Da was naught but a minor baronet, so Adam wasn’t entitled to call himself anything but Mister until he inherited.
“Leslie?”
“Almost done,” Adam muttered, pushing back the voluminous lace at his cuffs before signing his name to the bottom of the letter. He sprinkled sand on the parchment to blot the ink, then brushed it off and folded the missive.
“An ale for my friend!” Balmforth called.
Adam nodded. This was thirsty work. Losh, any work was thirsty work.
He preferred not to work at all.
He flipped the letter over and scrawled Miss Caithren Leslie, Leslie by Insch, Scotland on the back. After dusting the address with sand as well, he rose and crossed the taproom to the innkeeper’s desk, pinching the serving maid on her behind as she sauntered by with his tankard of ale.
She giggled.
“Have you any wax?” Adam dropped his letter on the scarred wooden counter and dug in his pouch for a few coins. “And you’ll post this for me, aye?”
The innkeeper blinked his rheumy eyes. “Certainly, sir.”
Adam pressed his signet ring into the warm wax, then went to join his companions. He lifted his ale and leaned across the table. Their three pewter mugs met with a resounding clank.
“To freedom!” Grinstead said, shaking off some foam that had sloshed onto his hand.
“To freedom!” Adam echoed. “Till Hogmanay!”
Grinstead raised an eyebrow. “You told her you’d be gone till the new year?”
“At the least.” Adam swallowed a gulp and swiped one hand across his mouth before the froth dripped onto his expensive satin surcoat. “We’ve the week hunting in West Riding, then Lord Darnley’s wedding in London come the end of the month. Wouldn’t care to miss Guy Fawkes Day in the City. Then I might as well stay through the Christmas balls, aye?” The taproom’s door banged open. “No sense in going home, then leaving again straightaway.”
“No sense at all,” Grinstead agreed, staring toward the entrance. “Will you look at what just walked in?”
Balmforth followed his gaze, then frowned. “Do you think she might be that MacCallum woman everyone’s talking about?”
Adam swung round to watch the tall lass cross the taproom and seat herself at another table.
“Nary a chance.” Adam tossed back the rest of the ale and signaled the serving maid for another. “Emerald MacCallum dresses like a man.”
“She’s carrying a knife,” Balmforth argued in a loud whisper. “And she looks hard. Like the sort of woman who would make her living capturing outlaws.”
“If a woman could capture outlaws,” Grinstead said dryly.
Adam let loose a loud guffaw. “You’re both of you in your cups. Emerald MacCallum carries a sword and a pistol, not a knife. But if she were here, she would trounce you, Grinstead, from here to tomorrow.” Adam straightened the lacy white cravat at his neck. “And me too, I expect.”
They all burst out laughing, until another bang of the door caught their attention.
An excited old-timer stood in the opening. “Duel at the Market Cross!”
THREE
AS HE AND Gothard both scrambled for better footing, Jason whipped off his midnight blue surcoat and tossed it to his brother, his gaze never leaving that of his foe. Gothard smirked as he lunged once again, barely giving Jason time to adjust.
Gothard was fleet, but Jason was faster—and nimbler without the restricting surcoat. They grappled down the steps, and the crowd leapt back. Gothard was cornered, but Jason was incensed. He edged Gothard back beneath the dome, skirting the circular stone bench that sat in its center as he pressed his advantage. Then Gothard seized an opening, and Jason found himself retreating as their blades tangled, slid, and broke free with a metallic twang.
His arm ached to the very bone. Perspiration dripped slick from his forehead, stinging his eyes. But his opponent’s breath came ragged and labored.
All at once, a vicious swipe of Jason’s sword sent Gothard’s clanging to the stones and skittering down to the cobbled street, far from his reach.
Jason’s teeth bit into his own lower lip. “I didn’t come to kill today, Gothard. I merely want to see justice done.” He sucked in air and smelled the man’s desperation. “Are you ready to come peacefully?”
Eyes wild, Gothard stumbled back until his calves hit the round stone bench. Frantically he scanned the mass of people still pouring from the surrounding establishments. His gaze lit on a fellow dressed in bright, conspicuous clothing who pushed his way to the front, calling over his shoulder, “Come along, Grinstead!”
Gothard’s eyes narrowed. In a flash of movement, he hurled himself toward the crowd while reaching down to the wide cuff of his boot, where the curved handle of a pistol peeked out.
Jason’s jaw went slack; his knees buckled. Time seemed to slow. He could hear the heated babble and smell the musky scent of the excited onlookers, feel the cool dimness in the shaded dome, see the bright green grass and streaky sunlight beyond.
As Gothard rose with the deadly pistol in hand, Jason’s sword arm went rigid, and he rushed headlong.
Gothard yanked the dandy in front of him as a shield. Jason tried to check his momentum, but his blade forged ahead, piercing satin and flesh with shocking ease. As long as he lived, he would never forget the astonished look in the dandy’s hazel eyes.
The sword pulled free with a gruesome sucking sound that brought bile into Jason’s throat. The fellow collapsed, his eyes going dull as his bright blood spurted in a grotesque fountain that soaked Jason’s shirt and choked his nostrils with a salty, metallic stench.
Stunned, he watched the blood pump hard then slow to a trickle—a spreading red puddle that seeped into the cracks between the stones. The dead man’s face drained of color, to match the white lace at his
