“Try to climb out of the window,” Silverton muttered in an undertone to Maeve. He could hardly concentrate on the fight while he was acutely aware of her presence behind him.
Her breath was coming in small puffs, and she was close to his side. The slight moment behind told him that Maeve was occupied with the window, and now was his chance.
Darting forward he took Charles by surprise, not bothering to use the blade, and smashed his fist into Charles’s face, hitting the bridge of his twin’s nose with as much force as he could muster. Charles stumbled backwards, and for a moment, Silverton thought he had the advantage, only to see that Charles had brought out a knife and slashed it down with brutal precision on the nearest point that he could reach. Which happened to be Silverton’s leg. The gash throbbed painfully as Silverton felt pinpricks of pain cloud his vision, and the well of tears spring up in his eyes.
“Never goes for subtlety, does he?” jeered Charles, waving his bloodied knife at Maeve as if it were a trophy.
“Have at thee.” Silverton brandished his sword and aimed for Charles’s chest. The blades of their swords clashed. With one deft move, Silverton caught and pressed down Charles’s left arm where his brother had been struck by a bullet.
Shrieking, Charles immediately dropped the weapon, his knife falling to one side. Silverton kicked it under the desk with some satisfaction. A further trickle of blood oozed out and down Charles’s left arm.
Scrambling forward, their swords clashed again, the point of impact bringing them close once more. Charles’s nose was bleeding from the punch Silverton had landed, but the movements of Charles’s body were unimpeded, and he skipped back, a malevolent glare on his face. The hatred morphed when it alighted on Maeve with a murderous look. She was straining at a rusted hinge, trying to open the window. There was no option of crossing the study without getting too close to Charles.
“Get away from there, bitch.” Charles scrambled forwards, but Silverton’s rapier swept him back in a crossing move, the only thing stopping him from reaching Maeve. Charles parried, and they brought their swords together in a cinch as tight as lovers.
“Brother,” Silverton said. Their faces were inches apart, the look on his twin’s face crazed. “You’ve already lost. I always win.”
Charles loosened his grip, but he thwacked down with his free hand, digging his fingers into the wound on Silverton’s leg. With a cry of pain, Silverton pushed Charles away and tumbled backwards towards the window seat. For a moment he was sure he would hit Maeve, but she had moved, so Silverton landed on the floor in a heap.
Maeve had scrambled away from the vulnerable corner of the room, and Silverton was watching her now, poised in the centre of the study, her figure caught between running and starring back at him.
“Go,” he said. The pain from where Charles had dug his fingers into Silverton’s thigh throbbed and had caused him to bite down on his tongue. He could feel the heavy iron taste of blood filling his mouth and dripping down his chin as he spoke.
She wavered, her expression torn, and in her indecision, Charles struck. He turned on his heel from pursuing and striking Silverton as he lay sprawled on the ground and scrambled after Maeve.
It played out painfully in his mind, the hideous idea of his brother killing his wife. No, it was more than that, killing the woman he loved. One whom he’d barely had time to show all the affection and devotion he was capable of. She had only seen the faintest inkling of what deep emotion burnt through him. Ignoring the agony of his thigh, which threatened to pull him into welcomed oblivion, Silverton scrambled over to his brother. He lifted the slim blade of his rapier, holding the weapon by the sharpness of its blade with his other hand for better leverage, regardless of how the edge cut into his palm.
Charles had reached Maeve. The bastard was going to run her through. It was Silverton’s only chance as Charles drew back for his own bloody hit. With a shout born from pain, from rage, and perhaps even from sorrow at what he had to do, Silverton drove the point of the blade through his brother’s back, pushing with all his weight to press the sword down.
Darkness seemed to consume him, and for a moment, for one devastatingly long moment, Silverton was terrified he had failed.
Then there was a gut-retching scream, one which further seemed to render his vision blurry, but when it cleared, Silverton could see Charles on the ground at his feet, the rapier wedged deep in his back.
CHAPTER22
For many reasons, Maeve was pleased to have been a woman. Chief among them was that no one, not even her radical father, expected her to fight with a sword. It was a skill she had never wished to possess. Looking up from the body of Charles Brennan, into the face of her husband, she also thought it extremely likely that Silverton would have no desire to wield such a weapon ever again.
Feet from her, Silverton sank to his knees. His injured leg bent awkwardly, and he grimaced as he let out a tightly held breath.
With a little moan, Maeve tripped towards him and joined him on the carpet. Instinctually, her arms came around him, and she held him close as a small, almost silent cry issued forth from her husband.
“He was my brother,” Silverton said. Her hand stroked down his back as he rocked against her, and the fear, the dread, all those tumbling emotions cascaded out from him as he shook. His mouth, though silent, soon started to kiss her hair, and his hands clamped tightly around her waist, keeping her close to him, so close that Maeve almost felt as if she would struggle to breathe. Yet she had no desire to pull back when her face was resting on his broad shoulders, and the sense of him, his scent, his presence, the overwhelming feel of him was so close to her. The shelter of his arms was the only place she wished to be. It was the only place she felt truly safe, despite everything.
“We need to find you a doctor,” she said with a soothing amount of reassurance, she hoped. The injury to his leg would worsen and might lead to an infection.
Distantly throughout the Hall, voices could be heard. A cry here or a shout there, and soon people would be descending on them. Maeve moved to pull Silverton up. She wanted to fetch some material to bind his leg, she wanted to bring him water, or perhaps lay him down on the small settee in the corner of the study. To cover up the body of Charles.
But a surprising amount of strength remained in Silverton’s grip, and his arm, which was securely wrapped around her waist, would not budge. “Do not leave me.”
Unable to resist such a demand, Maeve laid her head back down and allowed herself to be swayed by the feel of him so close to her.
Running footsteps were the next thing she knew, and when the study door was thrown open, both Silverton and she looked up to see Grace, Betty, and her father framed in the doorway.
The three of them stared, and for a moment, their shock was written into their expressions before they all started speaking at once. Leaning in, Maeve closed her eyes, drawing on the strength she got from Silverton before rising to her feet.
“I shot him through the window.” Grace was hurrying forward to throw her arms around Maeve. She was beaming, unaware of Silverton’s injuries.
Betty followed in quick pursuit. “We managed to raise the militia. They’ve got the place surrounded.”
