The Rogue's Return Read Free Page B

care.
    Seeking calm, Simon turned to face the distant grayness of Lake Ontario. It didn’t help. The lake was so huge that it could be the sea—it even had its own navy. But it wasn’t. Abruptly it mattered that he might die so far from the North Sea, which he’d been able to look out on from his bedroom window at Brideswell. Where he’d spent idyllic summers out in boats. That smelled of salt, which this freshwater lake did not.
    In wartime, caught up in urgent purpose, he’d not pined about where and how he’d die, but now it threatened to distress him.
    Come on, come on. Get on with it.
    He heard someone approach and turned. Norton with the pistol in his hand. Simon’s heart started to pound as it had before facing an onslaught, so as he stripped off his gloves and coat, he did as he’d learned to do and took steadying breaths.
    His heart rate wasn’t fast from fear, but its intensity could make the hands shake.
    He handed his clothing to Norton, taking the pistol inexchange. Steadiness returned. He walked to take his place, concentrating on the justice of his cause and on the absolute necessity of returning safely to his family.
    Would McArthur shoot to kill?
    Almost certainly.
    Which meant he should.
    But he knew he couldn’t. He’d aim high, hoping to hit the shoulder and put an end to it that way.
    He presented his side, the narrowest target, murmuring under his breath, “Ademar, aidez-moi .” It was a habit he’d formed during the war, and as always it brought the cool detachment he needed.
    Delahaye was to give the count—one, two, three—and then drop a handkerchief. That was so that the duelists would have to watch him, not concentrate on aim.
    â€œOne.”
    Simon cocked the pistol and raised it.
    â€œTwo.”
    He took steady aim on McArthur’s upper torso.
    â€œThree.”
    He looked to Delahaye. . . .
    â€œ Stop! Stop, I say!”
    McArthur fired.
    Simon whirled to the voice, feeling the ball whistle by him.
    With the noise still shaking the air and smoke curling from McArthur’s gun, everyone turned shocked fury on Jane Otterburn, running across the frosty field, skirts hiked up to her knees, hair flying loose.
    Simon was tempted to shoot her out of pure fury. “Jane, go home.”
    â€œNo! Uncle Isaiah—” She stopped to heave in a breath. “An accident. He’s dying, Simon. He wants you.”
    She wore her usual dark dress and cloak, but her red-gold hair rioted loose down to her waist, shocking in its magnificent abundance.
    She sucked in more breaths. “Come on. You men can kill each other tomorrow!”
    After a numb moment, Simon gave his pistol to Norton and strode off.
    â€œMy God,” McArthur protested, “you shan’t slide out of it like this, you coward. I’ll have you horsewhipped!”
    Simon wheeled on him. “I’ll fight you tomorrow, McArthur, and kill you tomorrow. With pleasure. Now, I attend my friend.”
    He began to run toward his horse. He became aware of Jane only from gasping breaths and slowed. “What happened?”
    â€œHe . . . shot himself.” She was still breathing hard, a hand on her side. “He heard about the duel. . . . Wanted to fight in your place. A pistol. Something went wrong.”
    â€œOld fool.” Simon wanted to howl it. Damn it all to Hades!
    He could hardly pick out his horse from the others because tears were blurring his vision. Isaiah couldn’t be dying. He turned to glare at Jane, loathing the bearer of bad news, but he couldn’t abandon her here. “Can you ride behind?”
    She looked up at the horse. “I never have.” But then she firmly added, “Of course.”
    He mounted and then helped her up behind him. With a struggle, she got a leg over to sit astride, not seeming to care that she was showing her knees. But then, she’d not cared about