Part 18 (1/2)

Brigham waved a hand toward the dice, but his eyes were sharp as steel.

”Break them, by all means.”

There was a rush of protests, a flurry of movements. Brigham ignored both and kept his eyes on Standish. It pleased him a great deal to see the sweat begin to pearl on the colonel's forehead.

”My lord, I pray you won't act rashly. This isn't necessary.” The proprietor had brought the hammer as requested, but stood casting worried glances from Brigham to Standish.

”I a.s.sure you it's quite necessary.” When the proprietor hesitated, Brigham whipped his rapier gaze up. ”Break them.”

With an unsteady hand, the proprietor did as he was bid. There was silence again as the hammer smashed down, showing the dice to be clean. Standish only stared at the pieces that lay on the green baize.

Tricked, he thought. Somehow the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds had tricked him. He wished them dead, all of them, every one of the pale-faced, soft-voiced b.a.s.t.a.r.ds.

”You seem to be out of wine, Colonel.” And Brigham tossed the contents of his gla.s.s in Standish's face.

Standish leaped up, wine dripping down his cheeks like blood. Drink and humiliation had done its work well. He would have drawn his sword if others hadn't stepped in to hold his arms. Brigham never moved from where he sat sprawled in his chair.

”You will meet me, sir.” Brigham examined his cuff to be certain none of the wine had spattered it. ”Naturally. Leighton, my dear, you will stand for me?”

Leighton took a pinch of snuff. ”Of course.”

Just before dawn they stood in a meadow a few minutes' ride from the city. There was a mist nearly ankle high, and the sky was purple and starless, as it was caught between night and day. Leighton let out a weary sigh as he watched Brigham turn back his lace.

”You have your reasons, I suppose, dear boy.”

”I have them.”

Leighton frowned at the rising sun. ”I trust they are good enough to delay your trip.”

He thought of Serena, of the look on her face when she had spoken of her mother's rape. He thought of Fiona, with her small, slender hands.

”They are.”

”The man is a pig, of course.” Leighton frowned again, this time down at the moisture the dew had transferred to his gleaming boot. ”Still, it hardly seems reason enough to stand about in a damp field at this hour.

But if you must, you must. Do you intend to kill him?”

Brigham flexed his fingers. ”I do.”

”Be quick about it, Ashburn. This business has postponed my breakfast.”

So saying, he strolled off to confer with Standish's second, a young officer who was pale with both fear and excitement at the idea of a duel.

The swords were judged acceptable. Brigham took one, letting his hand mold to the hilt, weighing it as though he had a mind to purchase it rather than draw blood.

Standish stood ready, even eager. The sword was his weapon. Ashburn wouldn't be the first he had killed with it, nor would he be the last. Though he might, Standish thought as he remembered the stares and murmurs of the night, be the most pleasurable. He had no doubt that he would cut down the young prig quickly and ride home in triumph.

They made their bows. Eyes locked. Sword touched sword in salute.

Then the quiet meadow rang with the crash of steel against steel.

Brigham measured his opponent from the first thrust. Standish was no fool with a sword, had obviously been well-trained and had kept himself in fighting trim. But his style was a bit too aggressive. Brigham parried, putting Serena out of his mind. He preferred to fight emotionlessly, using that as a weapon, as well as his blade.

The ground was rich with dew, and the mist silenced the slide and fall of boots. There was only the song of metal slicing over metal as the birds quieted. Their swords slid from tip to hilt as they came in close. Their breath mingled like that of lovers through the deadly cross of blades.

”You are handy with a sword, Colonel,” Brigham said as they drew apart to circle. ”My compliments.”

”Handy enough to slice your heart, Ashburn.”

”We shall see.” The blades kissed again, once, twice, three times. ”But I don't suppose you required a sword when you raped Lady MacGregor.”

Puzzlement broke Standish's concentration, but he managed to block Brigham's thrust before the sword could run home. His brow darkened as he realized he had been led to this duel like a mongrel on a leash.

”One doesn't rape a wh.o.r.e.” He attacked, fueled by a drumming rage.

”What is the Scots b.i.t.c.h to you?”

Brigham's wrist whipped the sword up. ”You shall die wondering.”

They fought in silence now, Brigham cold as Highland ice, Standish hot with rage and confusion. Blades hissed and rang, competing now with the sound of labored breathing. In a daring move, Standish feinted, kissed his sword off Brigham's, sliced in centre ecart. A red stain bloomed on Brigham's shoulder.

A cooler head might have used the wound to his advantage. Standish saw only the blood, and with the smell of it scented victory. He came in hard, judging himself moments away from triumph. Brigham countered thrust after thrust, biding his time as the blood dripped down his arm and into the thinning mist. He pulled back a fraction, an instant, l aying his chest bare. The light of victory came into Stan-dish's eyes as he leaped forward to open Brigham's heart With a bright flash of metal, Brigham knocked the sword aside moments before it pierced him. With a speed Leighton would claim later made the blade a blur, he twisted and plunged the point into the colonel's chest.

Standish was dead before Brigham had pulled the point free.

Beside the pale-faced soldier, Leighton examined the body. ”Well, you've killed him, Ashburn. Best be on your way while I deal with the mess.”

”My thanks.” Brigham handed Leighton the sword, hilt first.

”Shall I bind up your hurts, as well?”

With faint amus.e.m.e.nt, Brigham glanced over to his horse. Beside it, the estimable Parkins sat on another. ”My valet will see to it.”

Serena awoke just before dawn. She hadn't slept well for the past week, ever since a dream from which she had woken with her heart hammering. She had been sure then, somehow, that Brigham was in danger.

Even now, the moment of fear haunted her, adding to the ache she had lived with since he'd left. But that was foolish, she told herself. He was in London, safe. With a sigh, she sat up, knowing sleep was impossible. He was in London, she repeated. He might as well have been worlds away.

For a little while she had allowed herself to believe he would come back, as he'd said he would. Then the weeks had pa.s.sed and she had stopped looking down the path at the sound of horses. Coll and Maggie had been married more than a week. It had been at their wedding that Serena had finally allowed hope to die. If he hadn't come back for Coll's wedding, he wasn't coming back.

She had known it, Serena reminded herself as she washed and dressed.

When she had given herself to him on the banks of the loch, she had known it. And had sworn there would be no regrets. She had known, she told herself now as she bound back her hair. She had known, and she had been given everything she could have wanted.

Except that the afternoon she had spent in Brigham's arms hadn't made her quicken. She had hoped, though she had known it mad, that she would find herself with Brigham's child.

That wasn't to be. All she had left were her memories.

Still, she had her family, her home. It helped fill the gaps. She was strong enough to live her life without him. She might never be truly happy again, but she would live and she would be content.