where no one—at least, one particular person—could follow.
She pulled the cloak around her shoulders. She’d managed to braid her thick hair and tie it with a strip of ribbon. For some reason hairpins and the like had remained absent from the many elegancies provided. She took the plainest dress, since she could scarce leave in her ripped and shredded night rail, and the sturdy boots provided. Tucking the purseful of coins in her pocket, she started for the door, then stopped. The contract lay out on the table, the quill and ink still beside it. She reached for it, planning to tear it into pieces, but something stayed her hand. For some crazed, silly reason she took the pen, dipped it in ink, and wrote “I’m sorry” at the bottom of the page. And then she slipped out into the deserted hallway, heading for the servants’ stairway.
It was quick. How could it be anything but, Rohan thought dazedly. He was a gifted fencer, light on his feet, entirely ruthless. Sir Christopher Spatts was slow and fat and stupid, unable to comprehend that he was staring death in the face. He thought it was one more game played by the Heavenly Host, mocking the rules of life and death. It wasn’t until he began to realize that he was going to die that he started to fight in earnest, slashing with the sword that had been provided him.
Murder. Plain and simple. They were no match, and when Rohan drove the blade into his heart the man squealed like a pig, and Rohan wanted to shout in triumph.
Sir Christopher crumpled to the floor, and Rohan turned and walked away, throwing his sword across the room. The man was dead, executed, as he should have been years ago.
He walked out onto the snow-covered terrace, staring up at the night sky, trying to control his racing heart, the dark, murderous rage that had yet to leave him. Sir Christopher had managed to pink him a couple of times, probably luck driven by sheer terror, and there was blood staining his billowing white sleeve and seeping through the shallow cut on his chest. Another set of clothes ruined, he thought, shivering.
Charles came to stand by him, saying nothing. Finally Rohan brought himself to speak. “He’s dead?”
“Thoroughly. The seconds are satisfied. It was a fair duel.”
Rohan’s laugh was harsh. “What was the fairness in that? It was like fighting a child.”
“You should have let me do it,” Charles said. “I have no qualms killing those who need to be killed.”
Rohan looked at him. “How do you know I have such qualms?”
“Francis, I know you,” he said. “You’ve abhorred death and violence for as long as we’ve been friends. Have you ever killed your man before?”
“I don’t fight duels.”
“Then before?”
Rohan turned his head away, looking out past the high wall of the stables. “It was Culloden, Charles,” he said wearily. “What do you think? I watched my father and brother slaughtered. I saw good men bayoneted after they surrendered, I saw death everywhere. I saw what men could do, and I swore I would never take a life again, no matter how evil he was.”
“So you changed your mind,” Charles said. “Why didn’t you let me handle it?”
“It wasn’t your fight.” He looked back at the house, filled with self-loathing. “I want you to take…”
“Who’s that?” Charles said, interrupting him.
“Who’s what?”
“Moving along the edge of the stables. Someone is sneaking around. I’m not sure if it’s a thief or someone’s outraged spouse, but I think…”
He saw her quite clearly, though she hid in the shadows, certain he couldn’t see her. He recognized her walk, the way she moved, even covered in that hideous cloak. He’d killed for her, betraying everything he believed in, and she was leaving.
The cold anger settled down about him, a rage that should have burned hot if it were a little less powerful. He looked down, expecting to see blood on his hands. Fittingly enough, it was his own.
“Go on in, Francis,” Charles said gently. “Go find Juliette, or perhaps Marianne. I’ll bring Miss Harriman back safely.”
He didn’t hear him. His rage blinded him, and nothing seemed to make sense. “Go away, Charles,” he said, his voice like ice. “This is my business.”
Charles grabbed his arm, trying to stop him. “I can’t let you hurt her, Francis.”
Rohan slapped him. The same challenging slap he’d administered to Christopher Spatts’s soft, pink cheek after he’d tossed his glass of wine in his face. “Anytime, anyplace,”