By the time he made the entrance to the ballroom, his breath was coming fast and short, as if he’d run miles. For a moment, he considered turning back. Emeline had lit thousands of beeswax candles in her ballroom, in mirrored chandeliers overhead. The place was bright, sparkling like a fairyland. Swags of scarlet silk hung from the walls and ceiling, orange and red flowers caught in the knots. The room was beautiful, elegant, but he didn’t care. His woman was somewhere in this room, and he meant to catch her and hold her.
Sam inhaled carefully through his mouth and dove into the mass of sweating, milling humanity. He could hear violins faintly playing, but they were all but drowned out by laughter and chattering voices. A gentleman in purple velvet turned and bumped into Sam’s chest. Blood and screaming, eyes wide in a white face below a bleeding scalp. He closed his eyes, shoving past the man. Ahead was an opening in the crowd where the dancers paced with stately grace. He made the edge of the dance floor and paused, gasping for air. A matron in yellow silk eyed him and whispered behind her fan to her companion. Damn them all, anyway, these overfed, overornamented English aristocrats. When had they ever known fear or felt the splatter of blood from a fellow soldier? The surprise in a young soldier’s face as half his head was blown away.
The dancers halted, no more out of breath than if they’d sat for the last five minutes. They looked bored and bloodless, as if they could barely take the trouble to keep themselves upright. The crowd shuffled against him, and he had to close his eyes and concentrate to keep from striking out at the nearest person. He breathed deeply and tried to think of Emeline’s eyes. In his mind, they were narrowed with exasperation and that made him almost smile.
He opened his eyes, and Lord Vale strode into the middle of the dance floor, now nearly empty. “Friends! Friends, may I have your ear?”
Vale’s shout, loud though it was, was swallowed by the mass of bodies. Nevertheless, the conversations began to die.
“Friends, I have something to say!”
A group of young gentlemen moved in front of Sam, obscuring his vision. They looked barely old enough to shave.
“Friends!” came Vale’s shout again, and Sam caught a glimpse of scarlet.
His heart galloped. He put out a hand to shove against a padded shoulder, and the young buck in front of him turned to glare. Sam inhaled and caught the stink of sweat. Male sweat, sour and burning, the smell of fear. The prisoner MacDonald crouching under a wagon as the battle raged all around. MacDonald catching Sam’s eye from his hiding place. MacDonald grinning and winking.
“I have an announcement that pleases me greatly.”
Sam started forward, ignoring the stench, ignoring his demons, ignoring the realization that he was already too late.
“Lady Emeline Gordon has consented to be my wife.”
The crowd applauded as Sam barreled through the men, those dead and alive, who stood between him and Emeline. He came out on the dance floor and saw Emeline smiling politely beside Vale. Vale had his arms raised, triumphant in this moment. Emeline turned her head and her smile died as she saw Sam.
He started for them with no thought in his head save murder.
Vale caught sight of him. His eyes narrowed and he nodded to someone behind Sam. Sam felt his arms seized and pulled behind him. And then he was being hustled from the ballroom by two burly footmen, a third clearing the way ahead. It happened so fast he didn’t even have time to call out to Emeline. At the side of the ballroom, Sam finally came to himself and twisted violently, catching one of the footmen by surprise. He pulled his arm free and swung at the man, but before his fist could connect, he was shoved from behind. The first footman still holding him let go, and Sam half fell into the hall. He straightened and whirled, and Vale’s fist slammed into his jaw.
Sam stumbled back, landing on his arse. Vale stood over him, his fists still balled. “That was for Emmie, you whoreson.” He turned to the footmen behind him. “Take this rubbish and pitch it—”
But Vale didn’t finish the sentence. Sam rose, low and fast, and charged him, catching him about the knees. Vale went down with a thunderous crash, Sam on top. Several women shrieked and the crowd scattered away from them. Sam began to crawl up him, but Vale twisted, and they both went tumbling, rolling toward the stairs. A matron screamed as she fled down the stairs, pushing other ladies ahead of her. Their skirts swept across suddenly cleared steps.
Sam grabbed the top banister to stop the momentum of their roll. He teetered, his shoulders over the first step, until Vale kicked at his undefended stomach and Sam had to let go to shield himself. He slid, head-down, but managed to snatch Vale’s arm, bringing the other man with him. They careened without control down the stairs, tangled together in a murderous heap. Each tread raked painfully across Sam’s back as they thumped down. He no longer cared if he lived through this encounter or not. He just wanted to make sure he took his enemy with him. Midway down, they slammed into a banister, halting their descent. Sam hooked an arm around a wood pole and kicked viciously at Vale, catching him good and solid, low on the side.
Vale arched under the impact. “Hell!” He twisted and pressed his forearm down on Sam’s windpipe, thrusting hard. Sam gagged from the weight. Vale brought his head close to Sam’s and spoke low, his face black with rage. “You stupid, shitty colonial. How dare you put your filthy hands on—”
Sam let go of the railing and slammed both hands against Vale’s ears. Vale rocked back, freeing Sam’s throat, and Sam gasped painfully for air. But they were sliding farther down the stairs. Vale pummeled him, hitting at face and belly and thighs. Sam jolted with each impact, but strangely, he didn’t feel a thing. His entire being was filled with rage and sorrow. Sam punched the other man, striking anything he could hit. He felt his knuckles split against Vale’s cheekbone and felt the wet smack as the other man’s nose broke. His back jarred into the landing. Vale was on top now, a clear advantage, except that Sam didn’t goddamn care. He’d lost everything, and right now this man was the cause of it all. Vale might have righteous anger, but Sam had the rage of despair, pure and simple. There was no match.
Sam lurched up, right through Vale’s punches. He could feel their impact on his face, but he plowed through the blows. There was only the need to kill. He caught Vale and threw the bigger man down, and then Sam was hitting him, slamming his fists into Vale’s face, and the feeling was glorious. He felt the crunch of bone, saw the splatter of blood, and didn’t care. Didn’t care.