Chapter Twenty-Seven #2
Jamie instinctively reached for Mari, but the earl put an arm around her shoulders and drew her to him protectively.
“Let me offer an opinion,” he said to Jamie, “since I was involved in a duel with your brother.” He faced Nicholas.
“This is not a situation which needs to be fought to the death. The matter can be solved with sabers, not pistols. Whoever draws first blood has the right to keep the painting.” He looked from one man to the other. “Agreed?”
Nicholas’s face turned dark, but he muttered an assent.
Jamie folded his arms across his chest, his eyes on a tearful Mari. “Agreed.”
“Good,” Sherrington said, releasing Mari to the custody of her aunt who bustled her away. “Westminster Field. Tomorrow. One hour past dawn.”
For once, it seemed most of the ton managed to be out of bed and dressed before noon.
An array of carriages was lined up near Westminster Field the next morning, the men standing about in corded breeches and Hessians, the ladies wrapped in furs and muffs.
Jamie flexed the saber, checking the pommel’s counterweight to the blade, and found the balance acceptable.
His eyes searched the ever-growing crowd for Mari.
He had told her to stay home so she would not be held to more ridicule regarding the accursed portrait, but he doubted she had listened to him any more than she usually did.
Moments later, he proved himself right. Mari arrived in Sherrington’s carriage along with his daughter, Abigail, Maddie and her father, Baron Dunster, and Effie.
From where he stood, Jamie could see Mari was pale, but Effie had a grip on her arm.
The maid shot dagger looks at Nicholas, standing a short distance away by the uncovered painting of Mari.
Jamie almost grinned. If someone gave Effie a weapon, she probably would not stop at drawing first blood.
Thankfully, Sherrington led them to a spot where they would have an obscured view. Mari looked as though she were about to argue with the earl, but Effie nodded, not releasing her hold, and Abigail took Mari’s other hand. Good. Jamie did not want his concentration broken once the fight began.
Another man joined Sherrington and the baron as they made their way toward him. “This is Thomas Price, a surgeon,” the earl explained. “A physician is required to be present at all duels, even though I hope this one will not be that bloody.”
“Aye. A wee nick is all I intend to do,” Jamie replied, although he would have preferred to settle the matter with a much greater show of force.
Sherrington motioned for Nicholas to approach. In a voice that clearly told the crowd to stay outside the perimeters, the earl asked each man again if they agreed to the terms of engagement. Jamie watched Nicholas’s eyes shift even as he said yes. The man would be a dirty fighter.
“En garde, then,” the earl said and backed away.
Jamie and Nicholas circled, each looking for the other’s weak spot.
The Frenchman weighed a good two stone less than Jamie and he used his nimbleness to his advantage, appearing to thrust and retreating before he engaged, staying in perpetual motion.
Jamie turned more slowly, allowing the Frenchman to think him somewhat of a laggard, but his weight was balanced and he was ready to strike.
Nicholas attacked finally and Jamie parried, their sabers pressed against each other as they turned in a macabre semblance of a dance.
Jamie disengaged, passing his blade beneath Nicholas’ sword, throwing him off balance and then thrusting.
To Jamie’s surprise, Nicholas recovered in time to parry and riposte.
Jamie countered and then feinted left before cutting right.
Again, Nicholas managed to avoid the hit by a quick cross step.
The man had obviously spent time learning how to fence. Jamie honed his concentration. Time to stop playing cat and mouse.
They circled again, intent now on the outcome.
Had Jamie had his claymore, he could have made short work of this in one fell swing, but the much smaller and lighter saber made him measure his thrusts—the narrow blade was likely to break if he put his full strength behind it.
Their swords continued to clash, the sound of steel ringing out in the clear morning air as the crowd grew restless, wanting some real action.
Jamie would have loved nothing more than to give it to them.
Had this been real combat, it would have been over.
Men on the battlefield did not use fancy footwork or engage in small jabs and thrusts.
But this was not a battlefield, and Mari would not appreciate him doing actual harm. Still, it was time to end this.
Jamie took a step backward, pretending to stumble. If he were right, Nicholas would not be sportsman enough to allow him to recover.
With a feral grin, Nicholas lunged, the tip of his blade pointed right at Jamie’s heart.
So much for fighting fairly. Jamie rolled to the side, regaining his feet as Nicholas missed his mark. The man attempted a remise, but Jamie spun, bringing his blade down in a cut that pierced Nicholas sword arm, causing him to drop the blade.
Cheering ensued from the crowd. Jamie didn’t take his eyes off Nicholas until Sherrington and the physician came over. “I am all right,” Nicholas said through clenched teeth, his eyes cold as steel. “The bastard tried to trick me.”
“And you gave him no time to recover from his stumble,” Sherrington said. “This duel is over. The painting goes to Mr. MacLeod.”
Jamie walked over to where the portrait stood on its easel. “Do ye wish to keep it?” he asked Mari when she and her friends joined him.
She shook her head. “I do not want to see it ever again.”
Jamie nodded and pulled his sgian dubh from his boot. In several swift strokes, he slashed the painting to pieces. “I will have it burned.”
Nicholas came up to them, clutching his now-bandaged arm. “You might have destroyed the painting, Highlander, but you cannot destroy what happened between Marissa and me.”
Jamie resisted the urge to put the man on his arse. “What do you mean by that?”
“How do you think I knew about that birthmark?” Nicholas sneered at him when he didn’t answer. “You might ask her,” he said, “and while you are at it, have her admit she already agreed to marry me before she left for Scotland.”
“Ye lie.”
“Non. I have witnesses.” Nicholas turned to Mari. “When I spoke of our marriage in front of Yancy Newell, Nevin Faulkner and your friend, Madeline, here, you agreed to the courtship. Am I wrong?”
Jamie looked at the women. Mari’s hands flew to her mouth as her face drained of color once more. Maddie’s eyes went huge and round. He had his answer.
Jamie dropped the strips of canvas at Mari’s feet. “Ye will have to decide whom ye want, lass,” he said and turned and walked away.