Pretender's Game

by Louise Clark

  The minutes ticked past with James concentrating on his fencing while Ramsey and Staverton watched silently. When a coach drew up, James placed the tip of his sword on the ground and waited. Though his stance was relaxed, the position he’d chosen sent the message of a man at one with his weapon, a formidable and intimidating image for his opponent to see when first stepping on to the field.

  Unfortunately, it was not Williams, but the doctor hired to provide medical attention for the duelists, who stepped out of the carriage. A tall, thin man with a long narrow face on which his prominent nose, cheekbones, and chin contrasted with deep-set, almost sunken, eyes, he looked like nothing so much as a walking cadaver. He glanced nervously at James, bowed, announced he’d arrived, then told the driver to take him over to the edge of the clearing, well away from the action that was to occur.

  James eyed the carriage with considerable cynicism, then shook his head and joined his seconds. “God’s teeth! It’s well past the hour. Where is Williams?”

  Chapter 17

  Lord Staverton took snuff with a contemptuous flick of his wrist. “Perhaps the good lieutenant is having difficulty mustering his pitiful store of courage.”

  Brendon fiddled with the fob chain on his watch. “I don’t like this, MacLonan.”

  James turned to face him, his brows raised inquiringly. “Williams has a bad reputation,” Brendon said. “There are even rumors that the man is a coward. I do not think he will show his face this morning, but if he does, we may find Colonel Harris attending as well.”

  James shot Ramsey a mocking look out of the corner of his eyes. “And if a troop of His Majesty’s cavalry should happen upon us here in this fine meadow, what complaint would they have against us? We are but three gentlemen out for an early ride who have paused here a while to catch our breath and enjoy the morning sun.”

  “A fine conceit,” Staverton said dryly. “What about the swords we brought with us? Hardly normal equipment for a morning’s pleasure ride.”

  James grinned recklessly. “What! Cannot those same gentlemen enjoy some exercise and a little innocent swordplay in a secluded spot?”

  Staverton grinned back. “There is the small detail of the doctor whose carriage waits on the edge of the clearing.”

  James raised one eyebrow. “Is that who he is? A doctor? I had no idea.”

  “Enough playacting, sirs!” Despite his admonition, Brendon was smiling. “Even if Williams does not appear, Harris may try to find a way to act against you.”

  Still buoyed up by reckless energy, James shrugged away Brendon’s worries. “Harris does not concern me. I’ll give Lieutenant Williams until the hour changes. Then, if he has not appeared, I shall challenge him again. This time I won’t bother with seconds, or proper gentlemanly protocol. We’ll have our duel then and there. And Williams will regret the cowardice that kept him from fulfilling his word of honor this morning.”

  “If you kill him in some back-alley brawl you’ll be charged with murder,” Brendon said quietly. “You will be hung.”

  “If I’m caught,” James retorted coolly.

  “If you are not, you’ll have to leave Scotland. You will be an exile for the rest of your life.”

  “Then we’d best hope the good lieutenant values his honor more than I think he does and shows his face here this morning,” James said, baring his teeth in a savage grin. “For I mean to make him pay for what he did to my wife. Now or later, I care not.”

  Brendon opened his mouth to argue, but Staverton held up his hand for silence. “Listen! Do you hear that?”

  Brendon frowned. “What?”

  “Hoofbeats,” James said with satisfaction. “We shall soon see if the Englishman has the courage to face me.”

  The tattoo of trotting horses grew steadily louder until a figure emerged from the trees, then a second. Lieutenant Williams had arrived.

  As they came closer, James kept his gaze trained on them, but he said quietly to his companions, “Williams is the thin fellow on the black. The other young man is his second?”

  Ramsey nodded. “One Ensign Shorney.”

  Williams was closer now, near enough for James to once again take note of the sneer that seemed to permanently adorn the lieutenant’s mouth and the nervous shifting of his gaze from place to place. “The good lieutenant isn’t so self-assured without his troop behind him to enforce his orders and protect him from the results of his depraved temperament.”

  Williams drew his horse to a stop a few yards from where James and his party were standing. There was a heavy silence while the two combatants measured each other. It was Lieutenant Williams who flinched first. With a vicious slap of the reins and a sharp jab on the bit, he directed his mount to a spot a safe distance from James.

  Satisfaction curled James’s lips. He turned and said mockingly to the others, “The battle is half won already.”

  “Don’t underestimate the enemy, MacLonan.”

  James glanced at Brendon, that dangerous half-smile still on his lips. “Wise advice, Ramsey. Thank you.”

  The Lowlander nodded and went to make the preliminary arrangements with the nervous Ensign Shorney.

  Staverton and James observed Lieutenant Williams, who was shrugging out of his coat and pretending not to be listening to what the seconds were saying. “A fine, upstanding-looking fellow,” Staverton remarked contemptuously. “Watch him, MacLonan. He will not stay within the rules.”

  “The only rule men like Williams acknowledge is the one that advises anything is acceptable provided you do not get caught.”

  “All the more reason to keep your guard up.”

  “I intend to win this duel, Staverton,” James said quietly. “And I plan to do it in a way no one can fault.”

  The fighting began with polite salutes as each gentleman acknowledged the other. They had hardly been made when Williams lunged wildly. James parried the stroke, but backed away, careful of his footing on the slippery grass. His strategy was to take measure of his opponent’s abilities before he planned his own offense. He was quietly impressed with the training Williams had received, for the man knew how to handle a sword, although he did not seem to have the sense to use his skills wisely.

  Williams’s sword whistled close. James met it with his own blade, and for a moment the two men were locked together, their bodies inches from each other, their gazes dueling as surely as their swords were. Each was panting slightly, and beads of sweat stood out on their brows.

  “My colonel ordered me not to attend this meeting,” Williams said. Even though his words came out on little gasps of air, there was a sneer in his voice.

  “You disobeyed a direct order?” Like Williams, James was breathing heavily, but his wind was sounder, without the telltale gasping of the other man’s.

  “When Harris discovers I’ve dispatched another verminous Highland rebel, he’ll give me a captaincy for my disobedience,” Williams sneered boastfully.

  A feral grin curled James’s mouth. “Another rebel, Englishman? When did you have the courage to meet a man face-to-face in battle? I’m willing to wager that it was while you were dreaming, or in your cups.”

  A shriek of rage issued from the lieutenant’s throat. “Damn you! I’ll make you pay for that remark!”

  As James laughed tauntingly, the blades slid apart and Williams attacked even more ferociously than before. And as before, James slowly gave ground, allowing the lieutenant, as well as all of those watching, to believe he was outmatched by his opponent.

  Williams was puffing badly now, and sweat rolled down his forehead and into his eyes. His blade slashed out, knocking James’s sword aside. Then he lunged for James’s exposed heart. But James pivoted to one side. The lieutenant lost his footing on the slippery grass and went down on his knees, his sword falling from his fingers as he instinctively threw out his hands to protect himself. He was vulnerable, open to any thrust James might choose to make.

  On the ground, Williams shook, waiting for his fate. Jam
es flicked his blade beneath the Englishman’s nose, not touching him, forcing him to raise his bowed head and look into his opponent’s eyes.

  “Get up!” James snarled. “I’ll not dispatch you like the cur you are. You’ll die like a man, Williams, on your feet, with your sword in your hands. I won’t allow you to tarnish my honor the way your contemptible nature has destroyed your own!”

  “Pink me now and have done with it,” Williams urged desperately.

  It was the coward’s way out, a last attempt to deflect his fate. In the rules of the duel the first man to draw blood, no matter how slight the scratch, could be declared the winner.

  “Get up,” James repeated contemptuously, holding his blade well away from the lieutenant. He had no intention of allowing Williams to leave the field with nothing more than a minor cut. He wanted the man punished. He would not end the duel until it had been done.

  As Williams crouched on the ground, cravenly awaiting his fate, James’s gaze flickered idly around the meadow. He noted the impatient look on Ramsey’s face, the disapproving one on the surgeon’s and the painfully embarrassed one on Ensign Shorney’s. His eyes traveled on, to the spot where the horses were tethered. His chestnut stallion was standing alert, his ears pricked and nostrils wide as he sniffed the wind.

  With the warning unwittingly given by his mount, James checked the edges of the meadow more closely. His gaze caught a slight movement in the trees some distance away.

  There was a flash of scarlet, too big to be a bird. Instantly, his mind made the connection—Harris.

  He turned his attention back to Lieutenant Williams. “My patience grows thin, Englishman,” he said grimly. “Get up or face the indignity of being called coward.”

  “Do you think I’m afraid of the lies a couple of northern barbarians might spread about me?” Williams taunted, “If you won’t pink me and have done with it, I’ll walk from this field uninjured and tell the world I was the victor! Ensign Shorney will back me up, should any chose to listen to the vile rumors put about by a defeated rebel!”

  “Turn your head, Williams,” James said softly, dangerously. “See the movement in those trees? That is your colonel and a squad of men with him. He can see you cringing at my feet, sniveling and whining for your life. Do you think he’ll allow you—or anyone else—to forget it? You are doomed, Englishman. Stand up and meet your fate.”

  Panic flickered in the lieutenant’s eyes as he looked past James and observed that telltale flash of red. “Damn you!” he hissed, stumbling to his feet.

  “En garde,” James retorted coldly, raising his sword. Shakily, Williams lifted his blade in a salute and they began again, this time with James as the aggressor. He drove Williams hard, continually forcing him to parry, lunge, and thrust.

  The lieutenant responded jerkily at first, then more confidently, but he was panting heavily and beads of sweat were dripping down his brow. When an opening seemed to appear in James’s defenses, a rasping sound that was meant to be a laugh broke from William’s throat. He moved forward quickly. His blade bit through cloth and skin to meet bone.

  James hardly noticed the scratch Williams’s sword made as the tip scrapped across his chest. He had toyed with his victim, pushing him ever harder with the taunting promise of possible victory, allowing him to believe he would eventually win. And he’d waited until the man was at the last extremity, until his arms and legs were leaden with exhaustion, before he sprang his trap. Even as the lieutenant’s sword was cutting through his shirt to scratch his skin, James was sliding his blade between his opponent’s ribs at a point just below his heart.

  The delighted expression on Williams’s face turned to surprise as he looked down and saw the sword buried in his body. With an abrupt movement, James pulled his blade free. Williams crumpled and fell.

  Events moved very quickly after that. Harris and his troop exploded from the trees, surprising everyone but James. The surgeon, to his credit, ignored them as he hurried over to see to his patient. Ensign Shorney looked aghast, Brendon thunderous, and Staverton resigned. James picked up the lieutenant’s fallen weapon, added it to his own, and sauntered over to the spot where his seconds stood.

  Negligently, he tossed the fragile dueling swords into the case. While he had toyed with Williams, he had made his plan. Standing and fighting a squad of soldiers wasn’t included in it.

  He reached for his coat, which was neatly folded beside the case. “Ramsey, Staverton!” he said, pitching his voice low.

  Brendon gritted his teeth. “Where did they come from?”

  “Edinburgh. Williams apparently boasted to Harris that I had challenged him. How or why the colonel found the place, I don’t care. I am quite sure, though, that he is here to arrest me.”

  Brendon rubbed his chin. “Did you kill Williams?”

  James snorted. “Not cleanly. I wanted him to suffer a bit before he passed from this life. No, I wounded him in the lungs. If he survives I’ll be surprised.”

  “You gave the fellow every chance to prove himself,” Staverton muttered. “Surely…”

  “It matters not!” James retorted savagely. “I don’t intend to stay in order to discover whether or not the English judicial system can be impartial.”

  “MacLonan!” Harris bellowed over the sound of hooves striking the earth. “Consider yourself under arrest, sir!”

  James turned and flicked the lace that adorned his sleeves free of the cuffs of his coat. Then he saluted Colonel Harris with an insolent gesture. “Walk with me, Ramsey,” he muttered out of the corner of his mouth. “I’ll not bide here and wait for my fate to be sealed.”

  “This is against my better judgment,” Brendon said, but he did join James as he sauntered casually toward his mount.

  “If you run for it now, you’ll never stop! I’m a witness to the whole, man! You conducted yourself properly from the beginning. No jury would convict you, should the unfortunate Williams die!”

  They’d reached the horses. “I do not intend to find out, Ramsey!” James vaulted lithely into the saddle of the chestnut stallion. His heels raked the animal’s side. Leaping into a gallop, it flew across the meadow.

  “Good luck,” Brendon muttered to the retreating figure.

  James knew that his one chance of escape was to reach one of the paths that led deep into the forest. His mount was a fine animal, bred for speed and endurance, while the horses the troopers rode were heavy, sturdy beasts without the stallion’s swiftness and agility. He crouched over the horse’s withers, urging the animal to even greater speed.

  Evidently, Colonel Harris knew as well as James that his dragoons would never catch the flying chestnut. Instead of giving chase, he ordered his men to fire on their escaping quarry. Shots rang out as the musket barrels belched thick black smoke. Little tufts of grass rose in the air as the balls fell harmlessly beside, beyond, behind James. Harris cursed his men and ordered them to fire again. At will, this time, as soon as their weapons had been reloaded.

  The opening at edge of the meadow was in sight. Another dozen strides and the stallion would reach the protection of the trees. Then James would surely be free, his escape made good. He knew, of course, that he would have to flee Scotland again, forever this time. Deliberately causing a man’s death, especially an officer’s, would never be pardoned. But at least he wouldn’t end his days in an English jail waiting to be hung on an English gallows.

  The muskets barked again, and this time they found their mark. The stallion screamed and faltered as a musket ball bit into the powerful muscles in his hindquarters. Gallantly, the horse continued on when James urged it forward with heels and hands. But its stride wavered.

  James glanced over his shoulder, saw the gaping wound on his animal’s hindquarter. The dragoons, seeing their quarry falter, were galloping across the field, closing rapidly.

  With the trees heartbreakingly close, James pulled the laboring stallion up and waited for Harris and his men to arrive.

  “T
hat was stupid, MacLonan,” Harris said as he reached James.

  Raising his brows contemptuously, James countered, “Was it, Harris? Perhaps I have no reason to respect English justice.”

  The colonel’s jaw tightened. “You are under arrest, James MacLonan, for the attempted murder of Lieutenant Williams, an officer in King George’s Army.” He made a gesture to one of his men. “Seize him and tie his hands behind his back. I don’t want him to escape again.”

  As they roughly bound James, Ramsey and Staverton hurried over to the little group.

  “What the devil are you doing, Harris?” Brendon demanded, huffing slightly.

  “I am placing this man under arrest.”

  “Lord Staverton and I were MacLonan’s seconds, Colonel Harris, and I can testify that the duel was conducted with perfect propriety. If you must charge MacLonan, then release him into my care. I will ensure he remains in Edinburgh to stand his trial.”

  Harris flicked a glance at Staverton, then said politely, “I fear that is impossible, Mr. Ramsey, since you’ve already done your best to aid him to escape.” He turned to his men. “Prepare to move out.”

  Brendon tried again, rather desperate now. “You know, Colonel, that the moment MacLonan is brought before a magistrate he will be released.”

  “This man has assaulted a King’s Officer. He will be lodged in the Tolbooth until he can be brought to trial.”

  “The Tolbooth! Harris, don’t be absurd! The Tolbooth is a pesthole that has been a blight on Edinburgh for years,” Brendon protested. “You can’t send him there!”

  James, who had been listening silently to this exchange, curled his lips in a disdainful show of bravado. He knew his fate was sealed as surely as if the trial had already taken place. “Staverton!” All three men turned to look at him. James ignored the other two. “I’ve left a letter for my wife amongst my baggage. Ask my father to give it to her when they’ve hanged me. But not before.”