A jagged, mirthless laugh clawed its way out of his throat. “Tell them there’s a blight here. Tell them I’m Beelzebub and will eat their daughters. Tell them I’ve grown horns.” His voice teetered on the edge of control. “Makes no difference to me.”
Boyd tracked the arc of the clay pigeon as it sliced through the air. He lifted his rifle, exhaled, and fired. The crack of the shot echoed across the field as the pigeon exploded in a cloud ofdust. The recoil jarred his shoulder, a sharp stab in his already throbbing skull. He should’ve canceled the damn sport along with the dinner.
At Almoster’s signal, the trap boy released three pigeons. The duke raised his rifle with smooth precision, firing in quick succession. Each pigeon shattered midair, his aim unerring.
“Leave some for us, will you?” Boyd clenched his gloved fists.
Almoster’s gaze flicked to him, assessing. His fingers tapped lightly on the wood of his rifle. “I hear there’ll be guests for the Christmas dinner.”
“I invited the devil himself and his entourage,” Boyd replied, his voice flat, the storm within him barely masked.
He nodded at the boy by the trap, who scurried to prepare the clay. Boyd braced himself, his muscles coiling tight, the cool metal of the rifle pressing against his cheek as he lined up the shot, willing the image of Beth’s hurt eyes to dissolve. But it clung stubbornly to the edges of his thoughts. Those beautiful eyes.
“Why invite the neighbors?” Griffin asked, lowering his rifle with a frown. “People you don’t know. People you don’t even care about.”
“Back off,” Boyd snapped, his voice biting, his grip tightening as the throb behind his eyes deepened.
Almoster and Griffin exchanged a glance, heavy with unspoken words.
Griffin broke the silence, his tone cutting. “When Almoster told me about this... this despicable revenge—damn it, Boyd. I can’t believe you dragged my family here for this.”
Boyd crossed his arms. Of course, the cunning duke would figure it out.
Almoster’s brow arched, his diplomatic facade unbroken. “If you relent, there’s an alternative.”
“An alternative?” Boyd’s lips curled in mockery.
“The Duke of Beira’s daughter,” Almoster continued. “Eighteen. Aristocratic. Her father would welcome a match with someone of your stature.”
If Boyd had been drinking, he’d have choked. “They’d allow this uncouth Scot to sully their bloodlines?”
“She has a dowry and stands to inherit a vineyard in the Alentejo region.”
“Tell the family to save their veins.” The sarcasm tasted bitter even in his mouth.
“I can’t allow you to ruin Croft.” Almoster’s gaze narrowed. “I’m prepared to offer him a deal, and Maxwell will assume his business.”
The ache in Boyd’s chest twisted. How quaint for them. How precious. Beth would be saved and restored to the marriage market, yet he couldn’t summon anger—only a dark, consuming urge to kill any man who came near her.
Boyd lifted the rifle, aimed, and fired. The clay shattered, the sound cracking through the cold air, but satisfaction was fleeting. He lowered the gun, glaring at the men beside him. “Why are you two suddenly united? I thought you hated each other.”
Griffin’s jaw flexed as he cast a sidelong glance at Almoster. “He’s my brother-in-law. I don’t hate him.”
“For hell’s sake.” Boyd’s tone was reckless, biting. “You’ve come to blows more than once. He tried to steal your bride, then took your sister right from under your roof.”
Almoster lowered his rifle, his face unreadable. “That’s in the past. Maxwell’s a man of honor. I admire him. A man’s honor defines him.”
Honor.The word struck him like a blow. He had little of that—came in short supply while fighting street urchins for food scraps.
Boyd glanced away, shrinking under the weight of their stares. “I canceled the dinner. Croft deserves to rot in hell, but I can’t bring myself to hurt the lass.”
He dropped the gun and sank into a crouch, elbows braced on his knees. The ache in his head pulsed with every heartbeat. “I shouldn’t have ruined Christmas for your families. I had no right.”
What a farce. He’d taken something meant for joy and twisted it, mocking a tradition he barely understood. He pressed his forehead to his gloved hand, shame tightening in his chest. Let them leave. He deserved their scorn, their disdain.
He waited to hear their footsteps fading.
Instead, the men lowered themselves beside him, silent but steady. Griffin’s hand reached out, pressing a flask into Boyd’s grip. The weight of the offer was oddly comforting.
