In the Bed of a Duke (13 page)

“Yes,” the people roared back.

One man shouted, “Let us send a message to London they can’t sleep through this time.”

The laird raised his hands. “Then let me pass sentence—”

The Maddox whirled around forward, his eyes bright with anger. “You can’t pass sentence on such flimsy nonsense,” he charged before being roughly pushed back by his guard. “This is no courtroom. No meaningful evidence has been given against me.”

“You are right, Your Grace,” Laird MacKenna answered. “At last, you understand. Here, the king’s rules hold no importance. It’s
my
will that is obeyed.”

“To say such is
treason
,” the duke shot back, “and decries the rule of law and God.”

At that moment, Lady Rowena stood from her chair and came to stand beside her brother.
“Yes,”
she said, “the judgment should be from God.
Judicium Dei
.”

The Maddox didn’t understand immediately but those of Clan MacKenna did. They gave out a shout of approval and began chanting,
“Judicium Dei.”

The laird let them go on a moment before stopping them. “Do you understand what my sister has called for, Your Grace?”

“Judicium Dei?”
the Maddox repeated, still confused. “The judgment of God. The medieval term is
Wager of Battel
?”

“Very good,” the laird answered. “Your education in the law serves you well. Do you understand what it is?”

“A fight to the death,” the Maddox said.

“Aye, where God decides the victor. Let Him who is Almighty pass His judgment through a fight between two warriors—your clan and ours—to the death.”

There wasn’t anyone hearing his sentence who wasn’t amazed. Even John Rae appeared surprised to learn the reason he had carried out the sword.

“This is barbaric,” the duke protested. “I have no desire to fight anyone. Especially with broadswords.”

“A duel is always the way to settle a matter between gentlemen,” the laird answered.

“This is not a duel,” the duke answered. “What you want is an execution.”

The laird didn’t deny his words. Instead, he smiled and said, “Prepare to defend yourself, Your Grace. Untie him, Ian, and offer him your sword,” he instructed one of the duke’s guards.

“No,” Miss Cameron cried, but she was quickly shoved aside by Dougal, and no one paid attention to her after that. The crowd was too busy spreading the word amongst themselves of what was about to happen. People began pushing for a good view of the action.

Lady Rowena placed her hand in the crook of her brother’s arm, silent tears running down her face. He patted it. “I promised you justice. I said one day, he would pay. Choose your champion, Sister.” Only those on the platform could hear what he’d said.

“This isn’t justice, MacKenna, but a vendetta,” the duke accused, shouting to be heard over the excited babble of the crowd. “It has nothing to do with people’s homes or starving children.”

“On the contrary, Your Grace, it has a great deal more than you can imagine to do with those matters,” the laird answered. “John, bring the Sword of the MacKenna forward. My sister is to choose who shall fight for our clan’s honor.”

The crowd went quiet, waiting to see whom she would choose. Tavis didn’t understand any of this. The laird was a student of medieval architecture and customs, Nathraichean’s design was a testimony to that, but he had never invoked
Judicium Dei
before—although he’d long had a fascination with it.

Tavis had the niggling thought that the Duke of Colster’s accusations could be true.

While John held the scabbard, Lady Rowena drew the sword out. It made no sound as it slid from its golden sheath. She raised it high so that sharp, wicked blade could catch the torchlight.
Any man claiming to love Scotland could not help but be affected by the sight of the lady and the sword.

She looked around.

Bruce stepped forward. “I shall fight.”

“And I,” Gordon quickly offered.

The other warriors straightened, ready to defend their clan and Scotland.

But Lady Rowena refused to consider them. Instead, she moved with stately grace along the front of the platform. She turned, and her gaze landed on Tavis, standing not far from her on the dais.

She approached him with the sword. “You, Tavis. Will you be my champion?”

Tavis was stunned. She smiled. Her eyes were clear and her brow unworried. “I need a warrior,” she said. “You are the only one who will do.”

He dropped his gaze to the sword hilt she offered, aware that all watched. This was the moment of his dreams—however, the duke was right. The laird didn’t want a fight, he wanted an execution…and Tavis didn’t know if he had the skill or the nerve to kill another. Not in this manner.

The crowd had started shouting his name, over and over, growing louder with each repetition.

Tavis looked around, stunned to be, at last, the center of so much attention.

And then he saw Moira standing not far beyond Lady Rowena. Even
she
repeated his name.

He took the sword.

T
he blacksmith? They wanted him to fight the blacksmith?

This didn’t make sense to Phillip.

He shook his head. Like any gentleman, he had trained with swords. He’d even played around with broadswords, although he had no desire to do battle with them.

But expecting him to fight the blacksmith was ridiculous. Phillip would kill the man, and he’d not have that on his conscience—especially since the blacksmith had saved his life. He ignored the sword his guard, Ian, held out to him, more worried about what was happening to Charlotte than his own life.

“I’ll not fight,” he shouted. “This is mockery of justice. It’s barbaric.”

“Barbaric?”
MacKenna questioned. He looked around at his people. “This is how
they
think of
us. There is no justice to them, save for
their
justice.” To Phillip he said, “This is our custom for solving disputes. Our way, Englishman. You fight, or you die.”

His words whipped the people into a frenzy. “Fight or die,” the crowd shouted, and Phillip realized he had no choice. Tavis stepped off the platform, the man’s earlier reluctance having disappeared. He whipped the air with his weapon, and the Sword of the MacKenna seemed to sing.

Ian shoved the blade of his sword into the ground at Phillip’s feet and backed away to join the others forming a ring around the two would-be combatants.

Phillip looked to Lady Rowena on the platform. Her eyes were bright, her fingers curled like claws as if she were a hawk ready to pounce on her prey and appearing more animated by the second. It was as if she’d waited for this moment. Plotted for it. He curled his fingers into his palms, refusing to touch the weapon—

“Take up the sword,”
Tavis ordered, his own strain over the situation etching his voice. “Pick it up.”

Phillip shook his head. “I won’t kill an innocent man.”

“Strike him down,”
MacKenna ordered.

Tavis raised his sword and pressed the tip
under Phillip’s chin. In one smooth movement, he could slice Phillip’s throat open.

Charlotte’s voice cut through the air. She’d managed to free herself and was running to the edge of the platform. “No, Tavis,
don’t.
He is your brother! Do not kill him—”

Laird MacKenna whirled and savagely backhanded her across the face. She went flying across the stage to land on her side on the ground. She didn’t move.

Phillip would not fight for himself—but he would fight for Charlotte.

He’d murder MacKenna with his bare hands. “Get out of my way,” he ordered the damn blacksmith.

“Fight,” the man said.

Phillip’s temper snapped. “Fool.” Raising his voice, he announced, “I’ll fight, and when I’m done, I’m coming for you, MacKenna. I’ll send your black heart to hell.” No one struck his woman.

In one fluid movement, he wrapped his hand around the hilt of his sword and brought it up to cleave Tavis in two.

But the blacksmith was lighter on his feet than one would have thought. His shirt was ripped clean open, and the crowd gasped but Phillip could barely see or hear anything in the haze of his temper. He had to get to Charlotte.

Tavis knew his advantages. He was about the same height as the Maddox but far stronger. Even as the point of the Sassenach’s weapon sliced his shirt, he brought his own up with a twist of his wrist, almost flipping the Maddox’s sword from his hand.

A flicker of disbelief appeared in his opponent’s eye. Tavis used that momentary surprise to attack. His blade should have run his opponent through. It didn’t.

The Maddox seemed to anticipate his move and leaned to the left. Tavis’s sword harmlessly stabbed air, bypassing the other’s body by a hairbreadth.

The thrust also brought Tavis in close to the fight, and the duke used it to his advantage. A warning flickered through Tavis a beat before the Maddox buried his fist in his gut.

This duke was no soft nobleman.

And he was stronger than he appeared.

His fist would have doubled over a lesser man than Tavis. But it wasn’t the fist Tavis had to watch out for but the elbow to the chin.

A flash of lightning went through his brain. He stumbled back, but the punches cleared his mind. He understood this sort of fighting. Their duel would be no genteel meeting but a battle of bruisers, and let the best man win.

However, the Maddox didn’t want to stay and fight. He started toward the platform, turning his back completely upon Tavis.

Certain he was going after the laird, Tavis reached out and grabbed a handful of the Maddox’s shirt. The man turned, bringing his sword down toward Tavis.

Steel met steel. Once, twice, three times the air rang with the clash of metal. The duke’s blows reverberated with enough force to make Tavis’s arm ache. Tavis answered back in kind.

Whoever said the English were weak were wrong.

Then again, Tavis fought well, too. He managed to stay between the duke and the laird so that Maddox had no choice but to fight.

The tactic made the duke angry. He wanted Tavis out of the way, something that Tavis not only sensed, but seemed to experience. It was as if he could feel his opponent’s frustration.

If the Maddox feinted left, Tavis had already anticipated the move. If he went to thrust, Tavis knew to step back.

And the same could be said in return. Time and again the duke responded to Tavis’s attack almost before Tavis made the move himself.

At one point in the fight, Tavis thought he had him. He found an opening and swung hard. His opponent surprised him by dropping to the
ground and somersaulting like an acrobat at the fair back onto his feet.

The crowd gasped in approval. Some even clapped.

Tavis was stunned.

He’d
known
that was what the Maddox was going to do. In his mind’s eye, he had imagined it and even felt his own body tense in preparation.

Something was not right. There was a force here he couldn’t understand. It was in the velvet of the night air and the dancing flames of the torches.

Gone was any pretense of the art of swordplay. They hacked away at each other, each blow stronger than the last. The minutes dragged on. Both dripped with sweat, and their breathing grew labored with the exertion. They no longer were aware of anything other than themselves. The crowd, even the laird, no longer held importance.

Up and down along the parade ground they battled. Tavis’s arm was numb with exhaustion, and still they fought. This was not like any of the other contests Tavis had witnessed—this was a brawl for survival. By the time this contest was over, only one would be a victor. The other would be dead.

And then Tavis felt himself trip. The crowd had not backed away quickly enough, and he’d stumbled over someone’s big foot.

It was a stupid mistake. His feet tumbled over each other. He lost his balance. His guard came down—and the Maddox shoved him to the ground. The Sword of the MacKenna went flying from his fingers.

Tavis reached out, wanting it back. His hand grasped its hilt as he turned to face the Maddox who stood over him with his sword raised, ready to be dropped in a death blow.

Beneath Tavis was cool spring grass. Above him the heavens and the stars that held answers to questions he’d long asked.

In the end, it was not such a bad night to die.

The moment Tavis went down and Phillip raised his sword was electrifying. It was as if the world had come to stop—but not for Charlotte.

She’d regained her senses. Like the others, she’d watched the battle between the two men with a fascinated intensity.

However, this moment broke through the haze in her head. These men weren’t two strangers. They were
brothers.

She’d noticed the resemblance, although it was more than the beard that distinguished the two men in looks. No, Phillip and Justin were not identical twins, but there was a very strong connection nonetheless. It had been the glance that Justin/Tavis had given to her in passing, a look
so completely Phillip, it had caught her by surprise.

And now, Phillip was about to kill his brother. His sword was raised, and yet he did not move, his expression uncertain.

Perhaps he’d realized…?

Charlotte started toward the front of the platform just as Justin’s fingers found the hilt of the Sword of the MacKenna. He raised the weapon. Phillip was wide open to a mortal blow. She drew up short, certain she would witness his death.

And yet, neither moved. The two men stared at each other in apparent surprise. It was as if they
knew
.

Lady Rowena went frantic. She screamed,
“Kill him.”

Neither swordsman moved.

She turned to Laird MacKenna, who appeared as fascinated with the battle as everyone else. “Make them die, brother,” she demanded. “Make them kill each other.”

And Charlotte had her proof. Her imagination had not played her false. She raced down the platform steps and placed herself between the men, shielding Justin with her own body.

Every muscle about Phillip was tense. Sweat covered his brow. The same was true for his twin. “Please, Phillip, no,” she said quietly. “He’s your brother. Your
brother
.”

Phillip frowned at her as if having trouble comprehending her words.

Justin went to push her away, but she’d have none of it. “You don’t understand, do you?” she said to him. “You have no idea, but look at Colster. Truly look at his face. It’s
your
face.”

“We look nothing alike—” Both Justin and Phillip started at the same time. They stopped, wary.

“See? You’ve felt it, haven’t you?” Charlotte said, talking rapidly now, needing to convince them. “You
are
brothers. I know it sounds fantastic, but it is true,” she answered. “You were stolen by Lady Rowena at birth, Tavis. The two of you are twins. Can’t you see it?”

“Twins?” Justin shook his head. “You are moon-crazed. We don’t look a thing alike.” He moved away from her, coming to his feet.

She wasn’t about to give up. Rising with him, she said, “You have the same hair color, the same eyes, the same nose—and the stubborn nature.”

Those overhearing her started laughing. A few jeers were called. Someone said, “Get on with the fight.”

For his part, Phillip appeared as wary as Justin was. Charlotte turned to him. “You must see it.”

He glanced at his brother, his doubt plain. But then he looked to Laird MacKenna. “Is it true?”
His voice sounded as confused as Tavis felt. “Is the blacksmith my brother Justin Maddox?”

“Justin?” the blacksmith repeated.
“I’m no bloody Maddox.”
He raised the Sword of the MacKenna and swung it wide.

Phillip pushed Charlotte down to the ground, saving her, before he rushed Justin. He grabbed the wrist of his brother’s sword arm. “Listen to me. I know this is the wrong way to hear this news, but you are being used. We are
both
being used to pay for what our father did to Lady Rowena. It’s not about Scotland or the clan or even ancient feuds. It’s about
revenge,
do you hear?”

Justin tried not to listen. He pressed his sword down, trying to force Phillip to step back.

Phillip wouldn’t give up. “Our mother died giving birth to us,” he said. “Lady Rowena pretended to be a midwife. She tricked everyone and stole you. She told Mother her baby was born dead.”

“No,”
Tavis shouted, using all his strength to shove Phillip aside.

The duke quickly recovered his footing. He faced his brother, offering himself. “No one anticipated twins. I was born later after Lady Rowena left with you. After your death, I was too well guarded for her to get close to me. She took you, Justin. She stole you from your rightful family, from your heritage.”

“I’m no Maddox,” Tavis protested, but it was weaker than before.

“You are more than a Maddox,” Phillip answered calmly. “
You
are the
rightful
Duke of Colster.”

Silence had descended over all who watched the scene between the brothers. Charlotte looked over to Laird MacKenna, who stood with his arm around his sister’s shoulders. Her madness now was clear for anyone to see. Her eyes burned like coals and her lips were twisted in gleeful satisfaction. “Tell him,” Charlotte ordered. “It’s time. You’ve received your pound of flesh.”

“Have I?” the laird answered.

Justin turned too, his expression disbelieving. “It is true?”

“That you are a blacksmith?” Laird MacKenna answered. “A rough-hewn, dumb in all things that have to do with being a gentleman, oaf. Oh, yes, that’s true. That you can’t read or write your own name? That’s also true. That you are the true Duke of Colster?” His grin widened. “Only if Colster doesn’t kill you first. If he does, who is the wiser—”

“I’ll not kill him,” Phillip jumped in. “He’s my brother.”

Justin turned to him. His voice full of confused rage, he demanded, “How do you know this?”

“I received a letter last week,” Phillip answered.
“It was the deathbed confession of my childhood nurse, who had helped Lady Rowena steal you. I don’t know how long they’ve had this letter. Or why they have finally decided to make their evil plan known. Miss Cameron is holding it for me. You can read all for yourself.”

“He
can’t
read,” the laird announced. “Can you see him with your sophisticated London crowd?” The thought made him smirk. “Or dining with the king as you do? By the by, it’s a pity you don’t know your Gaelic or you’d have realized the relationship earlier. Tavis means ‘twin.’” He smiled at his own jest.

That was it, the confirmation.

Justin appeared as if he’d been struck by a thunderbolt.

Charlotte’s heart broke as he stepped back, away from everyone. He turned, seeing people watching him as if he were some oddity, the Sword of the MacKenna slack in his hand. “My entire life has been a lie?” he asked. “How many of you have known?” His gaze landed on an elderly man in a priest’s cassock. “Did you know, Father Nicholas?”

The priest shrank back but Phillip stepped forward. “He signed Nanny Frye’s letter.”