The Officers Temptation Ch 14

Author's Note: No sex scene in this chapter. Check out the last one if that's what you clicked for. ^_^

And huge thanks to everyone who comments. It has really inspired me to keep writing this story, which I never thought would be longer than one chapter!

The Officer's Temptation: Chapter Fourteen

The Dueling Ground

When the first tinge of blue light filtered in through the window, Marlowe jolted awake. A rush of emotions swept over him, the dread of meeting Nicholas on the field melting into the tender elation that he felt looking at Kate, who was now asleep in his arms. He hadn't expected to sleep at all, only to hold her as long as he could, savoring each second that she was beside him. He shifted his arm gently out from underneath her delicate neck and sat up slowly, trying to rub the dry, heavy feeling out from his tired eyes.

He knew that he needed to make his way to the secluded wood outside of town where Nicholas had proposed to meet. He had only a few minutes to dress and saddle the horse if he were to arrive by first light, and yet... He watched the slight rise and fall of Kate's ribs, the breath escaping through her slightly parted lips. She was lying on her side, her black lashes resting against her fair cheeks. Her shoulders and back were naked, a sheet lightly covering her chest. In the dim light, he could just see the small dots across her nose. He wished that he had the time to touch each one, brush his fingers against her skin and trace lines through them like constellations. She was so devastatingly beautiful... If only he didn't have to wake her.

He brushed a hand over her forehead, swiping his fingers gently down the curve of her cheek. "Kate," he whispered. She didn't stir.

Distantly, he heard the faraway creak of a board. The servants were rising upstairs. The house would soon be coming to life with the sun. "Kate," he said more urgently, lowering his lips to her ear. "Kate, you must wake up, darling."

Her eyelashes fluttered and she groaned. "Marlowe?"

He kissed her forehead. "You must get dressed."

Her eyes finally snapped open and she scrambled for the sheet, pulling it up around her chest. "Marlowe! What time is it?"

"You need to go back to your room," he said. "Before anyone finds you here. It's nearly dawn."

"That can't be so. I only closed my eyes for a moment." She pushed herself up on her elbows. The sheet slipped down, exposing the full curve of her breasts, the small buds of her nipples.

"Are you saying that it was the nightingale and not the lark that pierced the fearful hollow of mine ear?" he said wryly. He wished that it were so, desperately wished that it was not dawn that was beginning to streak the sky outside. The peak of her breast was so tempting... Would that it were the dead of night and he could make love to her again.

She frowned at him. "Don't quote that dreadful play to me. You know they both die in the end?" She rubbed her eyes. "I never meant to fall asleep."

He wished that he could stay in bed, naked beside her, but he had to move urgently. "I didn't either, but you have to get back to your bed before anyone sees you in my room." With a last longing look at her breast, he rolled out of bed and began picking up clothes. His muscles protested. He and Kate had made the most of their time together... more than once that night.

She frowned at him and threw off the covers. "I'll only be a moment," she said. "Don't leave without me."

"Don't leave without you!" he sputtered, dropping her clothes on the bed. "You can't mean that you intend to come with me!"

She met his gaze squarely, jutting out her chin defiantly as she yanked her night rail over her head. "Of course I'm coming with you."

"Absolutely not." He tried to sound stern as he forced his legs through his riding breeches and yanked them up around his waist. There was absolutely no way that he would allow Katherine to accompany him to the dueling ground. It was entirely out of the question, entirely improper, and entirely too dangerous.

"Who's your second?" She flipped her dark hair over her shoulder, watching him as he struggled to pull a shirt over his head.

Marlowe threw up his hands in frustration. "I have none. In other circumstances, it would have been Nicholas, but..."

"Well, then, I'll--"

"--You absolutely will not." The buttons of his waistcoat seemed particularly aggravating. He fumbled putting one through its hole three times, growling in irritation.

Kate turned her nose up at him as she tied her dressing gown. "Someone needs to be there to represent you, and it only makes sense that it should be me." She faltered for a moment and her confidence seemed to waver, "And besides, if anything happens to you, I--"

In two quick strides he was beside her. He pulled her to his chest, wrapping his arms around her. "I can't risk anything happening to you," he said, pressing his cheek against the top of her head. Her scent filled his nose, as sweet as a summer garden. "What if a bullet went astray? What if we were caught out? And... And if the worst should happen, Kate... I don't want you to see."

She pulled away and lifted her face, jaw set in determination, though her eyes were burning with unshed tears. "But I can't risk anything happening to you." She touched his cheek gently.

He caught her hand in his and brought it to his lips, kissing it lightly. "Kate, if I survive, I promise that--"

"--No," she said, biting her lip. "Tell me when you return."

He nodded, tilting his head down to hers. He cupped her face in his hands, kissing her gently, sweetly, trying to imbue it with all of the feelings and unsaid words that were swirling in his chest. Too soon their lips parted and Marlowe found himself looking into the depths of Kate's eyes.

He swallowed and felt a sinking feeling in his gut, a tightness in his chest. He was going to die. With every beat of his heart, with every second that slipped by, the surer he became. The revelation was hitting him with clarity--as if the future was written into his bones.

He deserved death

. For what he had done to Nicholas, even for what he had done to Arabella--allowing her to believe for even one moment that there was a chance of a future together. He did not deserve to be happy and so he

must

die, because by God, if he survived, he knew that he would be radiantly happy with Kate by his side. He would be at peace and all the little frustrations of his world would click into place. And in what world did he deserve such a reward for his awful, idiotic behavior?

He closed his eyes, took in one last deep breath of her smell, and brushed a piece of hair from her face, trying to force his face into a mask of serenity. "You must go to your room. The servants will soon be in the halls. Don't let anyone see you. I won't have you disgraced because of me."

She nodded sadly. There was nothing left to say and she only brushed her fingertips along the taper of his jaw before turning to leave. At the door, she paused, looking over her shoulder. Her dark hair was still unbound, cascading along her slender white neck, and her robe seemed to glow slightly in the rising light of the dawn. She was absolutely beautiful, but the expression on her face would have been enough to break his heart, had there been anything left to break.

The door clicked softly shut behind her and he listened for her soft footfalls on the floor of the hall. They faded quickly and he took a moment to collect himself before shrugging on his coat and fetching the case of pistols from underneath his bed. As he pulled on his boots, ready to leave, he noticed the blue ribbon crumbled on the floor, completely forgotten by its mistress. He picked it up, tying it around his wrist. If he was going into battle, he was going to go carrying her colors like the knights of old. And, should the worst come to pass, he would feel easier passing on knowing that he had a little piece of her with him by his heart.

#

The sky was cracked with the light of dawn, the angry summer sun burning through the gaps in trees, leaking like molten lead from a blacksmith's forge. Marlowe rubbed his eyes, listening to the world around him stir. He crossed his arms and stamped his feet, waiting. Though the agreed-upon dueling location was called a park, it was really more of a wood, with green lawns interspersed between the clumps of trees. A few paces away, the terrain rolled softly into the river banks, overgrown with weeds and bramble where a few birds were chirping, hidden behind the leaves. A light breeze stirred Marlowe's hair, and he shivered, feeling clammy as the moisture rose from the dewy ground. Finally, he heard his horse gently snort from where he was tied up in a nearby copse of trees. Someone was coming.

Two riders approached, their backs to the rising sun: Nicholas, in dark clothes on a black horse, and another man, whom Nicholas did not know. The second man was slightly older, with hair that grayed around the temples and down through his fashionable sideburns. They dismounted. It was difficult to decipher Nicholas's expression from across the field, but Marlowe could tell that his mood was grim from his curt movements, the swift jerk of his legs as he dismounted and the rigid set to his arm as he took his horse by the reins to be tied up to the trunk of a tree.

The unknown man approached Marlowe with a quick and business-like gait. "Hughes?" he asked.

Marlowe nodded his assent. Although they were strangers, there was something about the other man that put him at ease. He seemed calm, self-assured, trustworthy. Someone whom Marlowe thought he could befriend. It was a funny thought to Marlowe as he realized with a start that, in general, Nicholas did not typically seem to be a good judge of character. He had chosen the fickle Arabella as a wife, and Marlowe, worm that he was, as his closest friend.

"I'm Whitmore. Doctor Whitmore, but also serving as second. Are you still waiting for your man?"

"No. It's just me." Marlowe cleared his throat to ease the awkwardness of the admission. Nicholas faced him across the field, his body set into a resolute posture.

Whitmore's eyebrows rose in surprise, but he only gave a curt nod. "Any chance that this can be resolved without shots?"

"I slept with his wife as I'm sure he has told you. And the lady herself has insinuated that she was forced. As you can see, the decision is entirely up to him. I've no excuses for my behavior nor do I see how he could let such a threat to his wife's honor go unremarked."

Whitemore nodded. "Straight forward, then. I'll speak with him." He gave Marlowe a steely glance. "But did you, sir? Force the wife?"

"Upon my life, I did not. I do not claim to be innocent of the rest, but I swear I would never mistreat a woman in such a way."

Whitemore looked at him thoughtfully then nodded. Marlowe watched as he strode back across the field to where Nicholas waited. Their conversation was short, and Marlowe could not hear a word of it from where he stood. It was only minutes later that Whitemore returned. He looked resolute. "He's resolved to see this through."

"I'd have expected nothing less," said Marlowe. Nicholas had always been a man of honor and there was nothing left to be said. It was time to collect the pistols, inspect them, though there was no need, in Marlowe's opinion. The birds went on chirping. The sun had fully risen now. It was time.

Marlowe and Nicholas approached one another and Marlowe flinched as Nicholas grew closer and he saw the mask of anger and pain that painted Nicholas's face. His eyes, which simmered with a low-banked rage, were tempered by the hint of sorrow that lingered in his brow. A flash of deja-vu jerked through Marlowe's body.

He was reminded of the men on the battlefield. He had always found it so bizarre how soldiers were able to carry on like normal, follow the markers of nicety and politesse, even knowing that they could die at any moment. How odd, what honor and decorum could make a man do... to show up and exchange pleasantries with a man who might kill you when the sensible thing to do would be to run away. But Marlowe didn't want to run. He had never been sensible, after all.

Nicholas's back was straight and tall, though he looked as if he had not slept much. The area under his eyes was bruised from lack of sleep. His skin looked pale. He did not meet Marlowe's eye.

"So this is what it has come to," Marlowe mused. They were directly across from each other now. Close enough where he could have reached out to touch Nicholas's shoulder. It was almost time for the count-off.

Nicholas's cheek tensed in barely controlled emotion. "Did you imagine any other outcome when you bedded my wife?" His dueling pistol was in his hand, which shook lightly.

For a moment, Marlowe thought that he might raise it and shoot him on the spot. He tightened his grip on his own pistol and struggled not to grit his teeth as pain coursed through his hand, heightened by the still tender cut on his palm. The handle was smooth against his palm burrowing into his damaged flesh. He would not flinch, would not lose his grip. The thought of Kate's ribbon around his wrist gave him strength. "I never imagined anything, Balfrey. I was a fool. You have my most sincere apologies."

"Your apologies are useless. It is honor that you must deliver." His voice was flat, cold, and controlled.

"I know," said Marlowe softly. He hesitated for a moment. "If the worst should happen... I left letters in my room. Miss Jennings should see to them, but just in case she is unable, please ensure that they are delivered."

Nicholas nodded curtly. "Of course." Then his brow quirked, "You told Katherine?"

Marlowe grimaced. "She surmised."

"Gentlemen," said Whitmore, his voice booming across the clearing. "Fifteen paces, if you please."

Marlowe swallowed down his emotion as they turned back to back, measuring the distance between them as Whitemore counted aloud. His heartbeat slowed, though he could hear it like a drum in his ear. The breeze ruffled his hair, and he caught the play of the morning light against the leaves that rustled near the river embankment. A small gray dove spread its wings, flapping up from the brush. He blinked and thought of Kate, how beautiful she had been since the first day that he had seen her. He thought of his mother and father, his sister back home.

"Attend!" yelled Whitemore.

Marlowe turned on his heel, his body obeying the command without thought. His arm moved of its own accord, raising the pistol that he lightly clasped in his hand. The movement burned in his palm, sending shock waves through his arm, which trembled. He realized that his hand was too weak to even fire at the same time as images flashed in his mind of Nicholas as he had been as a boy: when they had fished in streams and caught tadpoles with their hands, when Nicholas helped him with Latin at Eton, despairing that Marlowe would ever manage the correct inflections, Nicholas's cry of triumph when his horse had won at a race Marlowe had pressured him to gamble on, and his crooked smile when he talked about poetry.

Across the field, Nicholas's coat billowed in the wind, snapping like a black flag. It had all come to this.

"Fire!"

Marlowe did not think, only tossed his pistol to the side and raised his hands. He deserved this. He would not falter.

A crack like thunder split the air and Marlowe shook, falling to his knees. Above, a flock of birds took to the air, frightened into flight. He could not feel anything but his breath in his chest and the beating of his own heart. He closed his eyes. Someone loosed a bloodcurdling scream.

He turned his head and saw Kate, dark hair streaming behind her, cloak fanning out as she ran. She skidded to his side, stumbling beside him in the dirt, smearing grass and mud across her blue riding skirt. "Marlowe!"

"What the devil are you doing!?" he yelled. Something was wrong. He could not believe his eyes. "What are you doing here?"

Across the field, Nicholas gaped in shock.

Kate's hands searched him frantically, "Are you hurt? Marlowe, are you hurt?"

"You must leave the field," he croaked. "He's two more shots."

Whitmore had made it over to his side. "Any blood?"

Marlowe stood, shakily, pulling Kate to her feet. "No. The shot missed."

"It missed! You bloody fell to the ground!" cried Kate. "I thought you were dead!"

Nicholas stalked over. "You threw away your pistol, you bloody fool!" he yelled.

"I can't shoot you, you ignorant bastard! I do not wish to harm you."

"Then shoot at the sky," protested Whitemore. "It's more honorable. He can't take his remaining shots at an unarmed man!"

"I don't care about my own honor," barked Marlowe. "It doesn't mean a thing! I am an honorless, idiotic bastard, so Nicholas, shoot me if you wish to shoot me. You have two shots left."

"I aimed at the tree, you bloody, rotten, disgraceful, shit-ass ingrate!"

"Gentlemen!" cried Kate. "Watch your tongues and mind your damned manners before I have to smack some sense into the both of you!"

Nicholas looked at Kate as if for the first time. "What the blazes are you doing here?"

"I followed your wife!" said Kate through clenched teeth. "And now, by the way, if the Lieutenant went to such lengths as to

toss his gun aside

so as not to shoot you, and you

aimed at a tree

so as not to shoot him, then perhaps we can end this useless demonstration of male idiocy and pride!"

"My wife?" gaped Nicholas. "Arabella is here?" He turned his head from side to side, looking utterly baffled.

"Yes," said Kate, "she was right over... there." Her finger pointed towards a grove of dark trees, where the ladies' horses were visible.

That was when they noticed that Marlowe's pistol was nowhere to be seen.

They all looked at one another in alarm. Kate ran forwards, towards the group of trees. "She was over there, and then--"

Her voice trailed off as Arabella stepped forward from behind the brambles, holding Marlowe's gun. A deathly pallor was on her face and her normally luminous hair seemed as dull as straw against the pale green of her dress. Her bloodless lip trembled. The hand holding the gun swerved towards Kate, who stopped in her tracks gasping. She raised her hands in front of her body as if they could somehow offer some protection.

"Arabella, stop!" Marlowe rushed forward without thinking. Her hand swung around. For the second time that day he was facing down the barrel of a pistol. He stopped in his tracks. "Arabella," he said soothingly. "You don't want to do this."

Behind him he sensed Nicholas creeping forwards. "Put the gun down, Arabella."

Her hair was loose and blew lightly around her face in a golden halo. "No," she said, edging forward. Her voice cracked in bitterness. "You ruined my life," she said. Her hand trembled. The gun bobbed. Marlowe took a slow step forward.

"Stop!" she screamed. "I swear I'll shoot, I swear!"

Kate rocked on her feet. The men exchanged glances. "Just put the pistol down and we can all go home," said Nicholas calmly. "No one has to get hurt."

"You came to shoot him!" Arabella spat. "And you should have. Since you couldn't do it, I will!" She lengthened her arm, eyes narrowing in concentration. "You promised me everything," she said, sobbing. "And you took it all away. You ruined it all." Marlowe felt time slow down. He braced for impact, but instead watched in horror as Kate leapt forward, tackling Arabella. Another cry pierced the air as the women fell into a tangle on the ground. The gun fell into the earth, discharging in a crack as it hit the ground.

Marlowe nearly collided with Nicholas as they ran for the women.

Arabella was screaming and clawing at Kate, who was trying to hold her down.