothers were bewildered by her, her sisters fretted for her, but none of them defended the honor of the only woman Tremaine knew who battled death with no thought for herself. Horton’s criticisms, the vicar’s snide sermons, Nash’s sneering condescension were unacceptable.

Ingrates, the lot of them.

Nash’s heir might be dying of lung fever but for Nita Haddonfield, her courage, her generosity, and her command of medical science.

As George conferred with Nash’s seconds—he had two who apparently knew little about the entire undertaking, for they’d had to consult Dr. Horton frequently—Tremaine was smacked by an insight.

He was risking death because of a stupid slur to Nita’s good name. When Nita risked death,
she
at
least
did
so
in
the
name
of
restoring
some
helpless
soul
to
good
health
.

Though Nash would delope. The bad shots always deloped rather than expose their lack of skill.

“Gentlemen, take your places,” George said.

Tremaine went to the middle of the clearing and turned his back to his opponent. When Nash took his place, Tremaine could smell rank sweat and gin, and the entire undertaking acquired a pathetic quality.

Tremaine might want to shoot the bastard, but Nita wouldn’t appreciate that.

As the count slowly progressed, Tremaine paced along, sorrow and sweetness walking with him. He might never kiss Nita Haddonfield again—“five”—never hold her again—“seven”—never argue with her again—“ten”—never see her smile again.

Sorrows, all of them.

But he had kissed her—“twelve”—held her—“fourteen”—argued with her, and beheld her many smiles—“sixteen.” God willing—

On the count of eighteen, a pistol shot rang through the clearing, and a burning pain cut through Tremaine’s right calf.

Incredulity leaped along with physical agony, for the bastard had ruined an excellent riding boot.

And fired early.

“Foul!” George cried. “Mr. Nash, you’ve fired before the end of the count. Mr. St. Michael, you may take your shot.”

Fire, Tremaine would, though turning around was a bloody uncomfortable undertaking with a boot full of hot coals. He raised his arm, straightened it—the gun shook not at all, while Nash was wetting himself—then cocked an elbow and fired aloft.

As the second shot rang out, George dashed to Tremaine’s side and got an arm around his waist.

“I’ve never seen such poor marksmanship or such bad form. We can have Nash arrested, you know. Nicholas will oblige.”

“Why is Horton coming over here?”

“Because you’ve been shot, old boy,” George said gently as he helped Tremaine to the edge of the clearing. “You’re leaving a brilliant little trail of blood in the snow, and that can’t be an encouraging sign.”

Horton bustled up, a black bag clutched in his hand. “Cut that boot off him, Mr. Haddonfield. My scalpel will do the job.”

He produced a thin knife from his bag, a rusty stain along its blade.

“And then you’ll use that knife on me?” Tremaine asked.

“The blade is sharp,” Horton retorted, “and you’re not in a position to be choosy, sir. Damned lot of nonsense, if you ask me.”

Nita Haddonfield’s good name was not a damned lot of nonsense. Blood created a sticky warmth inside Tremaine’s boot, his calf was on fire, and George Haddonfield was all that held him up.

“Doctor, your services will not be needed,” Tremaine said. “My thanks for your time.”

“St. Michael, don’t be an idiot,” George hissed. “You’re losing blood. A bullet could be poisoning your leg as we speak. I can’t carry you back to Belle Maison.”

“William can carry me,” Tremaine said, though his own voice sounded far away and very like his grandfather’s. “The question is, will Lady Nita treat me if I survive the journey?”

* * *

“Two shots,” Leah murmured as she paced her private parlor. “They couldn’t even take their stupidity out of hearing of the house?”

“Sounds travel in cold air,” Kirsten said. “Nita, are you feeling better?”

“I’m not as queasy.” But Nita was not
better
, for those pistol shots only confirmed that two grown men with far better things to do had aimed deadly weapons at each other.

“If Edward survives, I will cut him directly in the churchyard,” Susannah said.
Titus
Andronicus
lay open on her lap. “I’ll be sure the entire village is watching, and Vicar too.”

“Vicar has already taken me into dislike,” Nita said. “No need for you to get into his bad graces too.”

“We can start our own congregation,” Addy suggested. “Women who refuse to let Vicar’s opinion of them rob them entirely of faith.”

“Hear, hear,” Della said, raising the teapot as if it were her personal drinking horn. “At least the duel is over. Those shots came from the direction of the home wood. Shall we send Nicholas to investigate?”

“I’ll go,” Nita said, rising. “If a duel has been fought over me, then I have no more good name to protect, do I?” For her sisters’ sake, that notion really should bother her, but all that mattered was that Tremaine be alive and remain that way.

“You certainly do,” Addy retorted, “but I’ll go with you.”

The other women were on their feet in an instant.

“I’ll give Edward the benefit of my opinion regarding dueling,” Susannah said, tossing poor
Titus
in the direction of the sofa.

“I’ll bribe George,” Kirsten added, “for he was present when Edward issued his challenge. Men never tell us the parts that matter, and Della says she saw George in a compromising situation with a certain comely widow.”

“Nicholas can’t go,” Leah said, “but he’ll want specifics. Who was the widow, Kirsten?”

Nita was fairly certain who the widow was. She did not, however, recognize this band of angels intent on protecting her from the very bad news that might have resulted from the duel.

“You needn’t accompany me,” Nita said. “If I’m to be ruined, the less you’re seen in my company, the better.”

“You’re not ruined,” Addy said fiercely.

“I agree with Addy,” Leah said, and as the countess and highest title in the shire, she could speak with authority. “Nicholas will dissuade anybody from discussing today’s events. Men must be allowed their silly crotchets, after all. Ladies, we’ll need our boots and cloaks.”

“Nita should bring her medical bag,” Della said. “Duels can get messy.”

“Surely not—” Nita began, because that bag was an item of loathing among her family members and had figuratively cost her a future with Tremaine.

“Horton will be there,” Kirsten added. “And Edward thinks of himself as a great rural sportsman. I don’t doubt Mr. St. Michael is an excellent shot.”

Good God, Horton, with his dirty instruments and complete disregard for the patient’s pain. Terror for Tremaine threatened to choke Nita where she stood.

“Fetch your bag,” Susannah said.

“Get your cloak,” Leah said, “and I’ll fetch the medical bag for you.”

* * *

George Haddonfield was apparently a connoisseur of good whiskey, for Tremaine had nearly drained that worthy fellow’s flask before William shuffled to a halt. The horse stood placidly outside the Belle Maison kitchen door while Tremaine enjoyed another dram. Excellent stuff. Slowed down the cold creeping over a man from within.

“I’ll find a footman,” George said, swinging off his gelding. “Don’t, for God’s sake, fall out of your saddle, St. Michael. Nicholas might even be about, and if he can help, that’s one less source of gossip—”

The kitchen door opened and a half-dozen women in cloaks and scarves emerged.

“The jury has assembled,” Tremaine murmured. “Ladies, I apologize for my condition. Bit messy, you see. Mourning the end of a fine boot and a finer engagement.”

“He’s tipsy,” George muttered. “Nash fired early and St. Michael got the worst of it, but you lot aren’t to know any of that.”

“Stone sober,” Tremaine retorted cheerily. “But, alas, not in any condition to dismount unaided.”

“I’ll lead the horses to the stable,” Susannah said. “Leah, let Nicholas know Mr. St. Michael has survived his ordeal. If I’m not back by noon, I’ve gone to kill Edward Nash.”

“You can’t kill him,” Addy Chalmers said—what was
she
doing among the assemblage? “He’s Mary’s uncle. I’ll go with you.”

“Get Mr. St. Michael into the kitchen.” Nita spoke with the crisp dispatch of a field marshal confident of victory. Pain hadn’t robbed Tremaine of consciousness, but the relief of knowing Nita would tend him nearly put him into a swoon.

“I’m sorry to bother you, my lady,” Tremaine said as George more or less pulled him off his horse. “Hadn’t meant to impose, but Horton was there with his dirty knife. Paracelsus would disapprove.”

“I would disapprove,” Nita said. The damned woman was smiling, also crying, as she slipped an arm around Tremaine’s waist. “Slowly, George, and once we get Mr. St. Michael out of the cold, his bleeding might become profuse.”

Tremaine’s heartache was already profuse. “You may remove my leg if you like,” he said as he was half carried into the kitchen. “You are already in possession of my heart.”

“A tipsy shepherd poet,” George murmured. “Where do you want him?”

“On the table. I’ll need blankets, more whiskey, quantities of sugar, bandages, and as much prayer as you can muster.”

“What about my heart?” Tremaine asked as he was propped against the kitchen worktable. “Do you need that as well?”

Nita held a flask up to his mouth, more of George Haddonfield’s lovely brew. Tremaine dutifully gulped but fought off a growing mental fog, because he needed an answer to his question.

“Shall you hold on to my heart, Lady Nita?”

“You’re tipsy, Mr. St. Michael, and weak from loss of blood. Right now, I’ll hold on to your leg while George cuts your boot off.”

Tremaine might have importuned Lady Nita further, but she kissed him, a sweet, nighty-night kiss that boded well for his heart. She’d also called him Mr. St. Michael in the brisk tones that had ever been a cause for good cheer.

When George started peeling off the abused boot, an agony of fire shot through Tremaine that did not bode at all well for his leg.

He let the darkness take him, because if anybody could restore him to adequate health, it was Nita Haddonfield. Though—alas for true love—that admission rather shot the other boot off of Tremaine’s objections to her medical calling.

* * *

Tremaine St. Michael had been lucky. Edward’s shot had apparently hit a rock and scraped a deep furrow in the victim’s flesh, though the bullet had spent most of its force before striking Tremaine.

The scar would be substantial, and the blood loss had been as well, but if infection didn’t set in, the patient would recover.

Nita was a ferocious opponent of infection. No ammunition, not Cook’s hoard of white sugar, not her stores of honey, not George’s last bottle of what he called “winter whiskey,” was too precious to spare in the fight against infection.