Page 87 of Dukes Do It Better
It made sense in an awful way. Montague wanted revenge on every person involved in his transportation. Take away Mal’s role as captain. Destroy Amesbury Ale’s project to expand their retail distribution and growth, which impacted both Lottie and Ethan. Hurt Cal’s shipping investments.
After all that effort and months of pulling it together, the brewery was continuing on, the fire in the warehouse hadn’t done significant damage, and Mal was ignoring the blackmail demand. The only one of the three targets Montague was successfully impacting in any long-lasting way was Mal. Seeing him lose anything tore at her heartstrings, no matter how unruffled and accepting he appeared to be about moving on from the Royal Navy.
Emma plucked the straw bonnet trimmed in red ribbon and clusters of silk cherries from her hat stand, then left her bedroom. In the hall, she paused.
They had no way of knowing what awaited them at the inn, except a man who hated them all so much, he had boasted about setting her house on fire. Emma slipped back into her room, carefully closing the door behind her. Dragging her vanity stool to the armoire, she stepped up and felt with one hand around the top of the wood wardrobe until her fingertips brushed metal.
The pistol was designed for a lady’s hand. It had been a while since she’d shot it, but when she’d moved to the outer reaches of England, she had promised Cal she’d maintain the weapon and keep it handy for self-defense. In the years since she’d moved to the cottage, she had needed it only once. They’d had an unknown nighttime visitor lurking about the property, and she’d fired into the air and yelled that the household was armed and trained, so the trespasser should move along posthaste.
Knowing she could scare off strangers had been a blessing then. Now, the weight in her hand sent a wave of foreboding through her. Ignoring the sensation, she grabbed a cherry satin reticule from the wardrobe, loaded the gun, and tucked it inside.
A glance in the mirror showed what she wanted the world to see—a fashionable, composed, strong woman who would do anything to protect her family, and look good while doing it. Emma nodded at her refection, then cinched the reticule closed with shaking hands.
* * *
The Barley and Bay Inn was a bustling hub of activity on the edge of Olread Cove, squatting in all its moss-covered stone glory next to the road travelers took south to Whitby, and eventually all the way to London. The last time she’d been in the building it had been with a head full of wine and desire for the handsome ship’s captain who’d caught her eye at the assembly.
Emma glanced over at Mal, and knew from the way he winked at her that he was remembering that night as well. To think, when she kissed him goodbye the next morning and left, she’d never expected to see him again.
Stepping out of the carriage, Emma ignored the hand Devon offered and marched across the yard, deftly avoiding mud puddles and piles left behind from horses.
Beside her, Mal strolled toward the inn with long, relaxed strides, but the tense set of his shoulders gave him away. When the Athena had engaged in conflict, was this focused calm how he led his men to victory? The sheer size of him, along with his steady competence, made her grateful he was on her side.
“We’re agreed?” Mal said in a low voice. “Negotiate first, see if he can be talked down. Avoid violence if possible. If he gets rough, we call the magistrate.”
“Fine with me,” she said, then turned to Devon. “Roxbury, lead the way.”
Upstairs, Roxbury knocked on a door at the far end of the hall, but didn’t wait for an answer before opening it. Inside the snug but tidy room, a man straightened from tugging on a tall boot, then calmly raised an eyebrow at them all and rose. Without a word, he turned his back on them to tie his cravat in the mirror. The reflection showed a man who kept his eyes on what his hands were doing, winding and twisting linen around his throat, not once looking behind him at the uninvited visitors.
When he finally spoke, after giving his clothing one final twitch and tweak in the mirror, his tone was relaxed. “I should have known you wouldn’t have the bollocks for this, Roxbury.”
A ruddy flush colored Devon’s cheeks.
Emma tilted her head, taking a long inspection of the man who’d played puppet master behind the scenes to enact his revenge. Objectively speaking, James Montague was beautiful. Blond curly hair, exquisite face, and a trim figure showcased in good-quality clothing. Something was decidedly wrong with his eyes, though. Not so much windows to the soul, but windows to Bedlam. This man was unhinged in the calmest, coldest way Emma had ever seen.
“Devon did the right thing,” she argued, keeping her voice mild. The old Emma would have done whatever it took to appease the bully. Perhaps tried to flirt, or reverted to determinedly cheerful chatter about nothing of importance. The new Emma didn’t need any of that nonsense—not when a pistol weighed down her reticule, and the man she loved stood by her side.
“No, Lord Roxbury did the weak thing. And I have no use for weakness.” Montague’s calm demeanor gave no warning of what he did next. Drawing a pistol from his pocket, he pointed it toward Devon, and by extension, them. She and Mal stood against the wall, like the empty glass bottles Cal used to line up on their fence for her to shoot at in her youth. Targets.
Mal pulled Emma behind him, shielding her with his body. The hammer clicked on the pistol, and Emma flinched. Around the side of Mal’s burly arm, she watched Montague. His focus never wavered. His hand didn’t shake, and the same serene expression graced his face, at odds with his cold eyes.
Devon shook, though. A sheen of sweat glistened on his brow, and his breath came in short pants, as if he’d run all the way from the cottage.
Like it or not, the man who had once broken her heart and betrayed her had done the right thing today. And like it or not, without him, she wouldn’t have Alton.
And Alton was waiting for her back home. No matter how she felt about Devon, she couldn’t let the biological father of her child get shot while she stood by. It wasn’t in her to allow that to happen. Not when her pistol knocked against her hip from within the silk bag on her wrist.
“You don’t want to do that, Montague,” Mal said.
“Are you averse to bloodshed, Lord Trenton? Would you prefer I sell him to the penal colonies instead?” Montague queried, still frightfully calm.
Behind the shelter of Mal’s broad back, Emma eased open the top of her reticule and withdrew her pistol.
“Consequences happen, but you survived. You’ve exacted your revenge. Put the gun down and tell me what it will take to satisfy you,” Mal said.
A rusty bark of a laugh exploded from Montague with the sharp percussion of a bullet. Emma flinched at the exact moment the muscles in Mal’s back twitched.
“Satisfied? I’ve lost years of my life because of you and your friends. I’ll be satisfied when I’ve destroyed your lives in equal measure.” From around the edge of Mal’s arm, she spied Montague swing the gun away from Devon and toward them. “I apologize for changing plans at the last minute, Captain Harlow. Or, rather, Your Grace. But when given the opportunity to either testify at your court-martial and destroy your career or to see you and your lady love burned to the ground in your little love nest, I couldn’t resist. Well done, choosing the sister of someone I loathe. It’s all so very tidy.” A smile, barely more than a bitter quirk of the lips, broke through Montague’s reserve. “Rest assured, when I’m done with you, I will still burn your quaint cottage to the ground. I’ll see you and all you hold dear reduced to ash. You took everything from me, and I’ll do the same. It’s only fair.”
