Chichester, England
August 1, 1667
“JASON, YOU cannot mean to kill him.”
Jason Chase stopped short and wrenched out of his brother Ford’s grasp. “Of course I don’t. But I’ll bring him to justice if it’s the last thing I do.”
“I’ve never seen you like this—”
“Because I’ve never seen anything like sweet little Mary lying still as death. Or the look on her mother’s bruised face as she chanted Geoffrey Gothard’s name over and over.” Trembling with rage, Jason’s hand came up to smooth his slim black mustache. “My villagers.” He met his brother’s gaze with his own. “My responsibility.”
“You’ve plastered the kingdom with broadsides.” Ford’s blue eyes looked puzzled, as though he were unsure how to take this new side of his oldest sibling. “The reward will bring him in.”
“I’ll be satisfied to bring him in myself,” Jason said with more confidence than he felt.
They turned and continued down East Street to where Chichester’s vaulted Market Cross sat in the center of the Roman-walled town. Carved from limestone, it was arguably the most elaborate edifice in all of England…but its intricate beauty couldn’t distract Jason from the ugliness lurking inside.
An ugliness he intended to deal with.
He recognized the Gothard brothers from the descriptions his villagers had given him: Geoffrey, tall and slender with an elegant sneer; Walter, shorter and bony.
Jason’s footsteps echoed as he strode through the open arches, his own brother following behind. Scattered businessmen, exchanging mail and news in the shade beneath the dome, paused to glance their way. People seemed to stream from all four corners of the town, rushing to catch the show.
Walter Gothard scurried back like a frightened rabbit, but his older brother merely stared.
With a click of his spurred heels, Jason came to a halt and drew an uneven breath. He pinned Geoffrey Gothard with a furious gaze. “You’ll come with me to the magistrate,” he snapped out, surprising even himself at the commanding tone of his voice.
For a moment Ford seemed dumbfounded, then he stepped away and motioned back the crowd.
Gothard continued to stare.
Jason’s hand went to the hilt of his sword. “Now, Gothard.”
The stare held hard and unwavering. Finally his thin-lipped mouth curved in a hint of a smile. “My nearest and dearest enemy,” Gothard drawled.
A line Jason recognized from Shakespeare. The man wasn’t uneducated, then—indeed, his bearing was aristocratic, and his clothes, though rumpled from days of wear, were of good quality and cut. He looked to have but a handful of years on Jason’s twenty-three.
Confusion churned with the anger in Jason’s stomach. “Why should you call me your enemy?”
Gothard’s gaze roamed Jason from head to toe. “The Marquess of Cainewood, are you not?”
“I am,” Jason said through gritted teeth. He wanted nothing more than to go home to Cainewood, back to his calm routine, his life. But he could think only of little golden-haired Mary following him around the village, begging for a sweetmeat, her blue eyes dancing with mischief and radiating trust.
Blue eyes that might never open again.
And there stood the beast who had hurt her. Smiling at him from the shadows.
“I’ve done nothing to draw your malice—we’ve never even met.” Jason peered at the shaded figure. Gothard and his brother were pale, with the type of skin that burned and peeled in the sun—and it looked as though they’d been much in the sun of late. “Stand down and consign yourself to my arrest.”
Gothard’s blue eyes went flat with resentment. Jason blinked. He seemed to know those eyes.
Maybe they had crossed paths.
“A pox on you, Cainewood.”
Jason squared his shoulders, reminding himself why he was here. For justice. For Mary and Clarice. The questions could wait—for now. Responsibility weighing heavily on his mind, his focus shifted to the fat needle of a spire that topped the old Norman cathedral across the green. He tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword.
Father would have expected this of him. To defend his people, stand up for what was right—no matter the cost.
Deliberately he slid the rapier from its scabbard.
Gothard drew his own sword with a quick screak that snapped the expectant silence. “We will settle this here and now.”
Jason advanced a step closer, slowly circling the tip of his rapier, then sliced it hissing through the air in a swift move that brought a collective gasp from the crowd. The blade’s thin shadow flickered across the paving stones.
His free hand trembled at his side.
With a roar, Gothard lunged, and the first clash of steel on steel rang through the still summer air.
Vibrations shimmied up Jason’s arm. Muscles tense, he twisted and parried, danced in to attack, then out of harm’s way. His heart pounded; blood pumped furiously through his veins.
Like most young men of his class, he’d been trained and spent countless hours in swordplay—but this was no game. And his opponent was skillful as well.
Two blades clanked with deadly intent in the shadow of the Market Cross.
TWO
ADAM LESLIE dipped his quill in the inkwell and carefully added “My” in front of “Dear Sister,” frowned, then squeezed in “est” in the middle. My Dearest Sister. There now, surely Caithren wouldn’t be miffed at his news after such an affectionate greeting.
Gazing up at the paneled walls of the Royal Arms, he flipped his straight dark blond hair over his shoulder. That he wouldn’t be returning to Leslie soon shouldn’t surprise Cait—he hadn’t spent more than a few days at home since his eighteenth birthday. But it wouldn’t hurt to be loving when he imparted the news…he did love her. And he knew that she loved him as well, though they rarely saw each other.
Och, Scotland was boring. He was happy to leave the running of the Leslie lands to his younger sister and their Da. He chuckled to himself, imagining Da’s latest fruitless efforts to marry her off.
“Are you not finished yet, Leslie?”
He glanced up and smiled at his friends, the Earl of Balmforth and Viscount Grinstead. Dandies, they were, dressed in brightly colored
