Chapter Twenty-Seven #4
blade was caught in time and eased away. Someone in the crowd gasped as the stiffened canvas of Glenmoor’s jacket gaped open,
sliced clean through. It had done its work and protected the skin there.
But Glenmoor’s shoulder was still bleeding, dripping spirals of blood onto the mat. Breaths shuddered as Hugh and Glenmoor
locked their blades.
“I always knew you’d pick someone unsuitable,” Glenmoor murmured. “But I hadn’t imagined you’d scoop a baseborn whore out
of the gutters—”
Hugh surged forward, all finesse, all sense, lost. Fury locked him in a vicious dance, blazing hotter at the sight of the
duke’s taunting smirk, the barely restrained glee.
Sense pierced the red haze that covered Hugh’s mind. He wants this.
Glenmoor had predicted this. He’d known Hugh would surrender to his truest self, to answer honor’s bloodthirsty demands. He wants you furious.
“I suppose she fits in well in your household,” Glenmoor continued. “I was surprised to find such rough characters working
in what was once a dignified family home. And how curious, despite my best efforts, I have never been able to find records
of any of them—not so much as a birthdate, let alone what else they might have done in years past.”
The world tilted violently. Panic swarmed him, blurring the onlookers and Hugh’s thoughts. No, he and Uncle Giles had taken care to protect them. They had done everything to carve out safety for them.
He wants you furious.
Reddy’s warning finally took root, spreading its icy fingers through him. Something in Glenmoor’s expression hardened, as
if he saw through Hugh’s fury to the spidering cracks in his resolve.
And when Hugh struck again, so did he.
Glenmoor feigned his back foot slipping in the puddled blood. He dropped to a knee, lowering his arms as if to regain his
balance and, in doing so, let his sword tip fall.
Had Hugh been even a step closer, his blade would have pierced Glenmoor’s exposed chest. Somehow, he seized control of his
body, straining his arm to a hard stop. The deadly tip of his blade caught just at the hollow of Glenmoor’s throat.
Blood welled there as Hugh’s arm shook, as he fought to steady his breathing and dull the roaring in his ears.
The duke’s eyes dilated, as if, at last, he had the satisfaction of placing the final piece of a puzzle. “Well?” he rasped
out.
Hugh’s vision darkened. Sweat coated his face and dampened his back. The moment stilled, poised on the very tip of his blade.
Breath wouldn’t come, no matter how hard he fought to summon it. His mother’s face swam before him. Viola’s. Eleanor’s. Everyone
he had failed. The women this man had sought to crush. It had to be answered—it had to be.
But there was another woman’s voice in his mind, abiding.
If you continue to sacrifice parts of yourself, soon all you’ll have left to offer are your heart and your humanity.
God, he wasn’t strong enough to finish this, nor was he strong enough to walk away. Glenmoor knew this, knew him, the way Hugh had been forced to learn him. Blood had bound them before revenge. This was the duke taking a calculated risk—to prove that Hugh lacked the courage to
finish it. To show the others once and for all that Hugh was a villain, the hotheaded wreck of a man Glenmoor had spent years
painting him as.
. . . your heart and your humanity . . .
Two things the duke did not possess, and never had.
Two things Hugh would never offer to him.
Honor and fury clashed in him as he eased the blade back. Loud clapping shattered the silence, startling him back into the
moment.
“Well done,” Reddy called, his expression strained as he continued clapping. “Well fought!”
The other faces around them held varying degrees of horror and confusion, but Reddy had allowed them to seek refuge in politeness,
and they soon joined in his applause.
The School of Arms sharpened around Hugh, the heat and brightness of the sunlight suddenly suffocating. His stomach turned
violently as he lowered his sword. Reddy clasped a steadying hand on his shoulder, carefully extracting the sword from his
grip. Hugh had never felt such a staggering gratitude for his friend as he had in that moment, when he’d needed to be saved
from himself.
Yet, Glenmoor looked far from disappointed.
The duke rose, pulling a handkerchief from the pocket of his ruined fencing jacket. The smell of his blood turned as pungent
as any poison. His gaze never broke from Hugh’s, not even as the other lords flocked to him, leaving Reddy and Hugh standing
alone.
“Well fought, indeed,” Glenmoor crooned at him, handing his blade to an attendant. “You’ve won the honor of being the first
to congratulate me, Lord Hugh.”
Reddy’s grip on him tightened, but Hugh was in control of himself now. “Oh?”
“Seeing my younger brother wed has made me realize it is high time to allow myself to be caught. To sire an heir.” Glenmoor’s
thin lips curled. “And the King, despite the grave condition your wife has left him in, has given his consent to the match.”
Hugh’s exhausted body began to throb in time with the pounding in his head.
Too late.
Too late.
“You see,” Glenmoor finished with relish, “Eleanor and I are to be wed by summer’s end.”
Always too late.