Imposter Bride (38 page)

He wouldn’t think of the consequences should he
fail. He simply wouldn’t allow himself to fail.

Though Ramsay hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep for
a week, his hand was still steady as he scraped his jaw, wiped the
razor clean with a towel, and scraped again until his skin was
smooth and clear. He could see little detail in the flickering
light from the brace of candles at his elbow, but it didn’t matter.
Shaving was more a tactile exercise than a visual one anyway.

While he shaved, he scowled at his bloodshot eyes
and unusually wan complexion. He did look like death warmed over,
just as everyone claimed. So be it. Death meets the Earl of
Blethin. He didn’t mind taking on the role of a dark angel, as long
as Metcalf’s macabre career was quashed as a result.

Finished, Ramsay dragged his fingertips down his
face to make certain he hadn’t missed a spot, then cleaned the
blade, and returned it to its leather sleeve. He ambled across the
floor, wiping the bits of soap flecks from his face and ear lobes
with the towel, and then put on his waistcoat. Like a man in a
trance, he fastened the multitude of buttons on the garment and
then reached for his dark blue frock coat, all the while wondering
how long he would have to wait until he heard news of Sophie from
Puckett.

All his senses lay in waiting, grim and subdued, but
still on alert—the way they had been before a battle during his
military career in America. He had undertaken his toilette as a
careful ritual, the same way he had donned his vestments—performing
the motions with exacting clarity, forcing himself to quit
thinking, making himself take one step at a time without looking
ahead to the larger and much more gruesome picture. It was the only
way to survive a day such as this.

When he arrived downstairs, Ramsay was surprised to
find a small crowd waiting for him in in Lady Auliffe’s parlor.
John MacEwan stood near the fire, nearly bursting out of a coat and
breeches that might have fit him when he was younger. Mary Auliffe
sat in her usual regal style upon the settee, attired in a smart
crimson riding outfit, her dogs lying unusually subdued near the
toes of her boots as if they sensed the serious of the situation.
Lastly, Mr. Puckett paced the floor in front of the bay window, his
spare body as tightly wound as a spring, looking like a jay about
to take flight.

At Ramsay’s tread in the doorway, Puckett looked up,
his face white. Ramsay studied him, sure that something was amiss,
and his heart turned painfully in his chest.

“Good morning,” he growled, never one for chatter,
especially in the early morning, especially this morning. The
others mumbled their greetings, obviously not any more excited
about the day than he was.

“Ian, you look terrible,” Lady Auliffe observed.
“Did you not sleep?”

“Not much.”

Coffee service had been set out upon the low table
before Lady Auliffe. She poured some of the steaming brew into a
china cup.

“Here,” she said, lifting the cup and saucer toward
him. “You look as if you could use this.”

“Thank you.”

“Would you like it laced with brandy? Extra
fortification as it were?”

“No, thank you.” He smiled at her and took a sip of
the hot beverage, letting it warm him and strengthen his frayed
nerves. He watched the lady of the house refill MacEwan’s cup and
then turned to Puckett.

“When did you get back?” he asked.

“Just a few minutes ago.”

“And?”

Puckett shrugged is thin shoulders. “No luck,
sir.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean,” Puckett glanced around the room, at the
other two pairs of eyes trained upon him, and then back at his
master. “No luck, captain.”

Ramsay narrowed his eyes at the man’s cryptic reply,
knowing Puckett well enough to deduce he was not telling the entire
truth. He heard Mary Auliffe rise and felt her hand on his arm.

“I’m sorry, Ian.” She gently squeezed his forearm.
“I thought ‘twas too good to be true, the story of the tartan.”

“Aye.” John MacEwan lowered his cup. “No one could
survive water that cold. Poor wee lass.”

Ramsay nodded and struggled to keep his emotions in
check. He was desperate to get Puckett alone and drag the full
story out of the man. For some reason Puckett deigned it prudent to
keep silent on the matter, and Ramsay couldn’t just pull him aside
without raising suspicions. Ramsay could only choose to respect his
assistant’s judgment, for Puckett had always wanted what was best
for Sophie.

If the results of Puckett’s journey required secrecy
for Sophie’s sake, so be it. Then again, perhaps Puckett had no
news at all. In either case, Ramsay must be satisfied with his
vague answer for the moment.

Finishing his coffee, he carefully placed the china
dish upon the table and straightened.

“Lady Auliffe, I mean no disrespect, but I trust you
realize that Edward Metcalf wants no spectacle made of the duel
this morning.”

“As if I care what he prefers!” Mary Auliffe sniffed
in disdain.

“He may not allow you on the property.”

“Balderdash!”

Ramsay turned, “Or you, Mr. Puckett.”

“He will have to shoot me first, sir.”

“Hear, hear!” Mary Auliffe crowed.

“I am serious.” Ramsay crossed his arms and glowered
at her.

“And who shall bar my path?” Lady Auliffe inquired.
“The Metcalfs have alienated themselves from the folk around here.
I doubt there’s a living soul at Highclyffe this morning, save
Edward Metcalf himself.”

“Aye, the bastard may have to haul his own water.”
MacEwan’s eyes flashed with dark delight. “Now there’s a
picture!”

Puckett glanced over his shoulder at the still dark
sky. “Regardless, we’d best be going, captain. We’ve a ride ahead
of us.”

Ramsay nodded, and felt a slow frost of finality
harden his resolve.

Fog rolled across the green of Highclyffe, and not a
whisper of wind brushed Ramsay’s cheek as he dismounted to the
frosty turf. He reached back to help Lady Auliffe to the ground,
and then turned to glance around at the ghostly vision of his
boyhood home. Through the mist poked the southeast tower, as if
purposely drawing his attention, reminding him of Sophie’s plunge
to her death. The corners of his mouth twitched, and he had to
fight to keep his expression under control.

“A rather gloomy day for a duel,” Lady Auliffe
remarked, pulling at her gloves. “And so cold!”

“A Scottish day,” Ramsay replied. “Just another
winter’s morn here.”

“Where’s the earl?” John MacEwan asked as he tied
his mount to the nearest hitching post.

“There.” Puckett pointed to a large black coach
slowly emerging from the mist.

“The man can’t walk?” MacEwan inquired, his voice
thick with disdain.

“‘
Tis likely he will leave
straightaway after the duel,” Ramsay observed, “should he
win.”

“Yes, look there.” Lady Auliffe pointed her crop in
the direction of the vehicle. “His trunks are tied at the back of
his coach.”

The coach rolled to a stop a good distance from the
horses on the green. After a prolonged moment, the door opened and
the earl climbed out, careful not to bump his hat. After him came a
smaller man, who lowered himself stiffly to the lawn.

“And who is that with him?” Mary Auliffe raised her
lorgnette to her eyes.

“Constable Keener, I would assume.” Ramsay watched
them approach.

Edward Metcalf strode forward, a step ahead of his
second, powder and rouge concealing most of the bruise around his
eye. He had dressed for the occasion, in a suit of bottle green
fustian, a cream colored shirt, and a green and gold striped velvet
waistcoat. His cravat was tied expertly at his throat, covering
most of his neck below his chin as if to conceal as much bare flesh
as possible. He wore a pair of expensive black kid gloves, gleaming
black boots, and a black cocked hat trimmed in satin braid. Ramsay
was reminded of the first time he’d seen the earl as a young lad,
and how he had appeared a dandy even then.

The memory seared though Ramsay, bringing with it
the unforgettable memory of the smell of burning flesh as his clan
died in the kirk and the still sharp pang of humiliation at the
hand of the cruel boy this earl had once been. That cruel boy may
have grown into a man, but he had not outgrown his mean streak; in
fact it had obviously deepened and become more perverse.

Ramsay’s feelings of loathing stabbed him so keenly,
he could have sworn that twenty years had not transpired. For a
moment, he remembered how it had been to be a helpless boy at the
mercy of a great lord. But he, too, had grown. This time he met the
earl on nearly level ground, and if height and military experience
counted, the ground was slightly tipped in his favor. This was his
chance to avenge his clan, his family, and an innocent maid from
the West Indies.

Ramsay clenched his jaw so tightly, he thought his
teeth might crack from the pressure.

“Ramsay.” Edward Metcalf dipped his head in slight
recognition of his adversary.

“Metcalf,” Ramsay replied in kind, his neck rigid
with hatred, still refusing to address the earl properly.

“I told you that I wanted no audience,” the earl
snapped. “Did I not make myself clear?”

Ramsay narrowed his eyes in the direction of his
companions, and spied a boxy-looking cart rumbling their way. He
didn’t recognize it but had no time to wonder about it. “Then speak
my companions if you choose. They would not listen to me.”

Edward glared at the trio standing to one side and
sniffed. “I can’t be bothered.”

“Then let us get on with it.” Ramsay nodded at
MacEwan, who walked forward with the shallow wooden box containing
Alec MacMarrie’s dueling pistols. The manservant opened the box and
presented it to Ramsay, while Constable Keener did the same for the
earl. The pistols were loaded and primed on the spot.

“Twenty paces and a single shot, gentlemen,” the
constable reminded them when they were finished with the shot and
gunpowder, “Take your places.”

“For Sophie Vernet,” Ramsay declared, glaring at
Metcalf. Then he pivoted to face the stone ramparts of
Highclyffe.

“For England,” Edward replied turning his back to
Ramsay and raising his weapon to chest level.

A dark sense of purpose flowed over Ramsay as he
measured out the steps, one by one to MacEwan’s count. The
courtyard of Highclyffe became surreal, a blur of grays and blues
which melted into the memory of Sophie Vernet, the way her hair had
glowed in the firelight, the way her white throat had curved to her
obstinate chin, and way her smoky eyes had softened when she looked
up at him.

The thought that he would never see her again had
made him gamble recklessly with his life like this, for what would
life be like without her beside him? Sophie had made a home for him
for the first time in his life. She had given him a reason to ride
back to his townhouse after a long day at work, a reason to rise in
the morning, and had given a purpose to his life other than
revenge. Now all he could look forward to were endless days,
knowing he could never go home to the woman he loved. No house
would be a home to him, if she were not there.

“Ninetee-ee-een,” chanted MacEwan, “T—”

Poised to turn, Ramsay waited for the last syllable,
his senses taut, when he heard a sudden crack and felt something
hot tear into his back, spinning him around, nearly knocking him to
the ground. Searing pain burst into flames at his right shoulder
blade.

“No!” Sophie screamed, hanging at the rear door of
the tinker’s cart and gaping in horror as Ian was struck
prematurely. She jumped to the ground before the vehicle had come
to a complete stop, and nearly swooned at the sudden impact of her
feet upon the ground.

Edward Metcalf had fired before the final count,
before Ramsay had had time to turn around. He had violated the code
of dueling, and like a coward had shot Ian in the back.

For a heart-wrenching instant, Sophie stood
motionless, desperate to run to Ian’s side but guessing the deadly
game upon the green had not yet drawn to a close. Without taking a
single breath, she watched Ramsay struggling to raise his right arm
to take the single shot to which he was entitled. But he apparently
couldn’t make his body obey.

She opened her mouth to shout out his name, but the
word stuck in her throat, as all eyes fixed on him, wondering if he
would take a shot or fall to the ground. He wavered and passed the
gun into his other hand. At the movement, Sophie noticed a wet
stain on his frock coat, and saw that he was bleeding between his
shoulder blades.

Something roared loudly, and she realized the sound
thundered in her own ears. She’d been too late. She had been
seconds too late to stop the duel, and Ian had likely given his
life for her. Not many people survived a ball in the back. She was
probably witnessing the last moments of Ian’s life, forced to stand
on the sidelines.

“Ian, take your shot!” MacEwan shouted.

“Ian!” Sophie cried, her voice sharp with
anguish.

At the sound of her voice, he turned slightly, as if
to glance in her direction, but the effort was too much for him,
and he turned back to face the earl, his right shoulder
sagging.

He looked terrible. She had never seen him so wan,
his dark eyes so dull, his posture so bent. Would he die on the
green without uttering another word to her, without looking into
her eyes? Her heart ached at the thought, for she had so much to
say to him—all that she should have told him from the very first.
Seeing him like this, defending her to the death, dashed away the
dark betrayal she had suffered at his hand.

“Shoot!” MacEwan screamed, his mouth flecked with
spittle. “Shoot the bastard!”