Page 31 of Once Ruined, Twice Shy

Hestia gulped. Much as she detested Frederick, she hoped it wouldn’t come to a hanging. This fight must be stopped. The sooner, the better.

With a shout, she threw herself forwards, caught at Frederick’s arm, and pulled with all her might.

He turned his sweaty face towards her, registering shock and amazement as she pushed him aside with every ounce of her strength, and interposed her body between his and Conall’s.

“Enough! Sir, you should be ashamed of yourself.”

“Hestia, no.” Conall’s voice, breathless, alarmed. She kept her back to him, knowing she could trust him to lower his weapon. All her will was concentrated on Frederick, where he stood, perspiring and panting in front of her.

She met and held his gaze. “This is not the way, and you know it.”

He wiped a sleeve across his brow and subjected her to an icy glare. She read death in his eyes, and knew with utmost certainty, he must not be allowed to continue with the fight.

A hand clasped her shoulder, and she recognised Conall’s touch, but she shrugged him off. “No. Let me settle this. Put your blade away, Conall, I beseech you.”

Frederick glanced over her shoulder, but she moved quickly, keeping her body between the two men. “Frederick—or Andrew, as I now know you to be called—sheathe your sword.”

He narrowed his eyes, his knuckles whitening on the guard of the rapier. “Get out of the way. Slut. Harlot. You have no place here.”

“How dare you speak to her that way, you cur.” Conall’s voice was deep with menace. “I should spit you where you stand.”

“No need for that. Drop your weapons, gentlemen, or answer to the King’s justice.”

A new voice. Hestia dared not turn her head aside. She was locked in a battle of wills with Frederick, knowing in her heart that no matter how he insulted her, he would never use force against her.

Suddenly two stout gentlemen seized each of Frederick’s arms, one twisting his wrist until his sword clattered to the ground. One of the men carried a decorated baton. The constable her father had gone to fetch, and his assistant.

Papa’s familiar voice boomed out across the courtyard. It was his battlefield voice, literally making the doors and windows rattle.

“Go about your business now, you wastrels. All is finished here. The King’s representative will deal with this incident now. One of these gentlemen is a deserter and will be punished accordingly. The other acted in self-defence when he tried to apprehend him. Now, be gone, all of you.”

With considerable mutterings and grumblings, the guests from the inn and the early-morning folk of Thaxted began to disperse, cheated of their morning’s entertainment.

Frederick was led away by the constable and his helper, presumably to be incarcerated until he could be transferred to a military court, and dealt with. Hestia tried not to think of what might happen to him. Even if he did deserve all that was coming, she’d loved him once.

Trembling in every inch of her body, she finally turned to face Conall, only to see an expression of absolute fury on his face.

There was no warmth in his voice as he said quietly, “Don’t you ever do anything so foolhardy again. You could have been killed.”

“So could you,” she choked, then flung her arms around his neck and burst into tears.

Through her sobs, she heard his blade hit the cobbles, and both his arms came around her, pulling her tight against his heaving chest.

She nudged his ear, whispering, “I thought I’d lost you. I couldn’t bear it. I love you, Conall Methuen. Don’t ever frighten me like that again.”

He kissed her hair. “I won’t, my darling, I promise. It was never my intention to fight.”

“I know. Gaisford told me. Now stop making excuses and kiss me. If you love me.”

“I do love you.”

Then she and Conall gave the last few straggling members of the audience the best finale that can ever follow a dramatic fight scene.

The spectacle of a man and woman united by the kiss of true love.

Epilogue

August 1819