Dukes Do It Better, page 28
Also, having enemies was still strange to her. Secrets? Yes. She had secrets aplenty. People who genuinely wished her ill, to the point of wanting to set her home alight? That was new.
She didn’t like it.
But Emma would look beautiful and poised when she faced this Montague person. Who apparently hated her and her home because of her connections to Calvin, Ethan, and Malachi.
It made sense in an awful way. Montague wanted revenge on every person involved in his transportation. Take away Mal’s role as captain. Destroy Amesbury Ale’s project to expand their retail distribution and growth, which impacted both Lottie and Ethan. Hurt Cal’s shipping investments.
After all that effort and months of pulling it together, the brewery was continuing on, the fire in the warehouse hadn’t done significant damage, and Mal was ignoring the blackmail demand. The only one of the three targets Montague was successfully impacting in any long-lasting way was Mal. Seeing him lose anything tore at her heartstrings, no matter how unruffled and accepting he appeared to be about moving on from the Royal Navy.
Emma plucked the straw bonnet trimmed in red ribbon and clusters of silk cherries from her hat stand, then left her bedroom. In the hall, she paused.
They had no way of knowing what awaited them at the inn, except a man who hated them all so much, he had boasted about setting her house on fire. Emma slipped back into her room, carefully closing the door behind her. Dragging her vanity stool to the armoire, she stepped up and felt with one hand around the top of the wood wardrobe until her fingertips brushed metal.
The pistol was designed for a lady’s hand. It had been a while since she’d shot it, but when she’d moved to the outer reaches of England, she had promised Cal she’d maintain the weapon and keep it handy for self-defense. In the years since she’d moved to the cottage, she had needed it only once. They’d had an unknown nighttime visitor lurking about the property, and she’d fired into the air and yelled that the household was armed and trained, so the trespasser should move along posthaste.
Knowing she could scare off strangers had been a blessing then. Now, the weight in her hand sent a wave of foreboding through her. Ignoring the sensation, she grabbed a cherry satin reticule from the wardrobe, loaded the gun, and tucked it inside.
A glance in the mirror showed what she wanted the world to see—a fashionable, composed, strong woman who would do anything to protect her family, and look good while doing it. Emma nodded at her refection, then cinched the reticule closed with shaking hands.
* * *
The Barley and Bay Inn was a bustling hub of activity on the edge of Olread Cove, squatting in all its moss-covered stone glory next to the road travelers took south to Whitby, and eventually all the way to London. The last time she’d been in the building it had been with a head full of wine and desire for the handsome ship’s captain who’d caught her eye at the assembly.
Emma glanced over at Mal, and knew from the way he winked at her that he was remembering that night as well. To think, when she kissed him goodbye the next morning and left, she’d never expected to see him again.
Stepping out of the carriage, Emma ignored the hand Devon offered and marched across the yard, deftly avoiding mud puddles and piles left behind from horses.
Beside her, Mal strolled toward the inn with long, relaxed strides, but the tense set of his shoulders gave him away. When the Athena had engaged in conflict, was this focused calm how he led his men to victory? The sheer size of him, along with his steady competence, made her grateful he was on her side.
“We’re agreed?” Mal said in a low voice. “Negotiate first, see if he can be talked down. Avoid violence if possible. If he gets rough, we call the magistrate.”
“Fine with me,” she said, then turned to Devon. “Roxbury, lead the way.”
Upstairs, Roxbury knocked on a door at the far end of the hall, but didn’t wait for an answer before opening it. Inside the snug but tidy room, a man straightened from tugging on a tall boot, then calmly raised an eyebrow at them all and rose. Without a word, he turned his back on them to tie his cravat in the mirror. The reflection showed a man who kept his eyes on what his hands were doing, winding and twisting linen around his throat, not once looking behind him at the uninvited visitors.
When he finally spoke, after giving his clothing one final twitch and tweak in the mirror, his tone was relaxed. “I should have known you wouldn’t have the bollocks for this, Roxbury.”
A ruddy flush colored Devon’s cheeks.
Emma tilted her head, taking a long inspection of the man who’d played puppet master behind the scenes to enact his revenge. Objectively speaking, James Montague was beautiful. Blond curly hair, exquisite face, and a trim figure showcased in good-quality clothing. Something was decidedly wrong with his eyes, though. Not so much windows to the soul, but windows to Bedlam. This man was unhinged in the calmest, coldest way Emma had ever seen.
“Devon did the right thing,” she argued, keeping her voice mild. The old Emma would have done whatever it took to appease the bully. Perhaps tried to flirt, or reverted to determinedly cheerful chatter about nothing of importance. The new Emma didn’t need any of that nonsense—not when a pistol weighed down her reticule, and the man she loved stood by her side.
“No, Lord Roxbury did the weak thing. And I have no use for weakness.” Montague’s calm demeanor gave no warning of what he did next. Drawing a pistol from his pocket, he pointed it toward Devon, and by extension, them. She and Mal stood against the wall, like the empty glass bottles Cal used to line up on their fence for her to shoot at in her youth. Targets.
Mal pulled Emma behind him, shielding her with his body. The hammer clicked on the pistol, and Emma flinched. Around the side of Mal’s burly arm, she watched Montague. His focus never wavered. His hand didn’t shake, and the same serene expression graced his face, at odds with his cold eyes.
Devon shook, though. A sheen of sweat glistened on his brow, and his breath came in short pants, as if he’d run all the way from the cottage.
Like it or not, the man who had once broken her heart and betrayed her had done the right thing today. And like it or not, without him, she wouldn’t have Alton.
And Alton was waiting for her back home. No matter how she felt about Devon, she couldn’t let the biological father of her child get shot while she stood by. It wasn’t in her to allow that to happen. Not when her pistol knocked against her hip from within the silk bag on her wrist.
“You don’t want to do that, Montague,” Mal said.
“Are you averse to bloodshed, Lord Trenton? Would you prefer I sell him to the penal colonies instead?” Montague queried, still frightfully calm.
Behind the shelter of Mal’s broad back, Emma eased open the top of her reticule and withdrew her pistol.
“Consequences happen, but you survived. You’ve exacted your revenge. Put the gun down and tell me what it will take to satisfy you,” Mal said.
A rusty bark of a laugh exploded from Montague with the sharp percussion of a bullet. Emma flinched at the exact moment the muscles in Mal’s back twitched.
“Satisfied? I’ve lost years of my life because of you and your friends. I’ll be satisfied when I’ve destroyed your lives in equal measure.” From around the edge of Mal’s arm, she spied Montague swing the gun away from Devon and toward them. “I apologize for changing plans at the last minute, Captain Harlow. Or, rather, Your Grace. But when given the opportunity to either testify at your court-martial and destroy your career or to see you and your lady love burned to the ground in your little love nest, I couldn’t resist. Well done, choosing the sister of someone I loathe. It’s all so very tidy.” A smile, barely more than a bitter quirk of the lips, broke through Montague’s reserve. “Rest assured, when I’m done with you, I will still burn your quaint cottage to the ground. I’ll see you and all you hold dear reduced to ash. You took everything from me, and I’ll do the same. It’s only fair.”
Alton was there, along with Polly, Mrs. Shephard, Jimmy, and Charles. Even those damned goats mattered in the grand scheme of things. This man, with his icy emotions, would not steal her home and family. The weight of the pistol settled in her hand as she steadied her grip and her nerves with a deep breath. There was one sure way to end this.
Phee’s uncle Milton’s face flashed through her mind. The way life had seeped from his eyes as his blood pooled around him. Emma had carried that guilt, for a man she’d never met before that day, for years. His death had been an accident. If she stepped around Mal with this gun, killing another bad man would not be an accident.
And yet, standing by while this man threatened her son wasn’t an option either. And that—protecting Alton—was worth carrying more guilt. Another burden in a life of regrets, but she would make the best of it. Yes, an authentic and honest life was the ultimate goal, but not at that price. For Alton and her family, she’d lie, cheat, steal, and kill every bad man foolish enough to step in her path, and that was as authentic and honest as she got. Being true to herself did not make her weak. Because no matter how painful her childhood had been, it had instilled a ruthless survival instinct that was as much a part of her as her blond hair.
The weight of the gun in her hand grew slick against her palm.
Beside them, Devon shifted from one foot to the other. Movement, however slight, caught Montague’s attention, and the pistol swung away from Mal.
Which gave her the split-second moment of distraction needed to slip around Mal and step between him and Devon, pointing her own weapon.
Time stretched with a heartbeat of shocked silence, before a slow, chilling grin spread across Montague’s face.
Devon yelled, “Drop the gun, Emma!”
Emma didn’t look away from her target, ignoring the slight tremor in her arm. “Why the concern? I can handle a weapon. I was taught to defend myself. And I am. This man wants to hurt everyone I love, even my son. Especially my son. What kind of mother would I be if I didn’t protect my family?” With each word, emotion leeched from her until she too felt cold. Devoid of warmth, like the cliff top in December, where the wind cut through to your soul.
At least she still had a soul. A little murky in places, but she would live with it, like she lived with everything else. The tremor in her hand steadied.
Montague shifted his stance slightly—enough to point the gun at her instead of Devon—then raised a mocking eyebrow in challenge.
“The kitten has claws, I see,” Montague said.
In response, she pulled back the hammer on her pistol.
Beside her, Mal spoke low. “Are you sure, Emma? Once you kill a man, it marks you for life.”
A rueful smile tilted her lips. “Oh, I know. Give me an alternative, and I’ll consider it. But this man won’t go away. He’s already proven that.” Tension gathered in her arm the longer she held the gun out like this, and she tried to relax without losing her target.
It was true though. If they thought of another way out of this, she’d take it. No matter what might have happened in her past, Emma wasn’t a killer at heart. She was a mother, a sister, a friend, and hopefully soon a wife.
The realization, although it was something she should have already known, sank deep. She wasn’t a killer. There’d been an accident in her parlor years ago, when she’d been frightened and pregnant and defending herself, but she wasn’t a killer. Would she protect herself and her family? Yes. Most people would, wouldn’t they? She swallowed roughly, her eyes steady on the handsome man with the Bedlam eyes. “Mal, would you do it, if you had the gun?”
He didn’t even hesitate. “Yes. Once he pointed a gun at you, he was a dead man.”
Montague chuckled. The sound held a hollow finality, like rocks falling on a coffin. “Aren’t you two adorable with your solidarity and hatred for me? It’s touching, truly.” The finger resting against the side of his gun shifted toward the trigger.
“Put down the gun, Montague. That’s the only way I see this ending well for anyone.” She sounded confident as she made this final plea, but Emma already knew his answer.
Between one blink and the next, Devon’s hand covered hers, snatching the gun away and firing in one smooth move.
A blast of deafening sound struck Emma numb and she watched in disbelief as a red blossom spread over Montague’s chest. No one spoke as he fell, gasping at the ceiling. Mal was the one who had the sense to cross the room and remove Montague’s pistol from reach, and then release the hammer.
“You didn’t ask me if I’d do it,” Devon said. The skin around his lips was tight and pale, and now that he’d fired, his hand had a noticeable tremor. When he turned to face her, his expression was a bit shocked and wild. “I couldn’t let him hurt you or Alton. He hated all of you. It twisted him. I’m sorry I was part of it. So sorry, Emma. Please forgive me.”
Her feelings for Devon had run the gamut over the years. Attraction, lust she’d believed was love, then anger. Resentment over how he treated her. She despised the horrible things he said in London. Did this final desperate act at the very last minute erase all of that? Not a bit. But it had been an awfully long time since she’d felt anything positive toward the man, so gratitude now over such a massive act wasn’t comfortable.
Instead, she said, “Does anyone have an idea of what to do with this body?”
The three of them looked at each other, then at Montague. The blood soaked his shirt in a distinctive way, and his face hadn’t settled into a peaceful faux sleeping expression in death. Without the spirit in his body, there was an oddly empty, waxy element to his perfect face.
“I don’t know,” Devon said. “I haven’t seen a dead man this close before.”
Beside her, Mal dragged a hand through his hair and sighed. “I’ll take care of this. I’ll send for the magistrate.”
“What will you tell them?” Devon asked.
“As much of the truth as possible. Montague was a deranged man obsessed with hurting me, who came to the village specifically to harm my family. When I confronted him, there was a struggle over the weapon. It’s tragic, but accidents happen. In this case, it happened between a convict and the Duke of Trenton. As the highest-ranking landowner in the area, I’ll need to introduce myself to the magistrate anyway. This is as good a time as any.”
Devon swallowed roughly. “Thank you for leaving me out of it.”
Mal faced him and seemed to grow several inches before her eyes. “Montague threatened my soon-to-be wife and child, but so did you. Make no mistake, Lord Roxbury, I’m not doing you a favor. I’ll leave you out of this, but on one condition. You will retire to the Continent. Live your life. Be a better man. Today cleans the slate, and we will part ways, never to see one another again.”
Emma searched Devon’s expression for a hint about how he felt about that ultimatum. It was fruitless, but she couldn’t help looking for the man she’d once believed herself in love with. He might be in there somewhere beneath the ravages of alcohol. Once upon a time, she’d thought she would save him, reform him into a respectable husband. But heavy-lifting of that magnitude was entirely Devon’s responsibility, and she wanted nothing to do with it anymore.
After a long moment, he agreed with a nod. “That is probably more than I deserve, considering the trouble I’ve brought on your heads.”
“Do you have your own room?” Mal asked.
“Yes, mine is next door.”
“Then I suggest you return to it and stay there until you hear the magistrate finish his business.” Mal wrapped an arm around Emma’s shoulders and kissed the top of her head, dismissing Devon. If she wasn’t mistaken, Mal took an extra moment to breathe her in. She smiled as his face lingered in her hair.
At the door, Devon turned back. “Your Grace?”
They both turned to face him.
“He’s yours. Please…be the father I refused to be,” Devon said.
Mal dipped his chin in acknowledgment. “I already am. He is, and will be, loved. I promise.”
Emma burrowed her nose in his chest as a heavy sigh escaped. Lordy goodness, she loved this man. “Goodbye, Devon.” The words felt as final as they sounded.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Dear Mal,
You were worth the wait. Now hurry home and marry me.
All my love,
E
—A note found in Malachi’s uniform pocket
The hilt of his sword gleamed against the oak judgment table.
Acquitted honorably. The words echoed in his head.
Without a key witness—since the Admiralty’s witness had apparently been killed in an accident—the case unraveled. Even under questioning, no one on board the Athena could or would corroborate the witness’s story. From the lieutenants and warrant officers, all the way down to the powder monkey, Malachi’s crew denied knowledge.
“Take up your sword and return to His Majesty’s service. Your orders will be delivered to you directly,” Admiral Sorkin said, concluding his speech.
Malachi wrapped his hand around the familiar hilt and woven grip. The gold braid on the cuff of his uniform shone in the sunlight pouring through the window behind him. He spoke the words he’d gone over with the Admiral this morning. “I formally request to retain my commission in abeyance, Admiral. I continue to serve my king, but now in the form of a dukedom.”
Sorkin jerked his head in a terse nod. “So it will be. Expect orders to arrive at your London residence within the next seventy-two hours. We hope to see you again in Town soon.” The admiral bowed his head slightly. “Your Grace.”
This time, when Malachi walked down the hall of the Admiralty, with his sword securely in its scabbard, the stares and murmurs were quieter. People would still talk, because people were people. But the presence of his sword said everything about his court-martial. Captain Harlow, the Duke of Trenton, remained in the king’s service.
Ignoring the stares, he pushed through the door and out into the sunshine.
