Lion in the Valley - Elizabeth Peters [142]
“This is ridiculous!” I cried.
Neither man paid the least attention, but my fit of temporary insanity had ended abruptly at the sight of the blood spurting from Emerson’s wound. Masculine pride is all very well, and I hoped Emerson was enjoying himself, but I was cursed if I was going to stand by and see him cut to ribbons just so he could have the satisfaction of dying to defend my honor.
I ran toward the door. Emerson did not take his eyes off Sethos, but he saw me. “Peabody,” he gasped. “If you open—that door—I will—I will—oof!” I heard Sethos’ blade ring on the silver platter. I snatched up the scimitar Emerson had flung away and turned for an appraisal of the situation.
It was far from reassuring. Even as I turned, the final blow was struck. Too late, I thought wildly—too late to admit the helpers waiting outside, too late even to reach my stricken spouse and stand side by side with him, sword in hand! Sethos’ blade came down on the platter again and knocked it out of Emerson’s grasp. As the sword hung motionless from the impact for a split second, Emerson dropped the decanter and caught his opponent’s arm in both hands.
They stood frozen in matching strength, Sethos’ efforts to free his arm and Emerson’s efforts to hold it producing a temporary equilibrium. Slowly Sethos’ arm bent. The sword quivered in his straining hand. Beads of sweat broke out on Emerson’s brow. The rose-pink wrappings on his arm were crimson now, but his grip never weakened.
Then the end came. The sword fell from Sethos’ fingers, and Emerson’s hand, slippery with blood, lost its hold. Quick as ever, Emerson reached for the fallen sword. Sethos, just as quick, leaped back against the wall. He looked at me. “Amelia—farewell!” he cried—and vanished.
Emerson bounded forward with a series of oaths that exceeded anything I had ever heard him utter. The slab of marble through which Sethos had vanished closed again, in Emerson’s face. “Damn!” said Emerson, beating on the slab with the scimitar and then with his fist. “Damn, damn, damn, damn!”
After a while I said, “Emerson.”
“Damn, damn . . . Yes, Peabody? Damn!” said Emerson.
“Shall I open the door now, Emerson?”
“Curse the cursed fellow,” Emerson bellowed, varying the tone of his remarks. “One day—one day, I swear . . .” He stopped kicking the marble and stared at me. “What did you say, Peabody? Did I hear you correctly? Did you ask my permission to open the door?”
“Yes, you heard me, Emerson. But oh, my dear Emerson, I think we should let them in; you are wounded, my dear, and—”
“Do you really want to let them in, Peabody?”
“No, Emerson. At least—not just yet.”
“How could you possibly suppose, even for a second, that I cared for anyone but you?”
“Well, Peabody, if you hadn’t kept referring to that man in such admiring terms—”
“I never stopped thinking of you for a moment, Emerson. I never lost hope that you would find me.”
“Had it not been for your quick wit in stringing your bits of flannel out the window, we would not have succeeded, Peabody. We began searching in the area Ramses’ research had indicated, but it was somewhat extensive.”
“Where did you learn to do that, Emerson?”
“This, Peabody?”
“No—no, not . . . Oh, Emerson. Oh, my dear Emerson!”
“I was referring, some minutes ago, to your skill in fighting with broken bottles, Emerson. I had no idea you could do that.”
“Oh, that. One picks up odds and ends, here and there. . . . Something is sitting on my back, Peabody. Or are you—”
“No, Emerson. I believe it is the cat Bastet. I suppose she has finished the chicken and is indicating she is ready to leave. Shall I remove her?”
“Not if it would necessitate your moving from your present agreeable position, Peabody. The sensation is unusual but not unpleasant. . . . Without the cat Bastet, we might not have reached you so soon. Apparently your idea that Sethos had tempted her with tidbits when he delivered the communion