Imposter Bride (39 page)

Ramsay squinted, trying to bring Metcalf into focus,
but the edges of the earl’s figure blurred and rippled, sometimes
splitting into two beings, sometimes wavering as a single shape.
The mist rolled in ever thicker, shrouding his surroundings until
all he could make out was the white face of Edward Metcalf, staring
in alarm that his shot had not done its deadly work.

The earl turned to the constable. “Give me the other
pistol,” he demanded.

“No!” The constable snapped the box shut. “‘Twas
only one shot, your grace.”

“I said, give me the other!”

Ramsay staggered forward, hatred and revenge firing
him to take step after dragging step, growing ever closer to his
frantic adversary.

“Keener, I command you!” Metcalf shrieked.
“Now!”

“Coward!” MacEwan yelled. Ramsay saw the Scotsman
stride past him. “I’ll give you a pisto1, you bloody coward!”

As if in a dream, Ramsay watched MacEwan storm up to
the earl and lurch to a stop a few feet away.

“You murdered my son!” MacEwan cried, raising Alec
MacMarrie’s remaining pistol, further flaunting the rules of
conduct during a duel. “You killed my only son, you buggering
bastard!”

“Sir!” Constable Keener shouted, lunging for the
weapon.

Edward Metcalf staggered backward, holding his hands
in front of him as if to ward off all violence to his person. But
John MacEwan was swift to react and stepped out of Keener’s path.
Then he straightened his arm, squeezed the trigger and purposefully
shot Edward in the gut, certain to provide the earl with an
agonizing death.

“For Jamie!” MacEwan spat.

“Sir!” Keener shouted, yanking MacEwan’s arm
backward. The pistol dropped to the ground with a solid thud. “You
are under arrest!”

“Not so fast,” Ramsay gasped. He pointed his pistol
at the constable, finding it increasingly difficult to breathe.
“There is proof of MacEwan’s claim.” He stumbled forward until he
stood beside the earl. Bending down, he grabbed Metcalf’s
snow-white cravat and yanked it upward, drawing up Edward’s neck
like that of a rag doll. “Where’s the box, Metcalf?”

Edward stared up at him, blood already trickling
from the corner of his mouth. “Go to hell, Ramsay,” he sneered.

“Where’s your trinket box, damn you?”

“In the coach,” a woman said behind him. “Probably
under the seat.” Ramsay recognized the voice. The woman had spoken
before and had cried out his name. Ramsay didn’t have the strength
to turn her way, but his heart thudded with hope all the same. Was
it Sophie? Wasn’t that her voice? God, for one more look at her!
But there was so much to do, and so little strength left—

“Mr. Puckett, get the box for Ian,” Lady Auliffe
demanded.

“We’ll show you the real murderer,” Ramsay dropped
the ends of the cravat, and Metcalf fell backward. The impact made
him cough, and thick ruddy liquid oozed over the hand he pressed to
his midsection. Ramsay looked up at the constable, “Show him the
ring, MacEwan!”

MacEwan stuffed his free hand into the pocket of his
waistcoat and pulled out the small ruby ring he had recovered from
the earl’s bedchamber.

“That ring was taken from MacEwan’s son.” Ramsay
nodded at the ring. “John found it among Metcalf’s possessions.” He
paused, struggling for breath. “How did it get there?” He coughed,
not sure how long he could keep standing on his feet. “Metcalf
takes a souvenir. From every one of his victims.”

“Preposterous!” the constable retorted. “Lord
Blethin is a peer of the realm!”

Ramsay continued undaunted by the mention of an
English title. “He took two buckles from his victim in Kensington.
And he either planted one on Sophie Vernet or it accidentally stuck
to her clothing. I’ve wagered my life the second buckle is in his
box of memories.”

“Idiot,” Metcalf sputtered, “Slanderer!”

Puckett dropped from the coach, pattered across the
green, and produced the small sandalwood box, inlaid with
mother-of-pearl on the lid, and trimmed in filigreed silver on each
corner. With shaking hands, he opened the clasp and raised the lid,
propping it beneath his intent face.

Ramsay reached for the box, but in the damnable haze
of his pain, he misjudged the distance and knocked it from
Puckett’s grasp with a clumsy paw. The box tumbled through the air,
landing at Metcalf’s elbow and spilling sparkling baubles over the
earl’s crumpled coat-tails and the dew-laden grass beyond.

“Good God!” the constable exclaimed.

“There is proof of your thief!” Ramsay pointed to
the ground where the glinting monogrammed buckle of Jean Couteau
winked up at them. “There’s your murderer.” He pointed at Metcalf,
whose hooded eyes appeared strangely bright beneath their lids.
“Not some maidservant from the West Indies! Sophie Vernet is
innocent!”

“Good Lord,” Lady Auliffe quipped. “There’s enough
evidence lying there to solve half the murders in London!”

Constable Keener frowned, shoved away MacEwan’s arm
in a swift release, and then bent to look at the jewelry upon the
ground.

Ramsay barely took notice of the others. His
strength was quickly draining away. He dropped to one knee and
pawed through Edward’s grisly souvenirs. There, among the diamonds
and gold was a plain silver brooch, fashioned of a boar’s head
surrounded by a circular buckle—the clan pin he had surrendered
twenty long years ago. He reached for it, pain streaking down his
arm, sweat dripping from his face, and something clammy sticking to
his spine. He felt the cold edge of the metal brooch press into the
flesh of his palm. He clutched the pin, clutched it tightly, never
to let it go again for as long as he lived and breathed.

His duty done, he felt a hot wave of pain overtake
him, like an enormous swell sweeping across the deck of a great
ship. He felt himself tipping, powerless to fight the rising tide.
His vision blackened to a small tunnel, and he struggled for air.
If only he could turn, if only he could look for Sophie, to make
certain she was alive, to know that what he had done for her had
not been in vain. But he no longer commanded his own limbs nor his
own heavy head. Darkness closed in upon him, and he felt himself
toppling, as he released himself to the sweet insensate embrace of
death.

A few days later, Sophie rose to replenish the fire
in the bedchamber of Lady Auliffe’s house where Ian Ramsay lay,
struggling for breath. Before she tended to the fire, she glanced
at him for signs of change, but saw none.

The doctor had ministered to Ian’s wound as best he
could, but the damage to his internal organs could not be assessed.
He believed the ball had gone through one of Ian’s lungs and had
come out the other side. At least he hadn’t been required to dig
out the shot from Ian’s flesh. Even so, the wound affected Ian’s
breathing, and the loss of blood he had sustained would have killed
a less healthy man. Upon leaving the morning of the duel, the
physician had shaken his head and told them not to expect a
recovery.

For the past two days Sophie had done everything in
her power to help Ian survive. She had kept his wound clean, the
room warm, and had dripped water from a cloth through his parched
lips, praying that she would keep him alive. But for the past two
days, he lay on the bed, never moving, with his left hand clasped
around a silver brooch.

Disconsolate, Sophie turned toward the fire. She
could have rung for Williams, who had gone above and beyond in his
duties the past few days, but even footmen needed their sleep. In
the deepening gloom, she could just make out the face of the clock
upon the mantel. Three o’clock. Soon it would be dawn.

Sophie couldn’t remember her last carefree night of
sleep. She moved now as if in a trance, too afraid to doze, should
her charge die during the night.

A small lump of desperation clogged her throat as
she stumbled tiredly toward the hearth. In a few hours dawn would
arrive, heralding another day when she would sit by the side of a
dying man and insist that he triumph over his mortal wound.

Was it her will keeping him alive? Was it fair of
her to urge him to survive and make him battle for each breath? He
had fought for air every minute since they’d dragged him from the
dueling green. If she surrendered her desire to see him again, to
speak to him one last time, would he sense her change of heart and
be released from his suffering?

Carefully, Sophie poured new chunks of coal on the
fire, making sure she did not smother the healthy embers. Then she
straightened and walked back to the bed.

She draped her palm over Ian’s forehead, and her
heart sank at the heat she felt radiating from his skin. He had
developed a fever, making his battle doubly difficult. She sank to
the chair and dropped her head in her hands.

How long they could both hang on? Perhaps they were
not meant to be together. Perhaps that was what fate had designed
for them all along. Still, she refused to let him go.

Two days had passed since the duel at Highclyffe,
and now a third day would soon bloom on the horizon.

With tears spilling down her cheeks, she looked down
at the man she loved. It was then she noticed Ian’s eyes were open.
She stared at him, hardly able to believe what she was seeing. Then
a thought occurred to her that cut through her like a blade. Maybe
he had died, and in doing so had raised his lids.

“Ian?” she breathed, her voice husky with emotion
and fear.

“Sophie. You’re alive.”

Her name was just a dry rasp in his parched throat,
but she had never heard a sweeter sound.

“Ian!” She jumped to her feet.

“Drink?” His tongue passed over his peeling
lips.

She rushed to do his bidding, anxious to do anything
to help him recover. With shaking hands, she poured a cup full of
water and added a drop of whisky to it, as Lady Auliffe had
suggested she do.

“Here” She sat upon the edge of the mattress and
slipped her hand beneath his head. His hair was matted, wet with
sweat. Gently she raised his head a few inches and tenderly held
the cup to his mouth.

Some of the water spilled down his neck, but some
she managed to get between his lips. He swallowed greedily, and
then collapsed, struggling for breath again.

Before she knew it, his eyes slowly closed once
more, and she sat there anxiously watching him, hoping the drink
had been a positive step. She took a cloth from the tray on the
night table and gently dabbed his neck. Then she lightly pressed it
to his forehead and cheeks, where the sweat of his fever glistened
in the firelight.

“Keep fighting, Ian,” she urged close to his ear.
“You can do it.”

Throughout the next few hours, Ian woke every once
in awhile for more water, and for the first time, Sophie began to
believe he would recover. When he trembled with chills, she added
more blankets. When he blazed with heat, she bathed his fiery skin
with a cool wet compress.

While she bathed his naked limbs, she couldn’t help
but remember their lovemaking. Odd, that she had shared such
intimacy with this man, but she had never seen him naked until now,
when he lay half dead from his wound. His body was as beautiful as
she had imagined, but his perfection was marred by purple bruises
where the ball had entered his body next to his shoulder blade and
exited at his right breast. She would permit no one but herself to
tend to him.

On the third day, she dozed off and on, too tired to
remain upright in her chair, but hopeful now that Ian would pull
through. Williams brought her breakfast. Puckett brought her tea,
and the lady of the house joined her for a light supper, brought
her fresh clothing, and made her lie down for a few hours on the
chaise near the window while she kept watch over Ian.

When at last Sophie awoke, she sat up and found that
night had fallen once more. Williams slumped in the chair by the
bed, his head jerking as he fought off sleep. Sophie rose and
quietly flowed to the sickbed, ready to resume her vigil.

“Thank you, Williams.” Gently she tapped the butler
on the shoulder. “I can take over now.”

“Oh!” He blinked in confusion and glanced around,
apparently not sure where he was. “Of course.” He scrambled to his
feet, rubbing the back of his neck, which had to have been cramped.
“May I get you something before I retire?”

“No, thank you.”

She watched him walk to the door, rolling his
shoulders and rotating his head on his neck, and then sank to the
chair. The hours she had slept on the chaise had done her a world
of good, and she almost felt like her old self. With hope, Ian had
improved as well. She reached out and lightly felt his forehead.
His fever had subsided.

“Praise the Lord,” Sophie murmured. “Oh, praise the
Lord.”

It was then she noticed Ian’s breathing had ceased
to be so labored. Gone was the strange gurgling sound, and the
gasps for air. She slid her hand over his and squeezed gently.

“You’re going to be all right, my love,” she said to
him as he slept. “You’re going to live.”

Deep in the night, Sophie was startled awake by
pressure on her left hand. She had fallen asleep, still sitting
beside Ian, with her hand upon his.

“Sophie.”

She awakened to find Ian’s black eyes looking up at
her, his gaze clear and direct.

“God, to see you again!” he exclaimed.

“Ian—”

He raised her hand to his parched mouth and pressed
his warm lips to her fingers.

“‘
Twas what kept me
alive.”

“Don’t talk, Ian. Save your strength.”

“I must, I have to.” He swallowed, and she saw his
Adam’s apple rise and fall in his throat. He squeezed her hand and
lowered it to his chest.

“There were reasons for my actions. You must hear
them.”