The Heiress Bride - Catherine Coulter [14]
Douglas was beside himself. “You have won yourself a beating for that, you damned bastard.”
He flung Sinjun aside and hurled himself at Colin. The two men grappled, pushing and pulling and grunting, fairly evenly matched. Sinjun heard one groan from a fist to someone’s stomach. It was enough. She heard a cry from Alex, who was now dashing down the stairs. The servants were gathering, wide-eyed, huddled beneath the stairs and in the doorway to the dining room.
“Stop it!”
Sinjun’s voice didn’t result in a truce. If anything, they went at it all the harder. She was furious, at her brother and at Colin. Men! Couldn’t they just talk things out? Why did they have to revert to being little boys? She yelled at Alex, “Just stay there, I’ll handle this. Oh my, yes, and with great pleasure.”
She pulled a long, stout walking stick from the rosewood stand in the corner next to the front door, lifted it, and struck Douglas hard on his shoulder. Then she brought it down equally hard on Colin’s right arm.
“That’s enough, you bloody fools!”
The two men fell apart from each other, panting. Douglas was holding his shoulder, Colin his right arm.
“How dare you, Sinjun!”
But Douglas didn’t wait for an answer, just growled and turned back to the man who’d had the damned gall to caress his little sister’s buttocks in the middle of the entrance hall. And to stick his tongue in her mouth, the damned bastard. In her mouth!
Sinjun just started swinging. Not hard, just enough to get their attention. She heard Alex yelling, “Just stop it, Douglas!” Then Alex struck her husband with her own walking stick hard against his back.
Just as suddenly, Douglas realized what he was doing. He stopped cold. There was his small wife and his flushed sister whirling walking sticks about like mad dervishes.
He drew a deep breath, looked over at the damned Scottish ravisher, and said, “They’ll kill us. We have to either go to a boxing saloon or put our fists in our pockets.”
Colin was looking at the tall young lady who had proposed marriage to him. She’d struck her brother to protect him. It was amazing. Now she had moved toward him so that she was standing between them, that walking stick held firmly in her strong hands. It was more than amazing. It was also humiliating.
“Fists in pockets, if you please, my lord,” Colin said.
“Good,” Sinjun said. “Alex, what do you think? Shall we put the sticks away or keep them just in case the gentlemen here lose their breeding and tempers again?”
Alex, frowning ferociously, didn’t answer. She dropped the stick and sent her fist into her husband’s belly. Douglas, too surprised to do anything but grunt, looked at his wife, then over at Sinjun, and sighed. “All right, fists in pockets.”
“Civilization is not a bad thing,” Sinjun said. “To cement the truce, we’ll have some tea. But first, Colin, you must come with me for a moment. There is blood on your lip. I will clean it off for you.”
Alex said, “And you’re a mess, Douglas. Your knuckles are raw and you’ve ripped your shirt, the one I made especially for you on your birthday. But you didn’t think of that, did you, when you dove headfirst into these absurd fisticuffs? Oh goodness, there’s some of Colin’s blood on the collar. I doubt even Mrs. Jarvis’s best potions will get that out. Sinjun, we will all meet in ten minutes in the drawing room.” She looked around, saw Drinnen standing there looking drawn and white, and said calmly, “If you please, disperse the staff, Drinnen. And bring tea and scones to the drawing room. His lordship here is Scottish and doubtless will be very critical. Be certain the scones are up to snuff.”
And it was done. By two women. Colin followed Joan Sherbrooke without a word. From the corner of his eye, he saw the earl likewise trailing in the wake of his very small wife, that lady’s shoulders back, her chin high as a general’s.
Colin Kinross, seventh earl of Ashburnham, felt as if he’d been trapped in a bizarre dream. It wasn’t a nightmare, but it was beyond