Page 47 of The Cornish Bride

Chapter Twenty-One

Ysella stood beside the tiny inn’s back door next to a row of barrels, watching the innkeeper checking over the two pistols Kit had provided for the duel. Oliver stood close by, his eyes fixed on the innkeeper. Did he think Kit would cheat and give him a dud pistol? She added that to the growing list of things she didn’t like, no, hated, now, about Oliver. It only served to make her more conscious of her own terrible behavior and bring fresh heat to her cheeks.

“She’s not to watch,” Kit said to Sam, who was also closely observing the innkeeper’s actions. He’d turned out to be a retired mail coach driver with a good working knowledge of pistols, and quite happy to be asked to stand as a second when an unknown gentleman had come hammering on his door.

Although Ysella was now of the firm opinion that the term “gentleman” no longer seemed to fit Oliver.

Kit slipped out of his coat to stand in his shirt sleeves and brocade waistcoat, and Sam laid it on one of the barrels. Oliver had already removed his.

The innkeeper, clearly enjoying this interlude to his landlordly duties, had eagerly offered up his orchard behind the inn as the prospective battleground. And he’d informed all parties present that no one was likely to disturb them, and that the local constable never came to the village.

Sam nodded, a hint of relief in his eyes.

Ysella felt none of that though. What was it about these men that made them think they could keep on telling her what to do? They were all at it. Kit and Oliver were both tarred with the same brush. They both only saw her as an object, not a person. And now this object was to be fought over. Ridiculous.

The innkeeper set the pistols side by side on the lid of another of the barrels, and Sam approached Ysella, an apologetic expression on his face.

“Ysella,” he said, his voice gentle and persuasive. “Kit’s right. It’s best if you don’t witness this. It could be bloody. You should wait in the inn.”

She looked him up and down. Everything about him was so familiar to her, from the top of his sandy head to his mud-spattered boots. He knew her as well as Kit did, if not better, as for years Kit had hardly been at Ormonde. He must know that she couldn’t wait inside like a normal girl would. That she wasn’t a girl to have the vapors at the sight of blood. She shook her head. “No. This is all my fault. I have to watch. You can’t stop me.”

By the makeshift weapons’ table, Kit shook his head in exasperation and turned away. “Very well. Let this be the start of her penance. To watch her lover’s punishment.” He picked up one of the pistols and strode into the orchard.

Ysella bit her lip. No use pleading with him any further. He’d made his mind up and she might only make matters worse. She was going to have to watch this farce, for that was what it was, to the bitter end. What if she bolted now and took Abelard and ran? Would they still pursue their duel?

“Stay by the gate then,” Sam said. “Keep well away from the line of fire. We don’t want you being hit by a stray shot.”

Ysella stopped at the open gate, one hand on the rough wooden gatepost, her heart hammering against her ribs. Did she want Oliver to die? Her heart was torn. Until so recently she’d considered herself in love with him, despite what he’d done last night and how much she hadn’t liked it. Could she change her mind this quickly, or was it only pique that he’d said he didn’t want to marry her without her fortune? But one thing she didn’t want was for him to kill Kit.

“Twenty paces apart,” Sam said to the innkeeper. “Does that meet with your agreement?”

“Twelve,” Oliver said. “All the better for me to kill Ormonde.”

The innkeeper shook his head. “This is my orchard and if I say ’tis to be twenty paces, then that’s what it’ll be.” Presumably he wasn’t keen to be left with an unaccountable dead body to deal with if they stood closer together. The local constable would have something to say about that, for sure.

Ysella heaved a sigh of relief. She knew from experience, as Kit had taught her to shoot when she was a girl, that at twenty paces it would take a crack marksman to hit his target. If only Oliver were not a soldier with a soldier’s experience with pistols. But Kit was a good shot too. She didn’t want either of them to die. Kit because he was her brother, and Oliver because she didn’t want Kit jailed for murder. But there was nothing she could do to stop this.

An urge rose in her to tell Sam to kill Oliver if he should manage to kill Kit, but they were too far away now, lining up ready to fire, and she didn’t think Sam had a gun of his own, anyway. Sam and the innkeeper had marked out the twenty paces, and both young men now stood facing one another, slightly at an angle so as to give a narrower target.

Both of them raised their pistols.

Ysella held her breath.

A sharp report rang out and Kit staggered backwards, his hand up to the left side of his head. Smoke rose from Oliver’s pistol.

Ysella had to hang onto the gatepost to keep herself upright. Blood was flowing between Kit’s fingers, but he was still upright, and his face had contorted with rage.

Ysella didn’t need telling. Oliver had been aiming for Kit’s head. The intent had been to kill him. This wasn’t just a case of wounding an opponent for the sake of one’s honor, or discharging one’s pistol into the air and saving face. This was all-out war.

“Are you all right to continue?” The innkeeper asked Sam and Kit.

Kit nodded. “I am.” He dropped his hand revealing an ear covered in blood that was now running down into the collar of his shirt. He lifted his pistol again and pointed it at Oliver, who stood very still, his face deathly pale. He must realize Kit knew his intention had been to kill, and now feared Kit would do the same to him.

The barrel lowered, now directed at Oliver’s lower limbs, lingering near where his legs met his body. Kit held it there for a long moment before the nose of the gun rose towards Oliver’s head. Would he take a headshot as Oliver had? Did he want to kill him? Was he the better shot of the two? Or might he have the better pistol? Or luck on his side perhaps?

Ysella caught her breath again.

Kit’s shot rang out, echoing around the orchard. Oliver staggered and a red flower of blood blossomed on his right sleeve. The pistol he was still holding dropped from his slack fingers and his left hand shot up to cover the wound, but he didn’t fall. Winged only. Not a wound he should die from.