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The lethal hum of a blade swishing through air had him turning around. Predictably, Cringlewood was warming up with a series of extravagant flourishes and parries, no doubt hoping to frighten him. Royal thought he looked like a bloody ponce, but there was no doubt the man was skilled. The duel would be far from a stroll in the park.
Royal stripped off his coat and rolled up his sleeves.
After Smith directed the other thug to push the chaise and a few chairs out of the way, the combatants moved to the center of the room.
“Good luck, lad,” Angus called.
“You’ll need it, with that leg of yours,” Cringlewood said with a sneer.
Royal brought up his sword. “En garde.”
They engaged with a hiss of Sheff ield steel, blade sliding on blade. Royal immediately lunged, using the strength in his arm and wrist to push hard, forcing the marquess to fall back. The man recovered with a skillful parry, holding his own against Royal’s risky, full-on attack.
His leg wouldn’t hold up for long. He had to take Cringlewood out quickly or hope Logan would appear in time to save them.
Even though Royal kept up a fierce pace, Cringlewood was as skilled as he’d boasted. He parried with dexterity, escaping the lethal slide of Royal’s blade again and again as their boots alternately pounded with a lunge or slid when they disengaged.
The minutes stretched in a dangerous and swift thrust and parry of steel. Royal’s focus narrowed to the tip of the blades and the reach of Cringlewood’s arm. The chance of death didn’t matter. All that mattered was saving his wife and daughter. If he had to die, so be it.
He blinked sweat from his eyes and saw an opening. Disengaging, he passed his blade under Cringlewood’s point and slashed through the man’s right sleeve. The marquess cursed and fell back, allowing Royal a few precious moments to catch his breath.
Smith leveled his pistol at Royal, obviously preparing to defend his master if necessary.
“Here, now,” barked Angus, turning on the man. “Ye’ll not be—”
A thundering crash and a shout from somewhere in the house froze them all in their tracks.
“What the hell was that?” the other thug yelped.
Royal wiped his brow on his sleeve. “You’ll see. Best give it up now, Cringlewood.”
“One of you, go see what’s going on,” the marquess ordered.
Smith jerked his head at his henchman, who lumbered out the door. Angus smiled at Royal and casually reached for the top of his boot.
“It’s done, Cringlewood,” Royal said. “Those are my men. They’ll be up here momentarily.”
“Too late for you, unfortunately,” the marquess snarled.
Cringlewood lunged, and the point of his blade flashed dangerously close to Royal’s shoulder, forcing him to twist violently to the side. His thigh muscles cramped, and blazing pain shot up his leg. He stumbled, falling heavily against the chaise.
The marquess let out a breathless laugh and pressed forward, his eyes blazing with triumph. Royal dragged his blade up, trying to block him, but he was exposed. He was . . .
Boom.
Gunshot echoed off the walls.
The marquess jerked, and dropped his blade. He swayed as a red stain bloomed in his shoulder, spreading rapidly.
With a snarl, Smith turned and pointed his weapon at Ainsley. “You bitch!”
But a moment later, Smith let out a startled yell. He staggered forward a few steps before crashing heavily to the floor. The handle of a knife stuck out from his back at a wicked angle, having been neatly slid under his ribs. Smith gurgled and thrashed for a few moments, then lay still.
“You killed him,” Cringlewood gasped.
“Aye, looks like it.” Angus stooped to retrieve his blade.
Cringlewood’s gaze filmed over with shock and astonishment. The color drained from his face as the bloodstain spread from his shoulder down to his chest.
