Except, Morgan would believe anything of the man who had beenEl Corazón Oscuro. He had witnessed the atrocities carried out upon enemy soldiers by the guerrillas Rayne had captained. And he could not bear to lose his ne’er-do-well cousin. Could not bear to be the blame for Monty’s death. For all his faults, Monty was loyal down to his marrow, and willing to do anything to aid another.Sweet Christ, Morgan would never forgive himself if…
Nay, he would not think it. Would not believe it. Not until he knew for certain.
By the time they reached the chamber in question, he was nearly out of his wits, frantic with worry, fear, and dread. His palms were damp with sweat, heart hammering like a blacksmith upon the anvil, as he found the latch and let himself in.
The sight that greeted him as he stood on the threshold filled him with relief and perplexed him all at once. Monty lay on a bed, Rayne hovering over him. Both men were bloodstained, Monty’s coat and shirt sleeve cut away to reveal a makeshift linen bandage tied tightly around his upper arm.
“Has the physician arrived yet?” Rayne snapped, rather than offering a greeting.
“What the hell is the meaning of this?” Morgan demanded, stalking into the chamber, aware his fretting wife followed on his heels.
It was unseemly for her to be here, witnessing Monty wounded and in dishabille, but what the devil was he to do about it? Her demonic half-brother appeared to haveshothis cousin.
“This…sonof a whore sot me,” Monty offered weakly, his speech notably slurred as he paused, apparently realizing belatedly that he had misspoken. “Shotme.”
His first thought was thank Christ his cousin was not dead. And his second was good God, why was Monty so thoroughly sotted at this time of the morning? His third thought tore from him with the report of a pistol, echoing in the chamber.
“What the hell have you done to Montrose, you bastard?” he growled as he reached his cousin’s bedside, uncertain of whether he ought to punch Rayne first and ask questions later, or wait to hear the earl’s explanation.
Leonie had rushed after him, her sweet floral scent following with her, and the staying touch of her hand upon his coat sleeve leashed the savage beast within him. “Let Alessandro answer,” she murmured.
Rayne’s dark eyes were cold. “I defended myself on the field of honor. When you failed to arrive, your second decided to face me in your stead. As you can see, he was in no condition to wield a weapon. I attempted to tell him it wasfútil, and that I would not face a man in his cups, but he raised his pistol and took aim at my head. It was either the fool,el tonto, or me, so I shot to maim. He can be grateful I did not shoot to kill.”
The rage in him began to slowly dissipate as he turned to his cousin. “What the hell were you doing standing in for me? I sent word to you yesterday morning to cry off.”
“You did?” Monty shifted on the bed, then let out a hiss of pain.
“Cristo, stay still or the bleeding will worsen,” Rayne ordered Monty.
“Of course I did,” Morgan charged, irritation at his drunken cousin gaining the upper hand over concern for his wellbeing. “Did you not receive it?”
“I negated my correshpondence.” Monty paused, the expression on his face one of sheer befuddlement as he realized his words were once more wrong.
Morgan would have laughed if it wasn’t so pitiful and if the situation his cousin’s carousing had placed them all in had not been so dire. “You mean to say you neglected your correspondence. Why? What the hell were you doing, Monty?”
“What do you suppose he was doing, Searle?” Rayne growled, his tone rife with disgust.
“Not fit for the earsh of a lady…er, theearsof a lady,” Monty offered with great effort.
Hell and damnation. He knew Monty caroused, but had he possessed an inkling his cousin would ignore his correspondence and then arrive at the predestined time at Battersea Fields, drunkenly wielding a dueling pistol on his behalf, Morgan never would have asked the fool to be his second. Nor would he have entrusted the all-important task of cancelling the duel to him.
Judging from his appearance and the strong scent of spirits wafting from Monty, mingling with the copper scent of blood, he had been drinking all night long. Likely in the company of one of his many paramours.
“Damn you, Monty, I did not want to fight Rayne, and I did not want you to face him on my behalf,” he bit out, his anger returning, this time directed at a target other than his wife’s half-brother. “I wanted this entire business to be at an end. I wanted peace, and now here you lie, bleeding and wounded. The dowager Countess of Rayne is downstairs weeping in the drawing room, convinced you are dead and Rayne has committed murder, and you are so drunk you cannot even string together a coherent sentence. If Rayne had not already done the honor, I would shoot you myself for being so bloody stupid.”
Wordlessly, Leonie slid her gloved hand into his, her fingers tightening in reassurance. He took comfort in her presence at his side, in her calm in the face of such unnecessary upheaval. They were united, man and wife, one in love and in life, and together, they could accomplish anything, weather any storm, face anything that befell them. He felt it now with such certainty his gut clenched, and he was thankful anew, so damn thankful for the incredibly giving, wonderful woman he was privileged enough to call his.
He did not deserve her.
He never would.
But he would happily hold her in his heart and in his arms every day forward just the same.
“You did not wish to duel me?” Rayne asked then, interrupting the heaviness of Morgan’s thoughts.
“No.” He glanced down at Leonie, loving her so desperately, he ached with it.
She smiled back at him. “Searle has had a change of heart.”
