Page 1 of The Traitor
One
The bullet whistled past Sebastian’s ear, coming within an inch of solving all of his problems, and half an inch of making a significant mess instead.
“Die, goddamn you!” Lieutenant Lord Hector Pierpont fired his second shot, but rage apparently made the man careless. A venerable oak lost a few bare twigs to the field of honor.
“I shall die,biensûr,” Sebastian said, a prayer as much as a promise. “But not today.”
He took aim on Pierpont’s lapel. An English officer to his very bones, Pierpont stood still, eyes closed, waiting for death to claim him. In the frosty air, his breath clouded before him in the same shallow pants that might have characterized postcoital exertion.
Suchdrama.Sebastian cocked his elbow and dealt another wound to the innocent oak branches. “And neither shall you die today. It was war, Pierpont. For the sake of your womenfolk, let it be over.”
Sebastian fired the second bullet overhead to punctuate that sentiment, also to ensure no loaded weapons remained within Pierpont’s ambit. When Pierpont opened his eyes, Sebastian gazed into loathing so intense as to confirm his lordship would rather be dead than suffer any more of Sebastian’s clemency or sermonizing.
Sebastian walked up to him and spoke quietly enough that the seconds could not hear.
“You gave away nothing. What little scraps you threw me had long since reached the ears of French intelligence. Go home, kiss your wife, and give her more babies, but leave me and mine in peace. Next time, I will not delope,monami.”
He slapped Pierpont lightly on the cheek, a small, friendly reminder of other blows, and walked away.
“You are not fit to breathe the air of England, St. Clair.”
This merited a dismissive parting wave of Sebastian’s hand. Curses were mere bagatelles to a man who’d dealt in screams and nightmares for years. “Aurevoir, Pierpont. My regards to your wife and daughters.”
The former captain and his missus were up to two. Charming little demoiselles with Pierpont’s dark eyes. Perhaps from their mother they might inherit some common sense and humor.
“Cold bastard.”
That, from Captain Anderson, one of Pierpont’s seconds. Anderson was a twitchy, well-fed blond fellow with a luxurious mustache. Threaten the mustache, and Monsieur Bold Condescension would chirp out the location of his mother’s valuables like a nightingale in spring.
Michael Brodie snatched the pistol from Sebastian’s grasp, took Sebastian by the arm, and led him toward their horses. “You’ve had your fun, now come along like a good baron.”
“Insubordinate, you are. I thought the English were bad, but you Irish give the term realms of meaning Dr. Johnson never dreamed.”
“You areEnglish, lest we forget the reason yon righteous arse wants to perforate your heart at thirty paces. Get on the horse, Baron, and I’m only half-Irish.”
A fact dearMichelhad kept quiet until recently.
Sebastian pretended to test the tightness of Fable’s girth, but used the moment to study Pierpont, who was in conversation with his seconds. Pierpont was in good enough weight, and he was angry—furious—but not insane with it. Nothing about his complexion or his eyes suggested habitual drunkenness, and he had two small, adorable daughters who needed their papa’s love and adoration.
Maybe today’s little exchange would allow them to have it.
“You fret,Michel, and one wants to strike you for it. The English are violent with their servants,non? Perhaps today I will be English after all.”
“The French were violent with the entire Continent, best as I recall, and bits of Africa and the high seas into the bargain. You ought not to begrudge the English some violence with their help from time to time. Keeps us on our toes.”
Michael climbed aboard his bay, and Sebastian swung up on Fable.
Burnished red eyebrows lowered into a predictable scowl. “You would have to ride a white horse,” Michael groused. “Might as well paint a target on your back and send a boy ahead to warn all and sundry the Traitor Baron approaches.”
Sebastian nudged his horse forward.
“Fable was black as the infernal pit when he was born. I cannot help what my horse decides to do with his hair. That is between him and his God. Stop looking over your shoulder,Michel. Pierpont was an officer. He will not shoot me in the back, and he will not blame you for sparing all others the burden of seconding me.”
Michael took one more look over his shoulder—both the Irish half of him and the Scottish half were well endowed with contrariness.
“How many duels does that make, your lordship? Four? Five? One of these honorable former officers will put paid to your existence, and where will Lady Freddy be, then? Think on that the next time you’re costing me and Fable our beauty sleep.”
He took out a flask and imbibed a hefty swallow, suggesting his nerves were truly in bad repair.
