Page 91 of The Traitor
“Tell Milly I’m sorry.”
Michael’s features lost their typical veneer of irritability, becoming downright bleak. “For?”
“I am sorry I did not tell her…” The words felt foolish and impotent. At that moment, Sebastian’s whole life felt foolish.
“You did not warn her she might go to bed a widow tonight?” Michael took Fable’s reins and tied them to the same sapling.
“I did not tell her I love her.” Had not told her she deserved much better than a traitor baron, and had not told her so many other things that now seemed far more important than allowing MacHugh to indulge a Scotsman’s injured pride.
“If you love her,” Michael said, “then knock MacHugh’s arse in the mud, and go on a tour of the Continent with your lady wife. At least give her a few babies before she’s widowed, so she isn’t left on the charity of the Crown.”
Milly would be well provided for from Sebastian’s private wealth, though that gave him little comfort.
“Acknowledge MacHugh’s seconds. The ground will only become muddier the longer we wait to deal with this unpleasantness.”
Something an intelligent man might keep in mind when he deceived his new wife.
MacHugh was draining the contents of a silver flask, his seconds keeping their backs to Sebastian. As Sebastian shed cravat and coat, Mercia’s words came back to him: MacHugh was good with his fists, but overconfident. Didn’t mind his defenses, and overused his right.
Or words to that effect. Milly would have been able to quote His Grace word for word. Sebastian’s shirt came off next, and then his boots and stockings. The ground was cold and slippery beneath his feet, and the occasional rock or root would no doubt make the footing even more interesting at precisely the wrong moment.
As Michael conferred with the kilted bear holding MacHugh’s horse, Sebastian focused on the gnawing ache that had plagued him since he’d ridden away from St. Clair Manor the previous evening.
Ridden away from Milly.
What he felt did have some frustration in it—would Wellington’s minions never stop bothering him?—but also despair, and a quality of homesickness. He’d endured this feeling for years at the Château, until he had nigh choked on it with each thick, bitter cup of coffee he’d downed.
The feeling was worse now though, when, as Michael had said, Sebastian could dream about a real peace, one that included a wife and children.
“MacHugh’s ready,” Michael said, shifting Sebastian’s boots so low-hanging branches gave them some protection from the rain.
“Did you offer an apology?”
“Tried that. No luck.”
Sebastian passed his signet ring over. “Any words of advice?”
“Stay the hell alive. You’re the last excuse I can use to put off going North.”
Sebastian willed his body to relax, despite the damp and the chill. “I will make every effort to oblige you. Do I assume one of those skirted mastodons is a surgeon?”
“The shorter one. MacHugh thinks he owes it to your widow to clean up your corpse before he sends you home to her.”
“Most considerate of him. Let’s get this over with.” They walked forward into the clearing as MacHugh tossed his flask to his second. “You’ll tell Milly?”
“Bloody hell. Yes.”
A damp, drippy silence went by while Sebastian studied the terrain. The left side of the clearing rose slightly, suggesting the ground might be less boggy. Rocks jutted toward the right, rocks a man would not want to fall against but ought to maneuver his opponent into.
“Your lordship, good morning,” MacHugh said, swaggering into the clearing. “Brodie says we’re not to kick each other in the balls, which suggests—contrary to all rumor and inference—you have a pair.”
MacHugh’s version of civilities.
“You’re not to bite me, either, MacHugh, lest the taste of my treasonous flesh fatally poison even so stout a constitution as yours. Shall we chat away the morning, or be about our business?”
Any conflict had a psychological aspect that a combatant ignored at his peril, so Sebastian had allowed a hint of a French accent to slip into his words, the better to goad MacHugh.
“My thanks for the reminder,” MacHugh said. “Gentlemen?”
