A dry laugh pushed at his throat. These men had no intention of releasing William and Isabella, even if Digbyweredefeated.
But it did not matter. William did not expect to come out of this alive. He just wished to take Robert Digby to the grave with him.
At least then she would have more time. As she waited for her father and his men, there would be no one to torture her or demand her hand in marriage or rip away more of her garments.
Two dogs barked as Digby finally strode from the brick house. He was adorned in a double-breasted grey tailcoat, pompous cravat, black breeches, and polished top boots—with a jewel-hilted sword sheathed at his side. He shouted a command back into the house.
A foul-looking ruffian pulled Isabella outside.
William’s blood simmered. In the dark room, he had felt her with his hands and imagined her as she’d been in the garden. He had not pictured this.
Her hair, no longer twisted back with curls and pins, hung limp past her elbows. Her underclothes were soiled and ripped, and her wrists were coiled with rope and crusty with blood. But her face, more than anything, arrested him. The hollow paleness of her cheeks. The swollen bruises across her mouth and cheeks. The quiver in her frantic glances—and the strange, pleading way her eyes finally locked with his.
Digby would die for this.
Rage made his hands perspire, so that the sword was slick against his palm as his opponent stepped into the center of the circle. “We are all made aware, I presume, of the prizes that shall be awarded to the winner of this match. Men?”
A grumble of agreement arose.
“And you, Miss Gresham?”
The ruffian at her arm pushed her to the edge of the circle, and without lifting her eyes from the ground, she nodded.
William’s breathing quickened.Dear God, do not let me fail.
“Splendid.” Digby bowed. “Splendid indeed. Kensley, have you any word before we begin?”
He shook his head, stepped forward, lifted his weapon as Digby unsheathed his. The firstclinkof their swords jarred William’s nerves into action. He shuffled back and forth, blocking the blows, heart pulsing in his temples.
He knew as little of fencing as he did dueling pistols.
Digby was proficient. That much was certain. Skill and strategy lurked behind each swift thrust of his blade, as men cheered and shouted with madness.
A hissing sound sliced too close to William’s face. He lunged forward, clanged his sword against Digby’s, then thrust the weapon toward the man’s chest.
Digby sidestepped the onslaught, delivering a powerful swing of his own.
Pain slashed William’s left arm. He grimaced and ducked another blow. The chanting faded. All he could hear was the next whip of the sword, the jolting clatter as metal hit metal, the squish of their feet in soft mud.
Please, God.
The point of his blade sliced Digby’s thigh. The wound must have disoriented him, because he wasn’t quick enough to avoid the next blow as it thrust into his shoulder.
A scream.Isabella.William turned just as the ruffian backhanded her face.No—
Cold metal dove into William’s flesh. He blinked hard and stumbled back, pressing a hand into his side, groaning as a gush of blood seeped through his fingers.God, no.
He warded off another blow, but his vision blurred.Clang.They had distracted him.Clang.They had lured his eyes away only seconds, but it had been long enough.Clang.
The sword swirled from his fingers and hit the ground.
Agony twisted his insides.No.In one swift movement, he groped for it—but another swing of Digby’s sword slashed across his chest. He was wet in too many places. The world spun.
“You disappoint me, Kensley.” Digby’s shadow fell over William as he sank to the mud on one knee. “I had anticipated a much more stimulating opponent.”
God, please.Seconds fled. Silence reigned.Please.For the second time he reached for his sword and grasped it, and when a cut lashed across his knuckles, he did not let go. He surged the blade into the air.
The weapon must have found its mark, because Digby cried out. He stumbled back. William dove.
