Page 88 of Dukes Do It Better
Alton was there, along with Polly, Mrs. Shephard, Jimmy, and Charles. Even those damned goats mattered in the grand scheme of things. This man, with his icy emotions, would not steal her home and family. The weight of the pistol settled in her hand as she steadied her grip and her nerves with a deep breath. There was one sure way to end this.
Phee’s uncle Milton’s face flashed through her mind. The way life had seeped from his eyes as his blood pooled around him. Emma had carried that guilt, for a man she’d never met before that day, for years. His death had been an accident. If she stepped around Mal with this gun, killing another bad man would not be an accident.
And yet, standing by while this man threatened her son wasn’t an option either. And that—protecting Alton—was worth carrying more guilt. Another burden in a life of regrets, but she would make the best of it. Yes, an authentic and honest life was the ultimate goal, but not at that price. For Alton and her family, she’d lie, cheat, steal, and kill every bad man foolish enough to step in her path, and that was as authentic and honest as she got. Being true to herself did not make her weak. Because no matter how painful her childhood had been, it had instilled a ruthless survival instinct that was as much a part of her as her blond hair.
The weight of the gun in her hand grew slick against her palm.
Beside them, Devon shifted from one foot to the other. Movement, however slight, caught Montague’s attention, and the pistol swung away from Mal.
Which gave her the split-second moment of distraction needed to slip around Mal and step between him and Devon, pointing her own weapon.
Time stretched with a heartbeat of shocked silence, before a slow, chilling grin spread across Montague’s face.
Devon yelled, “Drop the gun, Emma!”
Emma didn’t look away from her target, ignoring the slight tremor in her arm. “Why the concern? I can handle a weapon. I was taught to defend myself. And I am. This man wants to hurt everyone I love, even my son. Especially my son. What kind of mother would I be if I didn’t protect my family?” With each word, emotion leeched from her until she too felt cold. Devoid of warmth, like the cliff top in December, where the wind cut through to your soul.
At least she still had a soul. A little murky in places, but she would live with it, like she lived with everything else. The tremor in her hand steadied.
Montague shifted his stance slightly—enough to point the gun at her instead of Devon—then raised a mocking eyebrow in challenge.
“The kitten has claws, I see,” Montague said.
In response, she pulled back the hammer on her pistol.
Beside her, Mal spoke low. “Are you sure, Emma? Once you kill a man, it marks you for life.”
A rueful smile tilted her lips. “Oh, I know. Give me an alternative, and I’ll consider it. But this man won’t go away. He’s already proven that.” Tension gathered in her arm the longer she held the gun out like this, and she tried to relax without losing her target.
It was true though. If they thought of another way out of this, she’d take it. No matter what might have happened in her past, Emma wasn’t a killer at heart. She was a mother, a sister, a friend, and hopefully soon a wife.
The realization, although it was something she should have already known, sank deep. She wasn’t a killer. There’d been an accident in her parlor years ago, when she’d been frightened and pregnant and defending herself, but she wasn’t a killer. Would she protect herself and her family? Yes. Most people would, wouldn’t they? She swallowed roughly, her eyes steady on the handsome man with the Bedlam eyes. “Mal, would you do it, if you had the gun?”
He didn’t even hesitate. “Yes. Once he pointed a gun at you, he was a dead man.”
Montague chuckled. The sound held a hollow finality, like rocks falling on a coffin. “Aren’t you two adorable with your solidarity and hatred for me? It’s touching, truly.” The finger resting against the side of his gun shifted toward the trigger.
“Put down the gun, Montague. That’s the only way I see this ending well for anyone.” She sounded confident as she made this final plea, but Emma already knew his answer.
Between one blink and the next, Devon’s hand covered hers, snatching the gun away and firing in one smooth move.
A blast of deafening sound struck Emma numb and she watched in disbelief as a red blossom spread over Montague’s chest. No one spoke as he fell, gasping at the ceiling. Mal was the one who had the sense to cross the room and remove Montague’s pistol from reach, and then release the hammer.
“You didn’t ask me if I’d do it,” Devon said. The skin around his lips was tight and pale, and now that he’d fired, his hand had a noticeable tremor. When he turned to face her, his expression was a bit shocked and wild. “I couldn’t let him hurt you or Alton. He hated all of you. It twisted him. I’m sorry I was part of it. So sorry, Emma. Please forgive me.”
Her feelings for Devon had run the gamut over the years. Attraction, lust she’d believed was love, then anger. Resentment over how he treated her. She despised the horrible things he said in London. Did this final desperate act at the very last minute erase all of that? Not a bit. But it had been an awfully long time since she’d felt anything positive toward the man, so gratitude now over such a massive act wasn’t comfortable.
Instead, she said, “Does anyone have an idea of what to do with this body?”
The three of them looked at each other, then at Montague. The blood soaked his shirt in a distinctive way, and his face hadn’t settled into a peaceful faux sleeping expression in death. Without the spirit in his body, there was an oddly empty, waxy element to his perfect face.
“I don’t know,” Devon said. “I haven’t seen a dead man this close before.”
Beside her, Mal dragged a hand through his hair and sighed. “I’ll take care of this. I’ll send for the magistrate.”
“What will you tell them?” Devon asked.
“As much of the truth as possible. Montague was a deranged man obsessed with hurting me, who came to the village specifically to harm my family. When I confronted him, there was a struggle over the weapon. It’s tragic, but accidents happen. In this case, it happened between a convict and the Duke of Trenton. As the highest-ranking landowner in the area, I’ll need to introduce myself to the magistrate anyway. This is as good a time as any.”
