Without the smallest hesitation the Marquis ripped open the front of Mary’s grey gown, and laid bare the injured shoulder. It was a very slight wound, the sword point having caused no more than a long scratch, but it was bleeding a little. Mary tried to pull her gown up over it, repeating that it was nothing, but was told not to be a fool. This was very much in his lordship’s usual manner, and she could not forbear a smile.
“No, it’s only a scratch,” Vidal said, with a sigh of relief. He pulled his handkerchief from his breeches pocket and bound the wound up deftly. “Little fool!” he scolded. “Do you know no better than to run in on a fight? You might have been killed!”
“I thought I was going to be,” said Miss Challoner in rather an uncertain voice. She lifted her hand to her head. “I feel a little dizzy. I shall be well in a moment.”
Mr. Comyn, whose face now wore a very thoughtful expression, came to my lord’s elbow with the flask of brandy. Vidal snapped it open, and put it to Mary’s lips, his other arm encircling her. “Come, drink this!” he said.
Mary tried to push it away. “Oh, no, I so very much dislike it! I am better now — truly, I am better now!”
“Do as I bid you!” commanded his lordship curtly. “You know me well enough to be sure I’ll make you.”
Mr. Comyn said protestingly: “Really, sir, if she does not want it — ”
“Go to the devil!” said his lordship.
Miss Challoner meekly sipped a small quantity of the brandy, and raised her eyes to see the Marquis smiling down at her with so much tenderness in his face that she hardly recognized him. “Good girl!” he said, and dropped a light kiss on her hair.
His eye fell on Mr. Comyn again, and hardened. He removed his arm from about Miss Challoner, and stood up. “You may have married her,” he said fiercely, “but she is mine, do you hear me? She was always mine! You — ! do you think I shall let you take her? She may be ten times your wife, but, by God, you shall never have her!”