Page 46 of The Cornish Bride

“And her children?”

“If they were yours.”

A long silence stretched out. Featherstone looked across at where Sam still held Ysella tight within his embrace, her small hands pressed against his chest. “Well,” he said, with what looked like deliberate calm. “It’s a good thing I no longer wish to marry your sister then.”

“What?” Ysella’s startled voice cut through the charged air. “But you said you loved me.” For a moment she struggled in Sam’s arms, before her body sagged against his.

“That was when you had a sizeable fortune to your name, my dear Ysella,” Featherstone snapped. “You were a sight more attractive back then. A shame, but there you are, a man’s got to do his best for himself and damn the consequences.”

In one swift movement, Kit leaned forward from Abelard’s saddle and grabbed Featherstone by his lapels, dragging him half out of the gig. “I knew you for a fortune hunter the moment I laid eyes on you. A fortune hunter and a cad.” Abelard, deprived of a controlling hand on the reins, took a few steps forward and Featherstone came right out of the gig. Kit released his hold, letting him drop into the wet mud underfoot.

Ysella gasped in shock, but made no effort to go to him.

Featherstone lay in the mud for a long moment as though totally surprised by what had just happened to him. Then he pushed himself up, his face contorting in anger. His clothes were liberally covered in filth. A sly, malevolent expression replaced the anger. “How dare you insult me so, sir?” He brushed himself down, but that didn’t improve matters, merely smearing the mud still further. “I take offense at your treatment of this honest suitor for your sister’s hand.” He glanced across at Sam and Ysella. “And I challenge you to a duel.”

Oh no. Sam had thought he’d only needed to persuade Kit not to challenge the man, but he’d not taken into account that the bounder might challenge Kit.

Ysella gave a small scream of horror and buried her face in Sam’s coat. He held her a little tighter.

“Accepted,” Kit spat. “Although I don’t know where you’ll find yourself a second in the middle of nowhere. You can see mine is ready and waiting.” He nodded at Sam. “Now, get back in your vehicle and go and find someone stupid enough to want to help you before I knock you down again.”

“I don’t need a second,” Featherstone erupted, clearly boiling with a rage more to do with the indignity he’d just suffered than anything regarding Ysella. Sam knew a man whose pride had been dented when he saw one. “I’ll fight you right now.” A dangerous light glowed in Featherstone’s eyes that Sam didn’t like one bit.

Sam pushed Ysella behind himself. “We’re not doing it without the proper seconds. You’ll have to furnish one or back down.” Hopefully, this would prevent the duel taking place and calm matters down. Sam would far rather have punched Featherstone on the nose a few times, well, a lot of times, than faced him in an illegal duel. The former would give him a lot more pleasure.

Abelard fidgeted under Kit’s overtight hands on the reins. “And prove yourself the coward you are.” His lip curled in a sneer worthy of his father.

Oh no. Trust Kit to add fuel to the flames. Sam swore under his breath. All he wanted to do was get Ysella away from this man as fast as he could.

“No one calls me a coward.” Featherstone climbed back into the gig. “At the next village, I’ll drag the blacksmith or the baker out to stand second for me. You see if I don’t. Now, get out of my way.” He lashed the horse across its back with the whip, and it leapt forward in its traces, jerking the gig along behind it, the wheels sending mud flying.

Sam watched it make its rattling way along the road, one hand still on Ysella’s arm where she stood beside him now. She gave a little sob. He turned around, and without thinking, took her in his arms again. The most natural thing, to hold the crying girl tight against his chest, to put his hands on her back and pat her sorrows away. If that were at all possible. If only he could keep on doing this.

“Right,” Kit said, wheeling Abelard around and spraying still more mud up. “To the next village it is.”

“No!” Ysella cried, her voice muffled against Sam’s greatcoat. “You mustn’t fight him, Kit. You mustn’t.” Her voice shook. “I’m not worth it. I’m a terrible sister and I’ve done terrible things. It’s all my fault. Don’t fight him. Please don’t. I don’t want you getting hurt because of me.”

Kit looked down at her from the great height Abelard gave him. “On the contrary, Ysella,” he said, his voice just as cold as it had been with Featherstone. “I’m not fighting him for you but for my own honor. As you have none of your own worth fighting for.”

Sam bristled at Kit’s words and held Ysella tighter. Tears ran down her face, but she didn’t argue with his description of her. Instead she wailed, “He’s a soldier, Kit. Don’t fight him. He’ll be a deadly shot. I know he will be.”

Sam nodded, determined to deter Kit from his course. “And he’ll get first shot as he challenged you. He could kill you, and then what will become of Ysella? You’d not be there to control her fortune, and he’d marry her in a trice and get his hands on her money, which is what he wants. And it’s plain he doesn’t love her. Even she can see that now. That’ll be why he’s challenged you. He must think if he kills you, he’ll get what he wants.” He looked down at the girl in his arms. “And I’m sure she doesn’t want to marry him now she’s discovered all he was after was her fortune.”

For answer Ysella burst into more sobs. They might have been because she thought she still loved Featherstone, or for his betrayal of her, or out of fear for Kit. Sam had no idea. All he wanted was to be able to stem her tears and tell her everything was going to be all right. But he couldn’t.

He fished his handkerchief out of his coat pocket and handed it to her. She blew her nose on it with vigor.

“What are we waiting for?” Kit said. “He’ll be at the next village already selecting some yokel to act as his second. Get back on your horse. Ysella can ride with you, as Hercules is more up to weight than Abelard.”

Sam looked at Ysella. She didn’t appear to be in any condition to ride, but he had to do as Kit said. He couldn’t let his employer continue on without him to the village. Who knew but that Featherstone wouldn’t be lying in wait around the next corner like a common ruffian, preparing to forestall the duel by picking Kit off in advance.

He held out his hand. “Here, put your foot in my hand and I’ll give you a leg up. You can sit on the pommel of my saddle.”

“If I had my boys’ clothes,” Ysella said with a sniff. “I could ride astride very easily.”

“Well, you don’t,” Kit almost snarled, as though her boys’ clothes had been the root cause of her predicament. “So get up quickly and we’ll continue.”

With uncharacteristic obedience, Ysella set her small, booted foot in Sam’s hands and consented to being hoisted onto the front of his saddle. Sam mounted himself and settled her half on the pommel and half across his lap, her legs hanging down on the left of Hercules. This was going to prove an awkward ride. It had been all right to hold her close and comfort her on the ground, but now she was almost in his lap, with the pressure of her weight resting on his legs, a wave of embarrassment washed over him. She had her head down, her whole body leaning against his chest, perhaps in shame at what she’d done and how Featherstone had treated her, so hopefully she wouldn’t notice his hot cheeks.

They set off down the road in the direction the gig had departed.

*

Ysella nestled againstSam’s strong chest, keeping her head bowed. She had no desire to look either him or Kit in the eye. How dare Oliver reveal what they’d done last night as though it were something to boast about? Her feelings for him had undergone a radical transformation the moment he’d declared he no longer wanted to marry her, his words still echoing through her mind in a most confusing manner. But her poor deceived heart still ached for what she’d thought she was going to have.

He’d said he didn’t want to marry her if she had no fortune. His sneering laughter. His smug face when he’d told Kit and Sam how she’d wanted to do that thing last night. How he’d persuaded her into it by telling her they’d soon be married. How her body had betrayed her by wanting to do it. How it had hurt and he’d just rolled over afterwards and gone to sleep, when really, she’d wanted him to hold her in his arms and reassure her. How mortifying this whole affair was becoming. More tears ran down her cheeks to soak into Sam’s coat front.

The fact that she was even now being held in Sam’s strong arms added more layers to her humiliation. That he should see her like this and know what she’d done. It was bad enough that Kit should discover her stupidity, but for Sam to have been witness to it as well? Sam, her dear friend, a man who’d always been there for her whenever she needed him. Sam, who would now see her as soiled goods. She’d never marry now. And if she had a child after what Oliver had done to her, it would be a bastard, without rights of any kind. Perhaps she should run away, but this time by herself, instead of bringing shame on her family.

How quickly fancied love could change to hate. Yes, she hated Oliver for how he’d duped her. But he wasn’t the only one to blame. She was too. She’d been everything she shouldn’t have been—headstrong, selfish, thoughtless, and above all, foolish. And Oliver had taken full advantage of that.

And now he’d challenged Kit to a duel, all because Kit had, rightfully it now seemed, seen him for what he was and come to rescue her. She should have listened to Kit. It would be all her fault if anything happened to Kit. Oliver, as the challenger, would get first shot, and he would kill Kit. Then he’d come back for her and make her marry him to get his hands on her fortune, and she’d be stuck with a man she could no more love now than the lowest beggar in the street.

She began to feel warmer as Sam’s body heat seeped into her. The smell of horses and some faint remembrance of men’s perfume overlaid a hint of sweat. The smell of a real man, not a dandy like Oliver who reeked of heavy perfume. Ysella snuggled in closer to Sam’s reassuring bulk, a suggestion of safety adhering to his presence. If Oliver did kill Kit, heaven forbid, then surely Sam would never let him take her.