Lucy stopped maybe twenty yards away in the shelter of some bushes. Her bare feet were already frozen.
Simon’s adversary was a very big man, taller than him, with greater breadth of shoulder. His face was ruddy against his white wig. In contrast, Simon’s face was pale as death, the weariness she’d noticed at the house more pronounced in daylight, even at this distance. Both men stood still now. They bent their legs, raised their swords, and paused like a tableau.
Lucy opened her mouth.
Someone shouted. She flinched. Simon and the big man lunged together. Violence sang in the speed of their thrusts, in the awful sneers on their faces. The clatter of their swords rang in the still air. The big man advanced, his sword stabbing, but Simon sprang away, parrying the thrusts. How could he move that fast when he was so tired? Could he keep it up? Lucy wanted to run forward, to shout at the combatants, Stop it! Stop it! Stop it! But she knew that her mere appearance might be enough to startle Simon into dropping his guard and getting killed.
The big man grunted and attacked low. Simon stumbled back and repelled the other man’s blade with his own.
“Blood!” someone cried.
And only then did Lucy notice the stain on her husband’s middle. Oh, God. She didn’t realize she’d bitten her lip until she tasted copper. He still moved. Surely if he’d been run through he’d fall? But he backed instead, his arm continuing to work as the other man herded him. She felt bile rise in her throat. Dear Lord, please don’t let him die.
“Throw down your swords!” another man cried.
Lucy looked and realized one of the men was young Mr. Fletcher. The other three men shouted and gesticulated at the combatants, trying to end the duel, but Mr. Fletcher merely stood, an odd smile on his face. How many of these pointless battles had he attended? How many men had he witnessed her husband kill?
Lucy suddenly hated his fresh, open face.
The bloody stain at Simon’s middle spread. He looked like he wore a scarlet sash about his waist now. How much blood was he losing? The big man grinned and swung his sword with even greater speed and force. Simon was lagging. He turned away the other man’s blade again and again. Then he stumbled and almost lost his footing. Another stain appeared on his shirt, this one above the wrist of the hand that held his sword.
“Goddamn.” She heard his voice faintly. It sounded so weak, so very weary to her ears.
Lucy closed her eyes and felt tears leak beneath them. She rocked her body to contain the sobs. Must not make a noise. Must not distract Simon. Another shout. She heard Simon’s husky voice swearing. She almost didn’t open her eyes. But she did. He was on his knees, like a sacrifice to a vengeful god.
Oh, my sweet Lord.
The other man wore a look of grotesque triumph on his face. He lunged, his sword flashing, to stab Simon. To kill her husband. No, please, no. Lucy ran forward as if in a dream, not making a sound. She knew she’d never get to them in time.
Simon raised his sword at the very last second and impaled the other man through the right eye.
Lucy bent and vomited, hot bile splattering her bare toes. The big man screamed. Awful, high shrieks that sounded like nothing she’d ever heard before in her life. She heaved again. The other men shouted words she couldn’t comprehend. She looked up. Someone had removed the sword from where the big man’s right eye had been. Black stuff dripped down his cheek. He lay on the ground moaning, his wig fallen from his shaved head. A man with a physician’s black bag was bent over the wounded man, but he merely shook his head.
Simon’s opponent was dying.
She choked and heaved once more, the taste of acid on her tongue. Only a yellow thread emerged from her sore throat.
“Iddesleigh,” the dying man gasped.
Simon had risen, although he seemed to be trembling. Blood was splashed on his breeches. Mr. Fletcher was working at his shirt, trying to bandage him, his face averted from the man on the ground.
“What is it, Walker?” Simon asked.
“Another.”
Her husband suddenly straightened and pushed Mr. Fletcher away. Simon’s face sharpened, the lines carving ditches into his cheeks. In one stride he stood over the fallen man. “What?”
“Another.” The big man’s body shook.
Simon dropped to his knees beside him. “Who?”
The man’s mouth moved before sound emerged. “Fletcher.”
Mr. Fletcher swung around, confusion on his face.
Simon didn’t take his gaze from the dying man. “Fletcher is too young. You can’t trick me that easily.”
Walker smiled, his lips coated with the gore from his destroyed eye. “Fletcher’s—” A convulsion of coughing cut off his words.
Simon frowned. “Bring some water.”
One of the other men proffered a metal bottle. “Whiskey.”
Simon nodded and took it. He held the flask to his enemy’s lips and the man gulped. Walker sighed. His eyes closed.
Simon shook him. “Who?”
The fallen man was still. Was he already dead? Lucy began to whisper a prayer for his soul.
Simon swore and slapped his face. “Who?”
Lucy gasped.
Walker half opened his eyes. “Faa-therrr,” he slurred.
Simon stood and looked at Christian. The man on the ground sighed again, the breath rattling from his throat.
Simon didn’t even glance down. “Your father? He’s Sir Rupert Fletcher, isn’t he?”
“No.” Christian shook his head. “You’re not taking the word of a man you killed?”
“Should I?”
“He lied!”
Simon simply looked at the younger man. “Did your father help kill my brother?”
“No!” Christian threw up his hands. “No! You’re unreasonable. I’m leaving.” He strode away.
Simon stared after him.
The other men had moved off.
Lucy wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and stepped forward. “Simon.”
Her husband turned and met her eyes across the body of the man he’d just killed.
Chapter Fifteen
Jesus God.
Lucy.
“What are you doing here?” Simon couldn’t help it; the words came out a hiss.
Lucy here, her hair undone, her face ghastly white. She clutched her cloak to herself, shoulders hunched, huddling, the fingers under her chin bluish with cold.
She looked as if she’d seen a horror.
He glanced down. Walker’s body lay at his feet like a bloody prize. There was a gaping hole where his eye had been, and his mouth sagged open, life no longer holding it shut. The doctor and seconds had backed away as if they were afraid to deal with the corpse while its killer still stood over it. Jesus God.
She had seen a horror.
She’d seen him fight for his life, seen him kill a man by running him through the eye, seen the blood spurt. He was covered in gore, his own and the other man’s. Jesus God. No wonder she looked at him like he was a monster. He was. He could hide it no longer. He had nowhere to turn. He’d never wanted her to see this. Never wanted her to know he—
“What are you doing here?” he shouted, to make her back down, to drown out the chant in his mind.
She stood firm, his angel, even in the face of a screaming, bloodied madman. “What have you done?”
He blinked. Raised his hand, still clutching the sword. There were wet, reddish stains on the blade. “What have I . . .” He laughed.
She flinched.
His throat was raw, aching with tears, but he laughed. “I’ve avenged my brother.”
She looked down at Walker’s ruined face. Shuddered. “How many men have you killed for your brother?”
“Four.” He closed his eyes, but he still saw their faces against his eyelids. “I thought four was all. I thought I was done, but I’m told there is a fifth.”
She shook her head. “No.”
“Yes.” He didn’t know why he continued. “There will be another.”
She pressed her lips together, whether to hold back a sob or to contain her revulsion, he did not know. “You can’t do this, Simon.”
He pretended stupidity, though he wanted to sob. “Can’t? I’ve already done it, Lucy. I’m still doing it.” He spread his arms wide. “Who is there to stop me?”
“You can stop yourself.” Her voice was low.
His arms dropped. “But I won’t.”
“You will destroy yourself.”
“I am already destroyed.” And he knew, deep, deep in his blackened soul that he spoke the truth.
“Vengeance is for the Lord.”
So calm. So sure.
He sheathed his sword, still bloody. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Simon.”
“If vengeance is for the Lord, then why does England have courts of law? Why do we hang murderers every day?”
“You aren’t a court of law.”
“No.” He laughed. “A court of law wouldn’t touch them.”
She closed her eyes as if weary. “Simon, you can’t just take it upon yourself to kill men.”
“They murdered Ethan.”
“It’s wrong.”
“My brother, Ethan.”
“You’re sinning.”
“Would you have me sit back and let them savor their kill?” he whispered.
“Who are you?” Her eyes snapped open, and her voice held a hysterical edge. “Do I even know who you are?”
He stepped over Walker’s battered corpse and grabbed her by the shoulders, leaned down so that his no-doubt foul breath washed over her face. “I am your husband, my lady.”
She turned her face away from him.
He shook her. “The one you promised to obey always.”
“Simon—”
“The one you said you’d cleave to, forsaking all others.”
“I—”
“The one you make love to at night.”
“I don’t know if I can live with you anymore.” The words were a whisper, but they rang in his head like a death knell.
Overwhelming fear froze his gut. He jerked her body tight against his own and ground his mouth down on hers. He tasted blood—either hers or his, it didn’t matter and he didn’t care. He would not—could not—let her go. Simon raised his head and stared her in the eye. “Then it’s too bad you no longer have a choice.”
Her hand trembled as she wiped a smear of blood from her mouth. He wanted to do it for her, wanted to say he was sorry. But she’d probably bite his fingers right now, and the words wouldn’t come anyway. So he simply watched her. She pulled her soiled cloak together and turned and walked away. He watched as she made her way across the green. She climbed into the carriage and drove off.
Only then did he pick up his coat and mount his horse. The London streets had filled with people going about their business. Costermongers with carts, urchins on foot, lords and ladies in carriages and riding horses, shopkeepers and whores. A mass of breathing beings starting a new day.
But Simon rode apart.
Death had taken him into the company of the damned, and his bond with the rest of humanity was broken.
THE STUDY DOOR SLAMMED AGAINST THE WALL.
Sir Rupert looked up to see his son standing in the doorway, pale, disheveled, and his face gleaming with sweat. He started to rise from his desk.
“Did you do it?” In contrast to his appearance, Christian’s voice was low, almost calm.
“Do what?”
“Did you kill Ethan Iddesleigh?”
Sir Rupert sat back down. If he could, he would’ve lied; he made no bones about it. He’d found that deception was often the best way. More often than not, people wanted to be lied to; they didn’t like the truth. How else to explain why they fell for lies so quickly? But his son’s face showed that he already knew the truth. His question was rhetorical.
