A Scandal By Any Other Name

The cold wind howled fiercely through the thick, bare trees. It swept across the dirt road, blowing a cloud of brown dust over the terrible scene. The wind was so loud it completely drowned out the frantic, heavy beating of Delaney’s own heart.

She lay perfectly still on the hard, rocky ground. Beside her, the dead body of Lucas Kingsley rested in the dust. His dark, cruel eyes were wide open, staring blankly up at the sky. A pool of dark red blood was slowly spreading out from the hole on this head, falling freely his face,soaking into the dry dirt.

Delaney closed her hazel eyes tightly. She needed a moment. She needed to pull her shattered mind completely back together. Her throat throbbed with a sharp, burning, terrible agony where Lucas’s strong fingers had crushed it. Every time she took a small breath, it felt like swallowing broken glass. Her ribs ached terribly from the violent fall out of the moving carriage.

She listened carefully. Up on the road above the slope, the loud, violent sounds of fighting still continued. She heard the heavy thuds of fists hitting flesh, the loud grunts of massive men, and the restless, panicked neighing of the carriage horses.

After a short while, Delaney slowly opened her eyes.

She pushed herself up onto her elbows. Her head spun wildly. A sudden, terrible wave of severe nausea washed over her stomach, making her gag.

She reached up with her trembling gloved hand. She touched the side of her head. Her soft leather glove came away completely covered in thick, dark red blood. The sharp rock she had hit earlier had left a deep, bleeding gash near her temple. The warm blood was running down her cheek, dripping onto the delicate lace collar of her wedding dress.

"It hurts," Delaney whispered to herself softly. Her voice was incredibly weak, raspy, and broken.

But she knew she could not simply lie there. She had to stop the bleeding immediately, or she would pass out from the blood loss.

She sat up fully. She reached down and grabbed the thick white silk hem of her wedding dress. She gripped the fabric tightly in both of her shaking hands. She took a deep breath and pulled with all her remaining strength.

The silk tore with a loud, sharp rip.

She tore off a long, thick strip of the fabric. Her hands were shaking violently as she raised the torn silk and wrapped it securely around her head. She tied it tightly over the deep gash, wincing in pain as she applied heavy pressure to the open wound. The bright white silk instantly began to soak up the dark red blood, turning a stark, ugly crimson.

Delaney took a slow, deep breath. She pushed herself completely up onto her knees.

She looked around the dirt road, her eyes searching the brown dust and the loose gravel.

She could not find the other pistol.

It had fallen and slid off from her hand. Delaney looked ahead. She saw a dense, incredibly thick patch of wild blackberry bushes lining the steep slope. The bushes were covered in sharp, wicked thorns.

The weapon was completely buried deep beneath the tangled branches. She crawled over to the bushes and reached her hand in, but the sharp thorns immediately tore at her white glove and scratched her skin. She could not see the silver metal anywhere in the dark undergrowth.

Delaney did not have time to dig for it. Every single second was incredibly precious. Rowan was waiting in London. The trial in the House of Lords would begin soon.

She abandoned the search for the gun. She gathered her torn, bloody silk skirts in her hands and forced herself to stand up. Her legs were incredibly weak. They trembled like autumn leaves in the cold wind, but she locked her knees and stood tall.

She turned her face toward the top of the steep, rocky slope, where the carriage had finally stopped.

She climbed up the slope carefully. The loose dirt and small rocks slid beneath her soft white shoes. She used her hands to grab thick roots and strong patches of grass to pull herself up. Her breathing was harsh and ragged.

When she finally reached the top edge of the dirt road, she pulled herself over the ridge.

She saw a terrible, incredibly bloody scene playing out near the carriage wheels.

Hamish was badly injured. The Hamilton guard had been taken by complete surprise when Lucas knocked on the carriage roof. The hired driver was not just a simple thug; he was a trained, brutal killer.

When the command to kill was given, the hired driver had instantly pulled a hunting knife from his coat. He had slashed wildly at Hamish on the high driver’s box. Hamish had blocked the first deadly strike with his arm, taking a deep, terrible cut through his thick coat. The sheer force of their struggle had sent both massive men tumbling off the high wooden box. They had hit the hard dirt road with a sickening thud, rolling dangerously close to the stamping hooves of the frightened carriage horses.

The brawl that followed was a brutal, merciless fight for survival. The hired driver was fast and vicious, swinging the knife again and again. Hamish had put up a tremendous, heroic fight. He had managed to punch the driver squarely in the face, breaking the man’s nose with a loud crack. But the driver had retaliated by slashing Hamish deeply across his ribs.

Now, Hamish was lying flat on his back in the brown dirt.

His dark driving coat was completely shredded. A large, bleeding cut stretched across his broad shoulder, and another deep wound marked his side, soaking his clothes with fresh, dark blood. He was panting heavily, his large chest rising and falling in rapid, shallow gasps.

Even the hired driver was not left out of the brutal damage.

The driver was staggering nearby, wiping blood from his eyes. His flat cap was gone, lost in the mud. His face was completely covered in dark purple bruises. His broken nose was bleeding heavily, the red blood running down his chin and dripping onto his dirty brown coat. He looked exhausted, but his dark eyes were filled with anger. He held the bloody hunting knife tightly in his hand, preparing to finish the guard off.

"Hamish," Delaney whispered.

Her voice cracked with pure fear and deep, overwhelming sorrow. She saw him lying on the cold floor of the road, bleeding for her safety.

The hired driver heard her soft, raspy whisper.

He spun around quickly, his boots scraping loudly on the gravel. He saw Delaney standing at the edge of the slope. He saw her torn, bloody white wedding dress and the red bandage wrapped tightly around her head.

The driver looked past her, down the slope. He could not see Lucas, but he knew what her presence meant. The young master was dead. His massive payment of gold, the fortune he had been promised for this bloody job, was completely gone.

A look of pure blinding rage crossed the hired thug’s bruised and bloody face.

He raised his bloody knife high in the air. The sharp steel caught the weak morning sunlight.

He wanted to kill her. He wanted to take his intense frustration and anger out on the weak, injured, unarmed woman standing before him.

He let out a loud, angry shout and took a determined step toward Delaney.

But before the driver could take a second step, a large, strong, bloody hand shot out from the dirt behind him.

Hamish reached out. His fingers closed tightly around the driver’s boot.

The driver stopped abruptly. He felt the strong grip anchoring him to the ground. He looked back down, his eyes wide with angry surprise, seeing the bleeding guard still fighting.

"Let go of me, you fool!" the driver shouted.

He raised his other heavy boot. He kicked Hamish violently in the ribs, a brutal, punishing blow trying to force the guard to release his tight grip.

Thud.

Hamish groaned loudly in deep, terrible pain. His face twisted in sheer agony as the boot struck his injured side. But he did not let go. He held on even tighter, his fingers digging deeply into the stiff leather of the boot with absolute, unbreakable determination.