Time seemed to shift, to stall, as Larabie’s jowled face grew white. With a smile born of arrogance, Alynwick waited to watch the earl’s expression turn from shock, to pain, to terror. It didn’t. Instead, Iain felt the burn of his own skin being torn apart. Then the heat of his blood seeping out, onto his shirt. The force of the bullet threw him back against Black, who caught him, covering his body with his own.
“You ass,” Iain rasped as he clutched the sleeve of Black’s coat. “Isabella will hang me by my bollocks if you get hurt.”
“Shut up,” Black muttered as he efficiently placed Iain on the damp ground. “The doctor!” he ordered, and Iain saw the tips of Larabie’s boots and those of his second move back, making way for the physician.
His body burned, the pain was substantial, and he suddenly was thankful that he had sat in his carriage for hours, drinking himself into a stupor. It had numbed the pain somewhat, and made it so he had not cried out, either in surprise or discomfort. He would not give that fat, fucking Larabie the pleasure of his weakness.
“I trust you are satisfied,” he said, trying to breathe as normally as possible.
“Honour was met,” Larabie’s second announced, and Black all but flew between the small space that set them apart, confronting the man with his fist knotted in his cravat.
“Honour was not met,” he snarled. “Larabie shot him in cold blood. None of the rules were adhered to. It wasn’t a fair duel.”
“It wasn’t fair of him to bed my wife!” Larabie roared, and Iain, not wanting to hear the earl’s pompous voice a second longer, rasped and waved his friend back over.
“Let it go,” he murmured as Black knelt down beside him. “I don’t think it’s fatal, anyway. Besides, I plan on playing this up to the lady. Surely she will see to it that I am well compensated for this business.”
“Damn you, this plan of yours is going to hell.”
Iain shrugged and winced in pain as a tearing burn made its way down his left arm. “Shoulder, I think. Bloody bastard is lucky it’s my left.”
“Make way, gentlemen,” the physician ordered. He set his black bag down on the damp grass beside Iain’s head. Alynwick’s coachman had taken a carriage lamp and was holding it over them, allowing its soft glow to illuminate the scene. Above him, Iain could see Larabie’s jowls quivering. To his left stood Black, his expression the colour of his name. The doctor pulled at Iain’s coat, revealing the soaked shirt beneath.
“Well, will the bastard live, or shall I make plans to leave for the continent tonight?” Larabie muttered.
“Shoulder wound,” the physician announced. “There’s no need to flee the scene, my lord.”
“Lucky bastard. Like a cat, he is. But one day, Alynwick, you’ll use up those nine lives, and I hope that when you are on the ninth and final one, it is my bullet that sends you straight to hell. Come along, Sheridan,” the earl ordered. “It is time to return home to deal with my wife.”
“Into the carriage, my lord,” the physician instructed. “I shall follow in mine. The bullet must be removed and the wound cleansed.”
“I thank you,” Iain growled as Black hefted him up from the wet grass, and none too gently, either. “My man will see to it.”
“You keep a surgeon at the ready, do you?” the physician said with offended hauteur.
Iain laughed at the thought. Sutherland was no doctor. He was barely a valet. But he was a hell of a villain, when Iain found himself in need of one.
“Well, then,” the doctor muttered with a snap of his leather satchel. “I shall bid you good-night.”
“You shouldn’t have ordered him away,” Black snarled as he all but dragged Iain up the carriage stairs. “Your injury is extensive. What if Sutherland can’t manage it?”
“Then I should think that butler of yours,” he gasped as he fell onto the carriage bench, “would do nicely.”
“Billings is at home with my wife, keeping her safe. I am not having him removed to tend you and your stupidity.”
“Fine, then,” Iain said as he let his head fall back against the squabs. Dawn was slowly rising in the distance, and he closed his eyes as blood continued to pump from his shoulder. “Take me to Sussex House,” he said, his voice sounding distant to his ears.
“Sussex House?” Black enquired. “What for? Patch yourself up first before we descend upon Sussex.”
“Damn you, man!” Iain roared. “Honour a man’s dying wish. Take me to Sussex House, to Elizabeth,” he heard himself murmur. Thankfully, he passed out before he could hear Black’s response.
ON THE EDGE OF Grantham Field, amongst the trees and the fog, stood a town coach with four gleaming black stallions. No one saw it, for he did not want them to. He was not ready for them yet. But soon … Soon the Brethren would be his.
“Did you expect this?” his companion asked as she smoothed her delicate hand up the length of his thigh.
Indeed, he had not. Alynwick was always the wild card in the troika that made up the Brethren Guardians. A hotheaded Scot, and a man who barely had any control over his base desires and his animal rage.
He had thought the marquis would simply blow the earl away, but instead, Alynwick had been wounded.
A measure of glee swam inside him. Alynwick was wounded—considerably so. It would make things that much easier with Alynwick out of the picture, even temporarily.
Patience, he told himself as the placket of his trousers fell open, and he was gripped by a knowing, skilled hand. Patience always paid off in the end. He had waited a long, long time for this. And soon, he would be rewarded.
Soon, the Brethren would belong to him—to Orpheus.
“Take me,” she whispered, and he rapped his walking stick against the carriage, sending the vehicle lurching forward.
“Soon, pet,” he mumbled. “I have something to do first. A little surprise for His Grace.”
“It’s not like you to be so kind,” she murmured as her lips worked their way down his neck.
“I’m in the giving mood,” he mumbled, thinking of what he would do. “And Sussex will be the benefactor.”
IN THE END, Black ignored his request, which was so typical of him. The bastard always did whatever he wanted. Instead of taking him to Sussex House, Black carried him, half-conscious, from the carriage and into Iain’s own town house, past his shocked butler, whose harsh, indrawn breath echoed off the fourteen-foot-high ceiling, and all the way up the ornately carved, curving staircase to Iain’s bedroom, where he dropped Iain onto the bed as though he were a sack of grain. Only then did Black rouse Sutherland.
Shortly after, his valet stumbled into the room, wiping the sleep from his eyes. “And what scrape have ye gotten yourself into this time, my lord?”
“What does it look like?” he growled. “I’m bleeding onto the sheets.”
Sutherland grunted when he saw the extent of the wound he was expected to work on. “Won’t be a pretty sight after I’m done, my lord.”
“He’s too pretty now,” Iain heard Black state in his characteristic sombre voice. “A little mark to remind him of his arrogance should be his reward for this night’s business. Patch him up, Sutherland.”
“The ladies will only find the scar more endearing, I’m afraid.”
“Yes. Peculiar how many ladies find something of merit in Alynwick.”
“I’m awake and can hear every damn word you’re both saying.”
“Good,”