Page 81 of A Tale of Two Dukes

Tears of happiness prick my eyes as I wrap myself in the warmth of his feelings for me. It soothes all those hurts that burrowed deep and threatened to scar. For the first time since we bonded, I can see myself through his eyes. Never once was he ashamed of me or wanted to keep me some dirty little secret.

It killed him almost as much as it hurt me to think we could never be married. So many things that have been left unsaid are now satisfied in the span of a moment or two. To think it took this moment for it all to come together.

The smile he gives me is beautiful, full of affection and hope. But then the odious monster shifts, diverting attention back to him. Before the bond can shut back down on his side, I see and feel his fury toward Mr. Beaumont. Coupled with that is the absolute need to kill him to protect me and reclaim what’s his.

Nodding, I stand next to Whiteport, my spine ramrod straight. William needs to concentrate on what happens next and cannot be distracted by me. And so, as Mr. Beaumont draws his gun, I bite down on my lower lip to keep from crying out.

“You think to face me with a pistol?” William taunts, pulling out his own. With a flick of his wrist, he tosses it to the ground. “Anyone can pull off a lucky shot, but do you have the skill to fight me with a rapier?”

For a moment, it looks as if Mr. Beaumont pales at the very thought. But soon, a sly smile crosses his face. Though he keeps the bulk of his thoughts hidden from me, I feel the slimy tendrils of smug satisfaction crawl across my brain.

This can’t be good, but what can I tell William? I have no hard evidence of what the man has planned. I don’t want to give my love false information that might lead to his demise. Oh, what to do?

Gnawing on my bottom lip, I glance up at Whiteport. His gaze tracks Mr. Beaumont’s every move. At least there’s someone here who has William’s best interest at heart.

“Blacksmith,” William calls over to the burly man. “Are you equipped at directing this duel, or do your talents merely lie in procuring coin in exchange for marriage?”

The man rolls up his sleeves, a grin slashing across his face. “Aye. That I can do. As if a Scotsman knows only of fucking and not fighting.” From the crowd, raucous laughter lifts in the air, setting my nerves on edge.

It’s then that Whiteport steps forward, revealing two rapiers he somehow kept hidden under his coat. Or is it I was too overcome to notice? Both men take their blades.

Mr. Beaumont takes his time, making a grand show of examining every inch, but there’s not a chance William would tamper with it. My mate has more honor than this insect could even hope to possess.

“It is indeed a pity you have no second to examine it for you, but then, this is not your typical duel,” William taunts.

Whiteport rolls his shoulders. “As Birchleigh’s second, I should extend to you the opportunity to apologize, but we both know your crimes go far beyond what mere words can fix. This duel,” he pauses for a moment, searching William’s face. They lock gazes, standing still until my mate nods. “This duel will be fought to the death.”

“As it should be,” Mr. Beaumont sneers. “Your little harlot is mine and will remain so.” Turning, he addresses the blacksmith. “Once this duke is dispatched, you will marry us on the spot.”

“I cannae do so in good conscience. Now that I know the lass is unwilling, ye will get no such convenience from me.”

With a snarl, he turns, his eyes boring into mine. Once he’s dead, it will no longer matter. I will be the only one to hold your bond, and as such, you will be unable to resist my command. Killing your paramour will only solidify our union. Know this, I will fuck you tonight, with or without some blasted ceremony.

The sense of his lust pours over me, coating me from the inside out. My stomach heaves as I turn, unable to look upon the licentious gleam in his eyes. Right now, William is my only hope.

Making quick work of their jackets, they stand there in their breeches and shirts. As much as I want to admire William’s physique, I detest the reason he stands there. I don’t doubt his skill, but I’d rather not tempt fate.

Such pretty thoughts. I hope you’ll look at me in such kind regard once he’s dead and under my boot. Not that it matters. All I have to do is growl and your slick will flow for me. You’ll beg me to take you even before Birchleigh is cold in the ground.

Revulsion churns my stomach as I watch his lips tilt up into a grin. William has to win. He just has to. Right now, there’s no other option.

If my true mate knows the nature of this conversation, he makes no show of it.

“Come, do you delay your fate for fear? Or is it lack of skill that holds your hand at bay?” William holds the sword steady as he goads Mr. Beaumont.

With a loud shout, the fiend races forward in a clash of metal. I long to hide my gaze, to refuse to look upon the potential carnage that plays out before me. But to do so feels like a betrayal to William. It’s for my sake, my honor, that he fights.

And so, as the sun continues to climb, I force myself to gaze upon both the man I love and the man I despise as they collide and separate. Next to me, Whiteport watches the affair, his hands and shoulders moving along with them. It’s as if he’s also fighting Mr. Beaumont.

Inside my head is a jumble of thoughts, none of them making any sense. I try to follow the erratic words as they flit through the bastard’s mind, but I can’t hold on to any of them. Anger and bloodlust coat his very thoughts as he thrusts and parries.

Feinting to the right, he moves, quick as lightning, before drawing the blade across William’s arm. Vermillion stains the linen as he grunts, clutching the wound. I move to run to him, to help staunch the blood, but Whiteport’s implacable grip holds me steady.

In my mind, Mr. Beaumont gloats, his thoughts a riot of glee and vengefulness. Tears prick my eyes as the monster continues to attack, forcing William to defend himself. It’s a bloody, angry mess as the men clash.

Both have their injuries, but to my untrained eye, it seems as if my mate bears the brunt of it. To ask Whiteport would be to distract him, and that’s not a viable solution at the moment. Mr. Beaumont wipes his brow, bits of red splotching here and there, a far cry from the half a sleeve of blood sticking to William’s arm.

Unable to look, I turn, seeking some form of comfort. I cannot bear the idea of burrowing into Whiteport’s arms, and based on the intensity of his gaze as he watches the duel, he will be of no use to me. Wringing my hands, I have no choice but to either close my eyes or look upon the melee.