The Rebel Bride Read Online Free PDF Page A

be perhaps even more tasty to the palate.”
     
    Not more than an hour later, in fine good humor, Julien mounted his Arabian mare, Astarte, and rode out of the park at a comfortable canter to inspect his lands.
    Bright sunlight poured down through the crisp morning air, as if bending all of its brilliance on St. Clair. With a great sense of well-being, Julien turned Astarte into an open field and gave her her head. His body moved smoothly with hers, swaying in rhythm to her firm stride. The chirping of birds and the gentle rustle of leaves and foliage were a welcome change from the ever-present noise of the London streets.
    Julien quite lost track of time, and some time later, realizing that Astarte was blowing hard, he reined in, straightened in the saddle, and looked about him. A short distance ahead lay a large wood, forming a near-circle around him. He saw with vague interest that he was no longer on St. Clair land.
    “Come, Astarte, let us see what lies ahead. Perhaps we’ll find a leftover dragon from my boyhood still lurking in those woods, waiting for me to stick him with my sword.”
    Julien made out a small path just to his left that led into the woods and click-clicked Astarte forward. The floor of the woods was green with spongy moss that deadened the sound of Astarte’s hooves.
    All too soon the trees began to thin and Julien could make out a small clearing a few yards ahead. Suddenly he knew he wasn’t alone. He wasn’t certain how he knew, except that his ears had grown used to the sounds of the forest.
    He allowed Astarte to move slowly forward toward the clearing. His vision no longer blocked by the trees, he stiffened at the strange sight that met his eyes.
    There, in the small clearing not twenty yards away from him, stood two men, pistols raised properly in front of their faces, standing back to back. There were no dragons to slay that Julien could see.
    Good Lord, he thought, appalled, they’re going to duel. He thought blankly that surely that wasn’t right. Dueling was for dawn on a foggy morning with seconds standing about slapping their hands together for warmth.
    There were no seconds—no one but the two duelists, who now began to pace away from each other, one man’s voice calling out the paces in a loud, clear voice, “One, two, three . . .”
    Julien gently dug his heels into Astarte’s side, and she obediently moved forward, making no sound until they reached the edge of the clearing.
    Fascinated, Julien stared fixedly at the two men. Surely it was just some sort of practice, surely the pistols weren’t loaded. Surely.
    “Eight, nine, ten!”
    The men turned in quick, smooth motions and faced each other. One of them pulled up his pistol in a quick, jerky movement, stiffened his arm, and fired.
    The gun’s report rang through the silence of the woods. The pistols were most certainly loaded.
    The bullet missed its mark, for the other man remained standing, and now, in what seemed an endlessly cruel delay, he slowly raised his pistol and aimed it at his opponent’s chest.
    Julien found himself frozen into inaction, his hands clutching the reins, simply disbelieving. The man stood proud and stiff, waiting, without a sound.
    With a nasty laugh the man fired. To Julien’s horror,he didn’t raise his pistol skyward and delope. No, he fired straight at the man. His opponent grabbed his chest, gave a loud moan of pain, staggered forward, and finally fell heavily to the ground, arms and legs flung wide.
    The spell broken, Julien dug in his heels, and Astarte leaped forward. He pulled her up short not ten yards from where the man lay, and jumped from his horse. With unbelieving eyes, he saw that the man who had committed this dishonorable murder was leaning against a tree, holding his sides in laughter.
    Ignoring him, Julien strode quickly to the fallen man and knelt down. He was small, slight of build. Julien gathered the scrawny body in his arms, and suddenly, overwhelmed with fury,