A Masquerade in the Moonlight - By Kasey Michaels Page 0,154

“Well, well, my dear, there you have it. It would seem you have lost, doesn’t it, while I have won yet again? What a waste. Do you have anything to say to the American before you die? Some last, loving farewell?”

Marguerite took a deep breath, a plan forming in her mind. “Yes, William. Yes, I do,” she said quietly. “You miserable bastard!” she then screamed as loudly as she could as she turned to Donovan, at the same time leaping forward to grab up one of the pistols. But Donovan was also moving, throwing his body against the earl’s, so that she could not fire at Laleham without taking the chance of hitting the wrong man.

One pistol fell to the floor as the two men struggled, locked together tightly as she kept her pistol trained on them, praying for a clean shot at Laleham.

A heartbeat later an explosion rang out and Marguerite stood frozen as the sound echoed in the room and the acrid odor of gunpowder drifted toward her. She closed her eyes for a second, praying, then opened them.

Why were they both still standing?

Who had taken the bullet?

Then, slowly, as Donovan stood with his back to her, William Renfrew’s hands, his right clutching the smoking pistol, came up to grasp the American’s shoulders. He looked into Donovan’s eyes and then turned to stare at Marguerite, his mouth moving without saying anything, as slowly, oh, so slowly, his body slid down Donovan’s to the floor.

“Don’t shoot, aingeal. One extra hole in this body of mine is enough for me,” Thomas said coolly as he sagged slightly where he stood, pressing a hand against his left side. “He was standing too close to miss me. And would you happen to have anything handy about you to tie up my wound? Much as I hate to mention it, the thing’s bleeding fair to drain me dry.”

Marguerite laid down the pistol and ran around the desk, pausing only a moment to look down at the Earl of Laleham’s unmoving body—to see the knife hilt visible in the center of a dark, spreading stain on his chest—before throwing herself against Thomas, standing on tiptoe to kiss his face over and over. “You idiot! To throw yourself against his pistols! You sweet... adorable... brave idiot!”

Thomas winced, and she stepped back, realizing she was probably hurting him. Her hands shaking with nerves, she began pulling her shirt free from her breeches, planning to rip a strip off the bottom of it to use as a bandage. “Not really, aingeal. I just couldn’t be sure you were as good a shot as you said you were. But it was nice of you to distract him for a moment.”

“Oh,” Marguerite said quietly, cocking her head to look up at him. “I believe I’m insulted, but as you’re injured, I’ll forgive you. How did you know I’d make a move for the pistol?”

“I didn’t. I only hoped. Come to think of it, I should be glad you didn’t shoot me. How did you know that I was lying to Laleham?”

Marguerite smiled and batted her eyelashes at him teasingly as she helped him out of his jacket in order to tend to his wound. “Oh, well that was simple. You had to be lying to William. I’m a lot of things, Thomas Joseph Donovan, but I am not a miserable bed partner!”

“That you’re not, darlin’,” Thomas answered, grinning down at her. “That you’re not. Lord, how I love you! Here now—take a care pulling off my shirt. I’m an injured man, you know.”

“I heard a shot! Tommie? Where are you, boyo?” Dooley burst into the room, the tail of his nightshirt barely covering his spindly Irish calves, waving a pistol above his head so that Thomas stepped in front of Marguerite, probably to protect her if the thing went off. “Well, heyday!” he exclaimed as his bare foot collided with Laleham’s body. “You could have waited for me, boyo. Now what am I supposed to tell Bridget, I’m asking you—that I was snoring m’head off while you were playing the hero? You’re bleeding? Good. Serves you right for having all the fun without me.”

Marguerite covered her laugh with a cough as Sir Gilbert and Finch came into the room, then sobered as she remembered what William had said about Marco. “Donovan—Marco! We have to go to Laleham Hall.”

“Whatever for, sister of my heart? To watch it burn, as all evil things must? Ah, Donovan, I see you have not