Page 102 of The Defiant One
The real aphrodisiac?
A flash of lightning split the sky. Thunder rolled overhead, shaking the ground upon which they stood, but Andrew remained unmoving, determined to stay calm, waiting for Somerfield to drop his guard. "I don't have the aphrodisiac," he said mildly. "Your cousin stole it from me."
"My cousin stole a forgery! A forgery that ruined my life, and probably hers as well!"
Andrew shrugged. "Well then, let that be a lesson to you both, that thievery will get you nowhere. And as for the aphrodisiac, well, I certainly didn't switch it. Did you ever consider, Somerfield, that it might have been unstable to begin with, and merely followed the chemical course that nature intended for it?"
Somerfield stared at him, the rain plastering his hair to his face, his cheeks streaked with what could have been tears, could have been rain, could have been both.
"Besides, even if I did have the aphrodisiac, I can assure you that it is not something I would carry around with me." He smiled patiently and, hands spread innocently before him, moved towards Gerald, whose face was twisted with hatred and bitter anguish. "Now, please, put the gun down, Gerald. You are distraught. Desperate . . ."
But as Andrew slowly reached for the pistol, still pointed at his heart, Somerfield's fragile control broke, and he seemed to explode in a fury of emotion.
"Get away from me, you bastard!"
Everything happened at once. Somerfield brought the pistol to full cock at the same moment that Andrew launched himself forward, his charge catching the earl squarely in the chest and sending him toppling backwards. The gun went flying. Both men went down in wet grass and rubble, Somerfield landing beneath Andrew but immediately twisting out from beneath him.
Celsie, just cutting through the last threads of the hemp, saw it all. Breaking free, she raised bloody wrists, tore off the gag and raced through the rain towards the two figures rolling on the ground, engaged in deadly combat.
Where was the pistol? Oh God, if she could only retrieve it —
Again lightning cracked close overhead, and rain poured down on the two combatants as they each tried to get the other in a fatal throat-hold.
"Stop it! Gerald, stop it!"
She circled them, shouting for reason, for sanity — and there, in the grass near a few wet, scattered bricks, saw the fallen pistol. Crying out, she lunged for it — too late. With an inhuman roar, Gerald threw off Andrew, shoved Celsie sprawling, and grabbing up the pistol, swung it straight into his adversary's face and fired.
"No-o-o-o!" Celsie screamed.
With hideous clarity Celsie saw Andrew's hand jerk up toward the side of his head even as his knees crumpled beneath him, the blood streaming down his face and blinding him. He fell half on his side, supporting himself with one elbow, dazed but not dead, oh thank God, not dead!
"Damn you for what you've done to me, de Montforte!" Gerald cried, hurling aside the spent pistol and grabbing one of the bricks as Andrew gazed dully up at him through streams of blood. "Damn you to the hell where you belong!"
Raising the brick high in both hands, he gave a primal roar of frenzy and began to bring it down on his adversary's bleeding head —
"Andrew!" screamed Celsie —
At that very moment, a shot rang out — and Gerald's body pitched backward, the brick dropping from his lifeless hands as he fell to the earth, shot neatly through the heart.
With a cry, Celsie spun around just as a brilliant burst of lightning exploded around them . . . lighting up the ruins, lighting up the trees . . .
And thirty feet away, lighting up the grim, cloaked figure of the duke of Blackheath astride a mighty black stallion, a smoking pistol still in his hand.
Chapter 31
"Ah," said Lucien, urging Armageddon forward and pulling him up just before the earl's lifeless body. He gazed contemplatively down at his handiwork. "I must confess that I've been waiting to do that ever since he tried to kill you during the duel. Not very sporting of him, was it? Should have finished the scoundrel off then, but I thought it would look bad with the locals." He swung down from the stallion and stretched out a hand to help his brother to his feet. "You'd better see to that head wound, Andrew, as well as your wife. I daresay she's fainted."
Andrew, barely able to see through a hot film of scarlet, touched his fingers to the side of his head. They came away wet with blood. He took the handkerchief Lucien offered and wiped at his face. "I guess I ought to be thanking you for saving my life yet again," he said gruffly. "This is getting to be a habit."
The duke was eyeing his head wound in concern. "Another inch or two and you would have been forever denied the chance."
Andrew shoved the handkerchief into his pocket and bent down to Celsie, whose face was as white as the sheepskin pad beneath Newton's saddle. He gathered her tenderly in his arms. "Thing is, Luce, I don't even understand why he hated me so . . . He was past the point of desperation, as though he had nothing left to live for. What had I done to bring him to such a state?"
"I am afraid it was mostly my doing," Lucien admitted, turning Somerfield's body over so that Celsie would not see his dead face when she came to her senses. "Do you remember, Andrew, the day you got married? When, just as you were leaving, you demanded that I relinquish the aphrodisiac to you?"
"Yes . . ."
"Well, I did not relinquish the aphrodisiac."
