Surrender to Sin (40 page)

The Duke was appalled. “Julie, I forbid you to give Rourke my ruby! It’s been in the family for a hundred years. How could you do such a thing?”

“It’s not your ruby, darling,” she replied. “I hope I know better than to give a ruby to an Irishman! It’s an emerald, of course.” She looked directly at Abigail, who had cried out rather sharply. “Yes! I fetched it from Mr. Grey’s this afternoon,
Miss Ritchie
. Indeed, I’d rather give it to Mr. Rourke than see you wear it! I’m sure my brother will feel quite the same when he realizes who and what you truly are.”

Abigail’s mouth worked.

“You bitch!”

Abigail gasped. “Oh, God! I didn’t mean to say that!”

“You didn’t,” said Cary, shaking his fist under Juliet’s nose. “Now, you listen to me, you pest. You give that ring back to Abigail this instant, or I swear I’ll feed you to my dog.”

For a moment Juliet actually appeared cowed. Then her hard chin came up. “It’s legally mine,” she told her brother. “You gave it to her, and she gave it to me when she gave me the receipt. I have given it to Mr. Rourke. That’s my final word.”

Cary pulled out his wooden sword and whacked his sister on the bottom with it. Abigail thought she would burst with pride and happiness. In her opinion, there was no other bottom in England who deserved it more, not even Lord Dulwich’s.

“Cary, you can’t mean it!” Juliet cried, covering her rear with both hands. Tears coursed down her face. “Her father is in Trade! She’s no one.”

“She’s my wife.”

“What?” Juliet’s lip quavered pitifully. “No, this can’t be. You only just met her.”

He turned away from her in disgust. Sword in hand, he faced Rourke. “You have something that belongs to my wife, sir.”

Rourke laughed easily. “Besides her drawers, you mean?”

“You’ll pay for that.” Cary lunged forward, but to his consternation, his short wooden sword was blocked by metal.

“I too have a sword,” said Rourke, easily deflecting the blow. “And, as you see, mine is made of metal, and I know how to use it.”

“Stagecraft, actor,” Cary sneered. “I’ve killed men in battle.”

“Not with that bit of wood, you haven’t,” David Rourke replied laconically. His odd light eyes flashed in the moonlight. Suddenly, Abigail was very frightened.

“Cary, don’t,” she pleaded. “It doesn’t matter.”

“You should listen to your pretty wife,” Rourke said, his smile flickering coldly. “I have also killed men in battle. I am not afraid of you.”

“How
dare
you attack my brother,” cried Juliet as the two men circled each other.

Rourke laughed as he and Cary crossed swords again. “
He
attacked
me
, but since I am Irish, and he is English, perhaps you think I should beg his pardon. Now, as I understand it,” he went on pleasantly, as the fight continued, “you gave the emerald to your darling wife, but she, for reasons unknown to me, gave it to your charming sister, who in turn has given it to me. That makes it legally mine, does it not?”

“It belongs to my wife,” said Cary, gritting his teeth, “by right of a higher law.”

“A higher law? Oh, yes, you English do have a higher law, don’t you? One for yourselves and another for everyone else.”

At his next lunge, Cary’s wooden sword broke in half. “What an unfortunate occurrence,” Mr. Rourke remarked. “And now all that remains is the
coup de grace
.” He flourished his sword menacingly.

“No!” screamed Abigail, darting in front of Cary as Rourke drove his blade home. The blow struck her full in the chest, knocking her back into Cary’s arms. A red spray spurted from her breast as Rourke pulled back his arm.

“Another unfortunate occurrence,” he observed coolly.

White with fear, Cary lowered Abigail to the ground. “Abby! Abby, can you hear me?”

She could hear, but she could not speak. Her chest hurt and she felt as though she couldn’t breathe. She panted and choked.

“Abby, don’t leave me,” he whispered, rocking her in his arms.

Juliet’s face was ashen as she clung to her Duke.

“Actually,” said Abigail, feeling the front of her Roman stola. “I think I’m all right.”

“No, you’re not all right,” Cary choked. “He’s murdered you, the bastard.”

“Really, I’m all right,” Abigail insisted, trying to sit up.

“It’s shock,” the Duke theorized. “Remember when we overturned that time, Julie, and you were thrown clear of my curricle? You jumped up and down for a bit, yelling at me, before you realized you’d hurt your leg. Shock.”

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” said the Irishman, considerably annoyed. Holding out his sword, he demonstrated to Cary how the blade retracted neatly into the hilt. “It’s stagecraft, just like you said. I only wanted to put some manners on you, man. I didn’t think there was any blood left in the reservoir. I thought I used it all in my death scene.”

Cary’s face was still white. “You bastard!”

The actor quirked a brow. “Now you wish I
had
killed her? Make up your mind. Here you are,” Rourke said, tossing the emerald into Abigail’s lap. “All you had to do was ask,” he told Cary. “But you just couldn’t, could you, being English and all? You had to threaten me.”

Abigail snatched her ring and put it on.

“And I’ll be drinking to your health this night, Mrs. Wayborn,” he added, giving her a curious bow.

“Shall I stop him?” asked the Duke, as Rourke strolled towards the gate.

“No, let him go,” said Cary. “He won the wager, after all.” He helped Abigail to her feet. “You’re sure you’re all right?”

“Yes,” she answered, using his handkerchief to wipe away some of the sweet-smelling stage blood. “It knocked the breath out of me, that’s all.”

He seized her hands. “Abby, you love me,” he said fiercely.

She blinked at him. “You mean
you
love
me
,” she corrected him gently.

“I meant what I said, woman! You love me,” he snapped. “Are you in the habit of stepping in front of swords meant for other people? For God’s sake, I thought you were going to die without saying the words. Why can’t you just admit that you love me?”

“Of course I love you,” she said impatiently. “I’ve always loved you, from the moment I saw you, I think.”

He sucked in his breath. “You never said so. In fact, you’ve been rather hard on me.”

“I’m sure I must have told you,” she protested, trying to think. “Didn’t I?”

“No. Not once. I have been in agony for weeks.”

Abigail squirmed uncomfortably. “Well, you must have suspected. You’re so conceited, I can’t believe you would ever doubt it! And I married you, didn’t I?”

“You weren’t very eager, as I recall,” he said. “I had to drag you to Little Straythorne. It was bloody humiliating. But I remember thinking: I love her enough for both of us.”

“No,” she said indignantly. “That is what
I
thought.”

“And when we were at the theater,” he went on, frowning. “All that rubbish about ours being a physical relationship. That cut me to the bone.”

Her eyes widened. “I was talking about
you
. Cary, I’ve always loved you.”

For a long moment they stood staring at each other.

“Well,” said Juliet. “I think I’ve had enough fresh air for one night! I think I should like to go home, Ginger.” She paused. “Mr. Rourke has taken the Duke’s carriage. You don’t mind if I take
my
carriage, do you, Miss Ritch—er—Mrs. Wayborn?”

“Please call me Abigail.”

“Very well, Smith, I shall,” said Juliet pertly. “I’m glad you weren’t stabbed. No. No, that’s not enough,” she added firmly. “I was a perfect beast to you, and I know it. Tell you what I’ll do. This summer, you shall come to Auckland and be Countess Olivia in our
Twelfth Night
. I’m Viola, and Cary’s going to play the part of my brother, Sebastian. Aren’t you, Cary?”

“Yes, I most definitely am,” he said softly, taking his wife in his arms. His lips touched Abigail’s and he found everything else disappeared.

“Well, Smith?” he said presently, when the others had gone. “Shall we go up to the roof and watch the fireworks or straight to your bedroom and make our own?”

“Cary,” she protested. “We still haven’t told my father we’re married.”

“We’ll tell him tomorrow at breakfast,” he answered, as high above their heads, the corgi jumped into the oak tree.

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Copyright © 2007 by Tamara Lejeune

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