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Another figure caught his eye, approaching from the opposite direction that Simon had come from and also on horseback. Alice’s cry of distress at the clash of blades distracted him. The point of Simon’s sword scraped across Harold’s shoulder, cutting through his shirt, and drawing blood. Simon had been distracted too or the blade might have plunged into the flesh instead of scraping the skin.
With a cry of triumph, Simon lunged again, eyes wide. Harold brought up the hilt of his sword, struck at the inside of Simon’s wrist to knock his sword arm wide, then smashed his elbow into Simon’s face, connecting with the cheek as Simon turned away from the attack. The blow knocked Simon backward, arms windmilling for balance. Harold moved forward, striking at Simon’s right arm, and piercing the bicep. Then, as Simon’s sword fell from nerveless fingers, Harold smoothly shifted his footing and drew back his arm to deliver the killing blow.
“No!” Alice cried, spurring her horse to a gallop.
Harold froze. Simon staggered back, clutching his wounded arm. Harold edged forward, sword raised. He put his foot beneath the sword Simon had dropped, kicked it up, and caught it out of the air. Then he pointed both weapons at his opponent.
“Harold, no, please!” Alice cried. “He’s my brother.”
Simon stared at him, fear alive in his eyes. Despite that, he wasn’t trying to run.
“Do it then. Complete your infamy,” Simon spat. “Your father was responsible for the death of my father. You will be responsible for my brother’s death and mine.”
Harold’s blood was boiling in his veins. The fight had ignited a blood lust that he had not felt since his days in the army. This man had been a thorn in his side and now he could easily make an end of him. None would blame him. A magistrate would see a lawful duel fought between gentlemen, according to rules.
I could do it now. End his slander and defend the honor of my family. But I will lose Alice. What is more important to me? My family honor? Or her.
Harold’s eyes flicked towards Alice. She swayed visibly in the saddle, a silk bandage wrapped around her forehead. Her skin was pale and her eyes red-rimmed.
“What are you doing here? You should be in bed,” Harold said.
“I finally got the truth out of Ruth. About your duel. I will not allow it.”
“This is beyond you, sister,” Simon said. “Let the Duke complete his shame. I am not afraid.”
“Shut up, Simon. You bloody fool!” Alice yelled.
The sudden shout was too much for her weakened constitution. Her eyes half-closed and she raised a shaking hand to her head. Then she was falling from the saddle. Harold threw the two swords from him and sprinted to her side, catching her as she tumbled from the saddle. He gently lowered her to the ground.
“I say! That is not on, old chap!” Max said indignantly.
Harold glanced up. Simon had picked up his sword, holding its shaking point in his left arm. Shaking or not, it was aimed at Harold. Who looked away dismissively. He stroked the hair from Alice’s face, his attention entirely upon her. Simon shuffled closer, reaching out to prod him with the tip of the sword. Harold ignored him. Alice’s eyes fluttered open and she gazed into his.
“You should not be here, you little fool,” Harold said with a sternness he did not feel.
Instead, fear for Alice had turned his insides to water. His only concern was seeing her to safety. Simon could stab him in the back if he wished. Harold would fight no more. He picked Alice up.
“Max, help me get her into the saddle. If you would be so kind as to take my horse, I will ride with Lady Hathway to my townhouse.”
“You will stay and give me satisfaction!” Simon spat.
Harold smiled grimly. “You win, Hathway. I concede the duel and apologize. You are the victor. Now, get out of my way.”
CHAPTER30
Alice woke from fitful sleep, broken by glimpses of London streets and the faces of passersby lifted to peer at her. She had a memory of Simon’s voice, raised in shrill, impotent anger. He had been demanding that she stay.
No, not me. He was demanding that Harold stay. Stay and fight. He would have died before backing down.
The open sky was replaced by a doorway, a plastered and molded ceiling. Then a soft bed into which she was being lowered. Time passed. More sleep rolled her under and the sun stuttered through the sky. When true wakefulness swept over her, she found herself looking at Harold. He was sitting in an armchair, smoking a cigar, booted feet propped one on top of the other on a footstool.
A merrily crackling fire warmed the room and gave a pleasant enveloping air of wood smoke.
“Back with us?” Harold said with a raised eyebrow.
“Must you smoke? It smells repellent,” Alice replied.
“It helps me think,” Harold said, taking a long draw on the cigar.
