Page 90 of A Bride for the Devilish Duke
She tried to force her mind to the moment before her. The moment when her brother would attempt to clear his name and that of his family, with his life if necessary. Emma caught at Damien's hand, forcing him to halt. The mist swirled around them, blanketing them. He looked at her quizzically.
Emma opened her mouth to speak, then closed it.
This is Charles' moment. I will not sully what might be his last moment on earth with my concerns for my marriage.
But she could not look away from Damien. He seemed to have the same problem. His fingers tightened in hers. They seemed to drift closer, though Emma could not remember moving her feet. Suddenly, her chest was pressing against his hard, muscular body and her fingers were nestled against his lips. Their eyes were locked and a multitude of emotions passed between them without words.
“Did you mean what you said to me?”she wanted to ask.
“No, my love,”she wanted him to reply,“I was angry and afraid that you would find reason to leave me if I had nothing but the clothes on my back. It is not much for a man to offer.”
She wanted to close her eyes and savor the warmth of his lips against her skin but did not want to break the heavy gaze that made her tremble beneath it.
“Don't you see that I do not need a title or money or lands? If you asked for my hand dressed in nothing but rags, I would accept you and be the happiest woman in England. I would live in a hut and consider it a palace.”
Those words remained unsaid.
Emma looked down, unable to hold them in and unwilling to usurp what might be her brother's last moments of life. She stepped back from Damien, feeling his hands tighten for just a moment before he released her. Then she turned and walked away into the mist.
His footsteps were silent behind her. She could not tell that he had followed until he once again stood beside her. Out of the mist, Charles appeared, flanked by Sir Thomas. Charles looked pale, dressed in shirtsleeves and breeches, and carrying a pistol with a rag over its pan to keep the powder dry.
“Emma? What are you doing here? This is no place for you!” he exclaimed.
“I am here to support my brother and the King himself could not stop me.”
She glanced at Damien to emphasize her point. He glowered back, disapproval radiating from him, seeping out from behind his rigid self-control.
“The hour approaches. Are we ready?” Isaac Fitzgerald's voice came through the fog, muffled and flat.
“I am. As are my seconds,” Charles spoke out, bravely.
Emma crossed the space between them quickly, kissing his cheek and squeezing his hand. Sir Thomas slapped his shoulder in good fellowship, smiling tightly. Damien caught his eye and nodded. Emma could feel Charles trembling.
“It is very cold this morning,” her brother shivered.
“Very inclement,” Damien muttered back somberly.
He had not been affected by the temperature during the drive out to this place and Emma suspected he was pretending in order to help disguise Charles' fear. She loved him all the more at that moment, for lying to spare her brother.
Charles nodded and Damien inclined his head, a bow of respect.
Taking a shuddering breath, Charles turned and walked a few yards into the mist. Isaac and Jacob appeared.
“The mist is thinner here by the pond,” Isaac remarked, pointing to his right.
Charles strode straight-backed and with head high as directed. Emma followed with Damien and Sir Thomas to either side. The pond sat at the bottom of a shallow hollow ringed by mist but relatively clear near the water's edge.
“Look out for a trap,” Sir Thomas whispered, “check the ground for anything that might make you stumble or have been left there for that purpose.”
“Surely they would not be so dishonorable?” Charles exclaimed in a whisper.
“You have read the gossip columns. How many of the subjects you read about are men supposedly with honor?” Emma asked.
“Best to assume they have the honor of venomous insects,” Damien snarled.
Isaac had taken a position, standing with pistol raised to the vertical. Charles stood in front of him and the two men turned their backs.
“Walk forward twenty paces and then turn and fire. To draw blood is to be victor,” Jacob said formally.
