Page 104 of Tremaine's True Love

On the count of eighteen, a pistol shot rang through the clearing, and a burning pain cut through Tremaine’s right calf.

Incredulity leaped along with physical agony. Nash—bedamned, idiot scoundrel and general disgrace—had ruined an excellent riding boot.

And fired early.

“Foul!” George cried. “Mr. Nash, you’ve fired before the end of the count. Mr. St. Michael, you may take your shot.”

Fire, Tremaine would, though turning around was a rubbishing uncomfortable undertaking with a boot full of hot coals. He raised his arm, straightened it—the gun shook not at all, while Nash was wetting himself—then cocked an elbow and fired aloft.

As the second shot rang out, George dashed to Tremaine’s side and got an arm around his waist.

“I’ve never seen such poor marksmanship or such bad form. We can have Nash arrested, you know. Nicholas will oblige.”

“Why is Horton coming over here?”

“Because you’ve been shot, old boy,” George said gently as he helped Tremaine to the edge of the clearing. “You’re leaving a brilliant little trail of blood in the snow, and that can’t be an encouraging sign.”

Horton bustled up, a black bag clutched in his hand. “Cut that boot off him, Mr. Haddonfield. My scalpel will do the job.”

He produced a thin knife from his bag, a rusty stain along its blade.

“And then you’ll use that knife on me?” Tremaine asked.

“The blade is sharp,” Horton retorted, “and you’re not in a position to be choosy, sir. Damned lot of nonsense, if you ask me.”

Nita Haddonfield’s good name was not a damned lot of nonsense. Blood created a sticky warmth inside Tremaine’s boot, his calf was on fire, and George Haddonfield was all that held him up.

“Doctor, your services will not be needed,” Tremaine said. “My thanks for your time.”

“St. Michael, don’t be an idiot,” George hissed. “You’re losing blood. A bullet could be poisoning your leg as we speak. I can’t carry you back to Belle Maison.”

“William can carry me,” Tremaine said, though his own voice sounded far away and very like his grandfather’s. “The question is, will Lady Nita treat me if I survive the journey?”

* * *

“Two shots,” Leah murmured as she paced her private parlor. “They couldn’t even take their stupidity out of hearing of the house?”

“Sounds travel in cold air,” Kirsten said. “Nita, are you feeling better?”

“I’m not as queasy.” Nita was notbetter. Those pistol shots only confirmed that two grown men with far better things to do had aimed deadly weapons at each other.

“If Edward survives, I will cut him directly in the churchyard,” Susannah said.Titus Andronicuslay open on her lap. “I’ll be sure the entire village is watching, and Vicar too.”

“Vicar has already taken me into dislike,” Nita said. “No need for you to get into his bad graces too.”

“We can start our own congregation,” Addy suggested. “Women who refuse to let Vicar’s opinion of them rob them entirely of faith.”

“Hear, hear.” Della raised the teapot as if it were her personal drinking horn. “At least the duel is over. Those shots came from the direction of the home wood. Shall we send Nicholas to investigate?”

“I’ll go,” Nita said, rising. “If a duel has been fought over me, then I have no more good name to protect, do I?” For her sisters’ sake, that notion really should bother her, but all that mattered was that Tremaine be alive and stay that way.

“You certainly do,” Addy retorted, “but I’ll go with you.”

The other women were on their feet in an instant. “I’ll give Edward the benefit of my opinion regarding dueling,” Susannah said, tossing poorTitusin the direction of the sofa.

“I’ll bribe George,” Kirsten added. “He was present when Edward issued his challenge. Men never tell us the parts that matter, and Della says she saw George in a compromising situation with a certain comely widow.”

“Nicholas can’t go,” Leah said, “but he’ll want specifics. Who was the widow, Kirsten?”