Page 124 of The Duke's Counterfeit Wife

“Ye’ll no’ hurt the Duke, nor me,” he growled. “And when the authorities learn what ye’ve done, we’ll be able to use ye to track down Blackrose.”

Something like desperation flashed across the man’s expression. “You have no proof!”

His bravado wrenched a startled laugh from Griffin. “Ye shot Armstrong! Trying to murder me! We all saw it!”

“And I have the proof we need!” Bull announced triumphantly as he stepped up beside Griffin, glaring at Totwafel. “I recorded it with the camera! Totwafel shooting Ian.”

Griffin doubted that was necessary—Peasgoode’s testimony alone would be enough to convict Totwafel—but it was an excellent instinct.

He sent Bull a proud nod. “I have to admit, I’m impressed, lad.”

The boy’s grin turned…hesitant. Embarrassed? “Thanks, Gruff.” He cleared his throat. “Now we can prosecute Totwafel, and use what he kens to hunt down Blackrose!”

That had been Griffin’s thoughts as well. The lad’s instincts were good, and he might make an excellent spy one day, if he ever chose to go into such a dangerous field. Griffin realized the thought made his stomach sour, but he tried to keep that from his voice when he offered, “Well done, son.”

Totwafel’s chin jerked at that. “But he’s not your son, is he?” When they turned to him, he pushed himself upright, managing to support himself on his own two feet, despite the swaying. “Why do you think I’ve been avoiding you since you arrived, Calderbank? Oh, those accidents took a bit of time to prepare, but mostly I was researching. Calling in favors, learning what I could about you.”

Griffin’s fist tightened in the man’s lapels. “Shut yer mouth.”

But he didn’t. “You’re not married. Felicity Montrose lives next door to you!”

From behind, Griffin heard Peasgoode quaver, “Griffin? Is this true?”

“Mrs. Mac lives next door,” he snapped out, too angry to be distracted. He shook Totwafel. “Why are ye doing this?”

Suddenly, the man grinned. “To distract you.”

Oh shite.

Years of fighting for his life served him well. Instinctively, Griffin lunged to one side just as Totwafel pulled the trigger on the small derringer he’d had concealed in his waistband. The first shot went wide, but the second dragged a line of liquid fire across Griffin’s abdomen.

The pain was instantaneous, but he made no sound as he dropped. Felicity was doing screaming enough for all of them, frankly.

Jesus Christ, that hurt.

Griffin had the sense to turn toward Bull as he was falling, trying to tackle the young man to the ground with him, out of Totwafel’s way.

But the bastard had used up his shots on Griffin, and now tossed the gun aside.

Before Griffin could pull Bull down, Totwafel snatched the camera from the lad and turned to run.

Griffin hit the ground with a grunt, just about the time Bull took after Totwafel.

The whole thing lasted mere seconds, but had changed the world.

“Bull!” Felicity screamed, and stumbled past Griffin. He reached out and grabbed her ankle, causing her to land heavily on her knees beside him. “Oh, God, Griffin! Speak to me!” She picked up his head and pulled it to her chest, causing him to grunt again.

Half in pain, half in amusement.

“Griffin, are you dead? Please do not be dead!”

“I’m no’ dead.” His voice was muffled against her tits, and he tried to push away from her. “He winged me.”

But she wasn’t paying attention. Her gaze was locked in the distance.

Swallowing down a growl of pain, Griffin pushed himself upright and peered in the same direction.

Totwafel was running, not toward the house, or the horse he’d set free, but toward the Goesunder Bridge.

---