Rogue of the Isles (36 page)

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.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Tonight’s recital was the last Society event before Almack’s special ball Saturday night. Mari had lost much of her enthusiasm for attending anything since the fencing duel two days ago when Jamie had turned and walked away. If Maddie were not playing the first movement of Beethoven’s
Third Symphony
this evening
,
Mari would have pleaded a headache and stayed home. She was still tempted to do so anyway.

She would not be lying about the headache. Mari stared at herself in the mirror in her chamber and wondered what was wrong with her. Nicholas had called on her yesterday afternoon, bringing roses and talking enthusiastically about posting banns at the church on Sunday.

Jamie had not appeared at all. Mari moved to the window seat and slumped into it, looking at the empty courtyard below. There was no clinking of swords today nor any curt commands directing the inept footmen in how to use a weapon. How many hours had she sat here and watched Jamie instruct them? Watched his tall, muscular body move with its own rhythmic grace? Waited to see if he’d look up to her window?

Jamie totally confused her. For certain, she did not like his ordering her about and expecting she obey him, but since her time in Scotland, she better understood part of it was the Highland way, and that all the MacLeods were bossy. Jillian didn’t seem to mind, and Ian demonstrated a tenderly protective side Mari would not have believed he had. Jamie had shown an equal protectiveness, risking his own life when she made her foolish foray into the snowstorm—and the warm, wonderful aftermath when they’d almost made love. Then Jamie had ignored her for the week their bedchambers adjoined each other. Yet, two days ago, he had fought for her honor because of that scandalous painting. And then he had walked away.

Lud! If she kept thinking about Jamie, she would soon be a Bedlamite.

Her train of thought was interrupted by a knock on the door. Aunt Agnes stuck her head in and then stepped inside, frowning as she saw the gown lying on the bed. “Mr. Algernon will be here any minute. Why are you not ready?”

“I really do not feel terribly well.”

“Nonsense. You have hidden yourself away since the horrible dueling episode.” Her aunt held the gown up for Mari. “Do you wish the
ton
to think you are ashamed to show your face? You know how easily gossip starts.”

“The
on-dits
are already flying.” As if gossip could be stopped after everyone had seen the location of her birthmark. Mari had turned on Nicholas later, demanding to know why he’d said he had
seen
it, and he had begged her forgiveness saying he only meant to put Jamie in his place. Mari had not been happy with the explanation, but she had not seen Jamie to tell him what really happened.

“All the more reason for you to be seen holding your head up high,” her aunt was saying. “Mr. Algernon may not have used the best judgment in painting you, but he
is
French, and they have a different sense of perspective about such things. What matters is he is making an effort to make things right by offering for you.”

“What if…what if I do not wish to marry him?”

Her aunt looked at her incredulously. “He is everything you said you wanted. The patronesses of Almack’s adore him, and you
know
how important it is to have their approval if you wish to be included in any of Society’s events.” She paused, scrutinizing Mari. “Is this reluctance because of Jamie MacLeod?”

“Of course not.” To cover up what she was sure was a beet-red face, Mari got up, slipped on the gown and turned her back to allow her aunt to fasten it. “You know how much I dislike Jamie telling me what to do all the time. Besides, he does not care for London or any of our social events.”

“You would do well to remember that, Marissa,” her aunt said and added, rather cryptically, “Mr. MacLeod has not offered for you either.”

Those words stung. Mari wanted to tell her aunt about the hand-fasting, but what good would it do? The idea was Ian’s maneuvering, meant to smooth things over for everyone in Scotland. It was never meant to be implemented.

Her aunt finished fastening the gown and turned Mari around. She swept a curl behind her ear and then put a hand on Mari’s shoulder. “A leopard cannot change his spots to tiger stripes, my dear.”

Mari was still mulling over those words when she and Nicholas arrived at the recital hall an hour later. They were more than fashionably late, a fact that did not seem to bother Nicholas at all but drew frowns from several of the matrons, most of whom had daughters performing this evening. Jamie was already seated with Maddie’s family across the room from her. Mari met his gaze briefly and thought she saw a deepening flicker of gold in his eyes, but then it was gone, his face impassive.

Mari arranged her skirts and pretended to study the programme. For a leopard not changing its spots, Jamie looked very elegant in proper English attire. Why had she never been able to convince him to wear it? Still, she knew her aunt was right. Jamie MacLeod was a Highlander. Scotland was in his blood. He would never be truly happy within the confines of any city, let alone London with its proper protocol and expectations for the gentry.

“You are being very quiet this evening,” Nicholas said.

“I have not been feeling well.”

His glance slid over to where Jamie was engaged in conversation with Maddie. “It would not have something to do with MacLeod, would it?”

Mari hoped she wasn’t blushing. “Of course not. Why would you ask?”

Nicholas’s eyes glinted like icicles. “We are about to be betrothed. I will not allow the Highlander to trifle with you. If he does, I will call him out and first blood will not be the stopping point.”

“You know I dislike violence.”

“Then remember your place. You are mine.”

Mari bristled. She was about to tell Nicholas no one owned her, but the first piano piece had begun. They were already receiving looks from nearby guests, so she fumed silently.

Her mood did not improve after Maddie finished her piece and returned to her seat, only to have Jamie take her hand and sweep a kiss over her knuckles. When had Jamie become such a gentleman? Maddie giggled, looking radiant. Whether that was from the applause she had received or from Jamie’s attention, Mari wasn’t sure, although she suspected the latter. Whenever Mari had complained about Jamie’s behavior, Maddie had always championed him. She’d known her friend liked him.

Mari sighed. She should not begrudge Maddie. Since their return to London, Nicholas had taken up most of Mari’s time, and Jamie—with the exception of the saber duel—had not indicated any interest in continuing his protective guardianship of her. If she were totally truthful with herself, she rather missed his hovering intrusion.

Jamie had said she would have to choose whom she wanted. Watching him with Maddie, she wondered if she still had a choice. He was certainly being attentive to Maddie. Mari could hardly march over to where he sat and tell him she wanted him. Maddie’s mother was smiling benevolently at Jamie, while he looked quite at ease talking to the earl. Altogether, they looked like a happy, contented group.

Mari paid scarce attention to the rest of the recital. When it was over, Nicholas steered her toward Countess Lieven and her Russian-ambassador husband. They proceeded to discuss European politics, none of which Mari had the slightest interest in, although she managed to nod her head and murmur appropriate acquiescence—or at least, she hoped she did.

When she was finally able to look about the room, both Jamie and Maddie were gone.

“I do hope you will sign my dance card Saturday night,” Maddie said to Jamie as they waited for her father’s carriage to be brought around after the recital.

“Madeline!” her mother exclaimed. “It is the gentleman who asks for a dance, not the other way around.”

“’Tis all right,” Jamie replied, “I dinnae mind a lass speaking her mind.” By the saints, he’d listened to Mari often enough—although truth be told, he’d egged her on much of the time. “I would be honored to have a dance with ye.”