bowl to the side and called out, “Obregon!” and hurled its contents.
What followed seemed to play itself out in slow motion, and, rooted in place, Kit would have given anything to call back his rash behavior. He saw Obregon spin around, sensing a threat. He ducked as the punch drew a milky arc in the air and, spreading, passed over the buccaneer and caught Raven full in the face and chest.
“Oh!” she managed to scream as the punch exploded over her bosom and drenched the dress of Spanish lace, soaked her hair, and left her gasping and sputtering for breath. She staggered back a few steps off balance and then tripped on the hem of her gown and landed on her rounded derriere in the corner of the room.
“Christ,” Kit muttered beneath his breath. His outstretched hands lost their grip on the punch bowl and it clattered to the floor. The bowl was made of thick crystal and did not shatter. Horror-struck at the results of his handiwork, Kit was rooted in place. He wanted to run to her side, but his limbs refused to obey him. It took Cesar Obregon to knock this statue from its pedestal.
The man in black straightened and loosed a roundhouse left that Kit saw coming but was unable to duck. He was staring past the oncoming fist at Raven, who had managed to wipe the milky liquid from her eyes and behold the identity of her inadvertent attacker.
“Raven, I didn’t—” Kit never finished. Obregon’s fist caught him full in the face and knocked him backward into the center of the dining room. McQueen hit hard and lay momentarily stunned, watching a display of swirling stars become the chandelier overhead. Obregon reached down and caught the soldier by the front of his mud-spattered coat and began to drag him toward the foyer.
“You come in here reeking of rum, sir. And assault a lady, the hem of whose garment you are not fit to kiss!” Obregon spoke loud enough for the guests in the room to hear. The more damage he did to Kit’s reputation, the better. Let them think him a drunken lout and the Hawk of the Antilles a gentleman of principles. The buccaneer had indeed been caught completely by surprise. What on earth had brought the lieutenant back from patrol? Well, McQueen’s behavior could not have been better. This night’s action had no doubt finished McQueen in the eyes of Raven.
Showing an impressive display of strength, Obregon reached the foyer, where he ordered Mr. Flatt to open the front door. “Be quick about it and I will rid your household of the likes of this boor.”
The manservant hurried to obey the privateer’s command. He swung the door open. The cold of night gusted into the house. Obregon reached down to haul McQueen to his feet and propel him through the doorway with a well-placed bootheel. Kit came to his senses as the man lifted him up. He caught Obregon by the wrists and, lunging upward, drove the top of his head to the base of the Spaniard’s jaw. Obregon staggered and saw a constellation of his own creation as he fell back against Mr. Flatt.
The manservant recognized a deteriorating situation when it presented itself and beat a hasty retreat. Or at least he tried to, but Obregon snared the mulatto and flung the man at Kit, then dove in low. Kit shoved the manservant aside and was struck by Obregon. The momentum of the assault carried both men through the entrance and out into the walled courtyard of the widow’s house. Kit managed to twist so that he landed on the privateer. He heard the man in black grunt as the wind was forced from him by the impact. Still, both men crawled to their feet and faced one another on the stone walk.
“What shall it be?” Obregon gasped. “Tomorrow? Pistols at ten paces? We can meet out in the cotton fields.”
“How about here and now,” Kit said.
“Ordinarily I make it a habit never to kill a man over a woman. It’s bad luck.” Obregon winced and rubbed his bruised jaw. “And what will it prove? After you showered her with punch de crème, I
What followed seemed to play itself out in slow motion, and, rooted in place, Kit would have given anything to call back his rash behavior. He saw Obregon spin around, sensing a threat. He ducked as the punch drew a milky arc in the air and, spreading, passed over the buccaneer and caught Raven full in the face and chest.
“Oh!” she managed to scream as the punch exploded over her bosom and drenched the dress of Spanish lace, soaked her hair, and left her gasping and sputtering for breath. She staggered back a few steps off balance and then tripped on the hem of her gown and landed on her rounded derriere in the corner of the room.
“Christ,” Kit muttered beneath his breath. His outstretched hands lost their grip on the punch bowl and it clattered to the floor. The bowl was made of thick crystal and did not shatter. Horror-struck at the results of his handiwork, Kit was rooted in place. He wanted to run to her side, but his limbs refused to obey him. It took Cesar Obregon to knock this statue from its pedestal.
The man in black straightened and loosed a roundhouse left that Kit saw coming but was unable to duck. He was staring past the oncoming fist at Raven, who had managed to wipe the milky liquid from her eyes and behold the identity of her inadvertent attacker.
“Raven, I didn’t—” Kit never finished. Obregon’s fist caught him full in the face and knocked him backward into the center of the dining room. McQueen hit hard and lay momentarily stunned, watching a display of swirling stars become the chandelier overhead. Obregon reached down and caught the soldier by the front of his mud-spattered coat and began to drag him toward the foyer.
“You come in here reeking of rum, sir. And assault a lady, the hem of whose garment you are not fit to kiss!” Obregon spoke loud enough for the guests in the room to hear. The more damage he did to Kit’s reputation, the better. Let them think him a drunken lout and the Hawk of the Antilles a gentleman of principles. The buccaneer had indeed been caught completely by surprise. What on earth had brought the lieutenant back from patrol? Well, McQueen’s behavior could not have been better. This night’s action had no doubt finished McQueen in the eyes of Raven.
Showing an impressive display of strength, Obregon reached the foyer, where he ordered Mr. Flatt to open the front door. “Be quick about it and I will rid your household of the likes of this boor.”
The manservant hurried to obey the privateer’s command. He swung the door open. The cold of night gusted into the house. Obregon reached down to haul McQueen to his feet and propel him through the doorway with a well-placed bootheel. Kit came to his senses as the man lifted him up. He caught Obregon by the wrists and, lunging upward, drove the top of his head to the base of the Spaniard’s jaw. Obregon staggered and saw a constellation of his own creation as he fell back against Mr. Flatt.
The manservant recognized a deteriorating situation when it presented itself and beat a hasty retreat. Or at least he tried to, but Obregon snared the mulatto and flung the man at Kit, then dove in low. Kit shoved the manservant aside and was struck by Obregon. The momentum of the assault carried both men through the entrance and out into the walled courtyard of the widow’s house. Kit managed to twist so that he landed on the privateer. He heard the man in black grunt as the wind was forced from him by the impact. Still, both men crawled to their feet and faced one another on the stone walk.
“What shall it be?” Obregon gasped. “Tomorrow? Pistols at ten paces? We can meet out in the cotton fields.”
“How about here and now,” Kit said.
“Ordinarily I make it a habit never to kill a man over a woman. It’s bad luck.” Obregon winced and rubbed his bruised jaw. “And what will it prove? After you showered her with punch de crème, I
Similar Books
