Page 37 of Some Like It Wild
As Crispin’s upper lip curled in a snarl, Pamela realized Connor was deliberately baiting him, seeking to taunt him into making a mistake, perhaps even into revealing his part in her mother’s death. She squeezed her eyes shut, praying that mistake wouldn’t be fatal for either one of the men.
Her eyes flew open at the shrill clash of steel on steel. Gripping the basket-hilt of his sword in a white-knuckled hand, Crispin had launched into a vicious sally, leaving Connor with no choice but to continue his retreat. Pamela flinched as Crispin lunged, his blade narrowly missing Connor’s ear.
Crispin’s forward momentum caused him to stumble. He quickly recovered his balance, but the ragged rasp of his breathing had deepened. Sweat darkened the back of his waistcoat.
The men circled each other again, reversing positions. Pamela realized that Connor hadn’t been retreating at all, but simply biding his time while Crispin wore himself out. Now he pressed his advantage, swinging the blade of the mighty broadsword in one relentless arc after another, driving Crispin right out the open French windows and into the garden.
Pamela snatched up her skirts and followed, her heart pounding in her throat.
As the two men abandoned the flagstone path for a grassy clearing flanked by a sweeping pair of willows, Pamela spotted the duke and Lady Astrid taking tea on an elevated terrace just off the drawing room.
Lady Astrid froze in the motion of pouring her brother another cup of tea. Was that fear or excitement glittering in her eyes? Pamela wondered, her sense of foreboding deepening.
There was no mistaking the sparkle of glee in the duke’s eyes. He put aside his tea and clapped his wiry hands, leaning forward in his wheeled chair. “Why, look at this, Astrid! You didn’t tell me you’d arranged for an afternoon entertainment! How grand!”
Although the footmen stationed on either side of the terrace did not dare to relax their rigid stances, their eyes eagerly followed the contest taking place in the clearing below. The grunts of exertion and the ear-jangling clang of steel against steel drowned out the peaceful burbling of a marble fountain.
Pamela drew as close as she dared and pressed her back to an apple tree in full bloom, her nerves shredded by the unbearable suspense.
Now that he had an audience, Crispin seemed to have regained both his confidence and his footing. He went on the attack, his blade a steely blur in his capable hand. But Connor continued to block him at every turn, finally landing a blow of his own that came close to wrenching the epee from Crispin’s hands.
Something came skittering down the path toward Pamela. She bent to pick it up only to discover it was thefleuretfrom the tip of Crispin’s sword. Thefleurethe had slid onto his blade while his back was still to them.
Her breath froze in her throat. Without thefleuret, the deadly point of the epee was exposed. If some terribleaccidentshould befall Connor now, no court in the land would be able to convict Crispin. There would be no way to prove he had sought to do his opponent deliberate harm by improperly applying thefleuret.
He wouldn’t even have to run Connor through the heart. Piercing one of his lungs would kill him just as quickly.
As her imagination conjured up a stark image of Connor sprawled in the grass, gasping for breath as his life’s blood soaked through the pristine white of his shirt, she felt as if an invisible blade had pierced her own heart.
She lunged forward, shouting Connor’s name.
He glanced in her direction, a puzzled scowl clouding his brow, and she realized that distracting him had been a terrible miscalculation. Time seemed to slow until Pamela could see every delicate white petal of the apple blossoms drifting down from the boughs above, the hint of cruel satisfaction in Lady Astrid’s expression, the fierce concentration on Crispin’s lean face as he drew back his blade for the fatal thrust.
Without giving herself time to think, she threw herself between the two men. Crispin balked at the last second, pulling back on his thrust. The razor-sharp point of the epee whipped across Pamela’s forearm, slicing open both fabric and flesh.
Then Connor’s strong arms were there, breaking her fall as she stumbled to her knees.
“You wee fool!” Connor sank to the ground with her, his voice hoarse. “What are you tryin’ to do? Get yourself killed?” His hands were no longer as steady as they’d been on the hilt of his sword, but shaking with reaction as he tugged up her sleeve to reveal the bloody welt on her arm.
She offered him a brave little smile. “My sleeve bore the brunt of it. It’s nothing—just a scratch. Although Sophie’s going to have my head for ruining her gown,” she added beneath her breath.
Crispin was gazing down at them, a bewildered expression on his face. He shook his head. “I’m so sorry…I never intended…”
“Oh, really?” Pamela replied coolly, squinting up at him. “Just what did you intend?”
She held out her hand, slowly opening her clenched fingers to reveal thefleuret. Thefleuretthat was essentially useless unless applied with the greatest of care.
Both Crispin and Connor’s gazes flew to the tip of the epee in Crispin’s hand. Its lethal point seemed to sparkle in the sunlight.
Pamela felt every muscle in Connor’s body go rigid. Despite that tension, his hands were astonishingly gentle as he removed her from his lap and settled her on a nearby carpet of apple blossoms.
He reached for his sword and rose to face Crispin, his expression resolute.
Crispin began to back away from him, shaking his head helplessly. “I swear it was nothing but an accident. I never meant to hurt her. Surely you can see that.”
Connor paced him step for step, his momentum never slowing.
Lady Astrid came to her feet, the color draining from her face. “Archibald! Do something! You must stop them!”
