Page 60 of The Duke Meets His Match

A strange rasping sound echoed in the library. With rising dismay, Chloe realized it was coming from the duke, and she watched as his breathing grew labored.

“Stop it, Henry,” she said. “Put that away. You must see what it’s doing to him.”

“I see, but I don’t care. He owes me.” Clenching the letter in his fist, Henry took a step forward and glared at the duke with burning, reproachful eyes. “Shall I read it out loud, Your Grace, or will you?”

A chill seemed to envelope the room. Michael’s gaze lowered to the bloodstained parchment, and he stiffened. His eyes dilated. His jaw hardened like granite. His expression darkened with a fierce, faraway look. One that Chloe recognized all too well.

Chloe’s heart pounded in dread. “Henry, stop,” she demanded.

But Henry didn’t notice the signs or heed her warning. He unfolded the letter and began to read in a clipped, tense voice, “To my closest friend, Lord Michael Keswick. If I shall perish in battle, then my last wish is for you to look after my son and sole heir—”

“Stop!” she repeated.

Henry’s face was a glowering mask of rage. “You’ve never spoke of that day, Your Grace, and I demand the truth. Did my father cry out in pain when the bullet tore into his chest? Did he beg you to help him? Did you try to stop the bleeding yourself or call out for the army surgeon? Did you stay by my father’s side as he took his last breath?”

Michael’s chest heaved. His fists clenched at his sides, but he held still and seemed incapable of speech.

“Did you promise a dying man that you’d look after his only son, knowing you were lying? Did you?” At Michael’s continued silence, Henry’s temper flared. Clenching his teeth, he stepped forward and shoved the duke in the chest.

Michael still didn’t respond. His attention was focused on the letter in Henry’s hand.

“Answer me!” Henry shoved him again, this time with more force.

Again, no response.

“Coward!” Henry slammed the letter against Michael’s chest. “You have no honor. Take this so that you never forget my father’s sacrifice.”

Michael flinched as if the parchment burned him through the layers of broadcloth and linen. He came to life then and tried to push the letter away, tried to evade Henry’s grasp. But Henry was relentless.

A low menacing growl came from Michael’s throat that caused gooseflesh to rise on her arms.

Oh no. She recognized that frightening sound. In his mind, he was on the battlefield. Just as when he saw Napoleon’s carriage. Just as when the fireworks exploded in the gardens. But now, a physical reminder of that terrifying day had been thrust before him, was touching him.

It all happened swiftly. Michael’s lips pulled back from his teeth and he wrapped his hands around Henry’s throat. Henry’s eyes bulged in shock.

Chloe lurched forward. “Michael! Stop!”

But Michael didn’t look at her, his face twisted in anger. He was in the thick of battle, his blood running hot and fierce in a struggle for survival. He didn’t know what he was doing or that it was Henry he was attacking. In his mind, it could be the French soldier who had shot and killed his best friend.

Chloe tried to pry Michael’s hands loose, but she couldn’t move him an inch. Henry wheezed.

Oh God.

The younger man didn’t stand a chance against Michael’s superior strength. Henry began batting furiously at Michael’s hands.

She needed to reach him, to bring him back to safety. “Michael, it’s me! It’s Chloe. You need to stop.” She felt the slightest hesitation in him. “Let him go,” she pleaded.

Just then, Henry flailed out in a desperate attempt to escape and struck her head. She cried out as a sharp pain pierced her temple. She stumbled back and reached out to grasp a chair, but missed. Her shoe snagged in the Oriental carpet, and she tripped and landed hard on the floor.

It was enough to make Michael halt. He reared back and dropped his hands from Henry’s throat, then he looked down to where she lay sprawled and stunned on the library floor.

A flicker of emotion flashed in his eyes. Recognition? Confusion? He blinked and focused on her face. “Chloe?”

She reached for him, desperate to ensure he had returned. “Yes…yes… It’s me.”

He dropped to his knees beside her on the carpet.

At last, he let out a long breath and leaned back on his knees. His brows slashed downward, and he touched her temple. Pulling back, he stared at the blood on his finger. “Jesus. You’re hurt.”