Page 33 of The Defiant One
The two men circled each other, each trying to maneuver the other so the sun was in his eyes. Andrew moved with an easy, dangerous grace that caused Celsie's heart to catch in admiration. Gerald was clearly nervous. Neither men was smiling.
Gerald broke first. He charged forward, lunging hard, and in that moment Celsie knew that he was fighting for more than just first blood.
He was fighting to kill.
Horror filled her. She leaped to her feet and would have run forward, but no, that would be foolish, that would be fatal, she could not, would not, dared not break either man's concentration. Again Gerald attacked, and Andrew, grinning, expertly parried his thrust, moving easily and looking as if he was relishing what must be, to him, nothing more than a little early morning exercise. He was toying with Gerald, that much was obvious, though only Celsie's — and surely the duke's — trained eye recognized it. Gerald certainly didn't. So desperate was he to score a fatal hit, he was unaware that his opponent was drawing the fight out, allowing him to salvage his pride and retain his dignity. Celsie's heart swelled with gratitude for Andrew's noble gesture, and though her hands were so tightly gripped they were going numb, she tried to relax.
To simply watch the fluid movements of a master swordsman.
To almost be thankful for the fact that she remained on the sidelines, not needing to concentrate, with nothing else to do but admire what was indeed a very splendid, agile, and breathtaking male body in action . . .
A very splendid, agile, and breathtaking male body that had, only hours ago, made her a woman.
Steel rang against steel. Rapiers flashed in the sunlight, carved arcs in the air. The tip of Andrew's sword caught Gerald's sleeve, slicing it from cuff to elbow, though no blood appeared, and Celsie knew, with mounting awe, that Andrew hadn't intended there to be any. Not yet. Oh, bless him! Gerald made a clumsy charge. Again Andrew neatly sidestepped it, his own blade singing in to tear a matching slice in Gerald's other sleeve. He began to maneuver Gerald into the sunlight . . . prepared to deal the coup de grace . . . and suddenly staggered back, the sword falling from his hand, his staring gaze fixed somewhere in the tree branches overhead.
"Andrew!" Celsie screamed, thinking he'd been hit —
And then all hell broke loose.
"Cheat!" cried Gerald. "You knew I was winning and thought to turn the tables by faking an injury, you cowardly wretch!"
Everything happened at once. Andrew, still staring up into the trees, sank down on one knee. Gerald lunged forward, ready to drive his blade straight through his heart.
And then Lucien was there.
Celsie never knew how the duke moved so fast, or just how he managed to snatch up Andrew's blade from the ground and deflect Gerald's killing blow with a ringing clash that nearly broke her stepbrother's sword in two. Gerald paled and staggered back, his eyes bulging with terror. Never, never, had she seen such murderous fury on anyone's face as she saw in Blackheath's.
And unlike Andrew, Blackheath wasn't toying.
He was going to kill Gerald. And he was going to take a savage enjoyment out of doing it.
"No!" screamed Celsie, running headlong onto the dueling field. "Don't kill him! He's no match for you and you know it!"
The duke ignored her.
Andrew was shaking his head, getting to his feet, his face paling with alarm as he realized what was happening.
And Blackheath — cold, ruthless, vengeful Blackheath — was smiling a thin little smile that made Celsie's blood turn to ice as he circled her brother.
Celsie hurled herself between them, her sleeve catching Gerald's sword and ripping a bloody swathe across her arm.
"Stop it!" she screamed. "Stop it, Blackheath! Spare Gerald and I swear to God I'll marry your brother!"
Chapter 11
He had known.
In that heartbeat of an instant, as time seemed to stop and all eyes turned to her, Celsie felt her world sway sickeningly. God help me, Blackheath knew all along that I would sacrifice myself to save Gerald's worthless hide. He knew it. He was counting on it. Why else did he not slay Gerald immediately?
He was waiting for me to rush in and save him!
A roaring started in her ears. Some three hundred people were all staring at her. Gerald, pale and shaken, looked like he wanted to murder her. The duke's cold black eyes were triumphant. While Andrew . . .
She couldn't read his expression. And it was so terrible that she didn't even want to try.
The field of spectators began to revolve slowly around her. The clamor in her ears rose, drowning out the hum of voices, becoming as one with the roaring. Celsie, shaking, turned away, her head high. She briefly shut her eyes so she could not see her world spinning, and bravely, determinedly, began the long walk back toward her carriage.
Please, God, don't let me faint in front of everyone —
