Page 50 of Adoringly, Edward
His uncle reached for his helmet, tugged it off his head, and threw it to the ground, revealing wild, murderous eyes and a nest of black hair. He no longer resembled the kind and patient uncle he’d known his entire life.
“Why…why…?” Edward shook his head, glancing between his uncle and the dagger he pressed to Vivienne’s throat. “What vexes you to do such a thing?”
“Have you not pieced it together, nephew?” The man released a deranged laugh, his wild eyes catching a glint of the moonlight overhead. “I have slowly been poisoning you for a year now. For as many books as you read, you are not very bright.”
“Run, Edward,” Vivienne said in a strangled voice, her gaze flicking from his face to the path to the left of him. “Do not give this sick bastard the satisfaction of listening to another word he says!” And then she screamed as Maxwell pulled back on her hair and angled the blade so dangerously that even the smallest movement might spell her death.
Panic consumed him, dread piling like dead bodies in its wake. He took a single step forward but stopped when Maxwell shook his head ever so slightly.
“I want your title,” his uncle growled. “It’s mine. It should have always been mine. Your father was sick, just like you. He should have died. But he didn’t. At least not before his wife birthed a son.”
“But you wouldn’t be the heir. James would.”
Maxwell tugged harder on Vivienne’s hair until tears of pain leaked out of her eyes. “Little children come by accidents all thetime. It wouldn’t have been difficult to dispose of James next. But oh, how I wouldgrieve.” The man’s unhinged laughter sent a chill up Edward’s spine.
“Why?” he rasped, fearful of advancing any farther and risking Vivienne getting nicked by the blade. “You lead a good life. Why do you need mine?”
“I have nothing,” his uncle hissed. “Your vile father took half my trading ships when they went to find a cure for your so-called ailment. And you know what? They never returned. And neither did my ships.”
Grief and guilt cut him deeper than any knife could. “I was a boy then. What could I have done to sway them against their decision to leave? They were trying to preserve their line.”
Yet, the guilt had eaten him alive for many years until he’d finally forgiven himself for what he couldn’t control.
“And what of your other trading ships?” Edward asked, desperately glancing from the terror in Vivienne’s eyes to the knife at her throat. A chill rapidly climbed up his arms, soaking him to the bone. “You are still a wealthy man.”
“Not anymore. The money has dried up in failed investments. I can’t start over. I need your title and your wealth.”
“By killing me?” His weak body lost its footing, and he shifted just enough to catch himself on the nearby trunk of a tree. “What have you done to Clara?”
“Nothing yet. I might take pity on her poor soul and marry her off to someone who will take her off my hands. Or I might not. I haven’t quite decided.”
Edward’s gaze darted toward Vivienne once more. His uncle hadn’t killed her yet like he’d tried to do to him. There must be a reason. “I’m sick. I’ll exaggerate just how much to the king and forsake my title. I’ll move several leagues away if it appeases you. Just let her go. I beg you.”
Maxwell’s features relaxed, although he didn’t loosen his grip on Vivienne. He smiled, but it held more menace than amiability. “I will be sure to mourn the hardest at your closed-casket funeral. My poor nephew and his fiancée assassinated by Armandy soldiers on a midnight tryst.” He reached into his pocket and threw several golden medallions with the Armandy crest to the ground. “What a tragic love story.”
His uncle flexed his arm as if prepping for the kill.
Edward had never moved so quickly in his life as he launched himself forward.
The quick action seemed to take Maxwell off guard. The faint hesitation lent him mere moments to do what must be done.
One moment he stood by the tree, and the next, he unsheathed his knife and thrust it into his uncle’s stomach.
The other man grunted. Blood spilled out of the wound. His grip loosened on Vivienne, giving her the chance to slip out of the confinement of his blade.
But then the remaining strength in Edward’s body failed him as he collapsed to his knees. Maxwell’s expression contorted with rage. He swung his dagger at Edward’s head. Vivienne screamed.
Rather than experiencing blinding pain before the darkness of death, Maxwell’s blade caught on another in a screech of metal. Blindingly fast, the newcomer disarmed his uncle, and when Maxwell unsheathed a second dagger from his belt and attempted a second stab, the other man impaled him through the chest with his sword.
A grunt escaped his uncle’s lips moments before he crashed onto his side and lay unmoving on the cold, hard ground.
Edward stared in disbelief at the uncle he had looked up to his entire life, at the man who had played with him and laughed with him and made him feel as if he weren’t quite so alone. How could his heart ache so fiercely for a man who had tried tokill him several times and attempted to murder the woman he loved?
“Edward!” Vivienne gasped, pulling him out of his shocked daze as she threw her arms around his neck. “Are you injured? Let me see you.” She pulled back just enough to inspect his face, his chest, his arms. And when she seemed satisfied that no blade had touched him, she embraced him yet again.
He blinked dazedly as his gaze found the man who had ended his uncle’s life. He wore an Edilann guardsman uniform, the blue of his cloak standing out against the pale moonlight as he cleaned his weapon on dead grass.
Only twice before had Edward seen the burly man with brown hair and wide-set shoulders. Gilberd Keats had saved young Prince Sterling’s life years ago and had been offered the position as the personal bodyguard to the prince himself. What was he doing outside at midnight in his uniform?
