Free Sword Dance by Marie Laval

here and now, discreetly, or I can ask my lawyers to start a lawsuit – a very public lawsuit. Your choice.’
    His direct approach broke through McRae’s composure. The cigar slipped from his fingers and rolled slowly across the desk. Without looking at Bruce, he reached out for it, stuck it between his lips and proceeded to light it. It took him two attempts but at last he drew in a few puffs and reclined on his chair.
    â€˜How did you work it out?’
    â€˜It doesn’t matter how, what matters is what we’re going to do about it.’
    â€˜Even if you managed to prove anything, you wouldn’t gain much by a public lawsuit, you know. Bastard sons don’t count as far as the law is concerned.’
    â€˜That maybe so, but your… I mean our father changed his will in my favour on his deathbed. He got Colonel Saintclair to write to Langford and Stewart and to your mother, too. Yet his instructions were blatantly ignored and his letters destroyed.’
    Now was the time to bluff. Pity he felt too damned ill all of a sudden to enjoy seeing McRae sweat.
    â€˜All but one, of course… Suppose I recently found the missive he wrote to my mother, the one Pichet delivered before he was killed by Donald Robertston? By the way, the man worked your mother, didn’t he? She was the one he talked about when he told the police constable he’d been hired by a person of high status to carry out the attack on the French man – that same person had him killed in his cell no doubt…’
    Cameron glanced up and narrowed his eyes.
    â€˜Pure speculation on your part, McGunn.’ He paused, clenching his fists. ‘So you read the diary, and you have the letter. Where was it? Where did your mother hide it?’
    â€˜Never mind that. The question is, are you prepared to see our family secrets exposed in a lawsuit? You said your mother was unwell. What do you think such a public scandal would do to her?’
    It was a low blow, but he didn’t care if he sounded as callous and cold as McRae. He tried to breathe deeply but his chest felt uncomfortably tight. His legs suddenly too weak to support him, he reached for the back of the armchair and gripped it hard.
    Damn. Of all the times for a fit, this was probably the worse yet.
    â€˜You don’t look so good, McGunn. Is here anything I can do to help? A little more tea, maybe?’ McRae’s cool blue eyes lingered over him, assessing, and a slow smile curled his lips.
    â€˜I feel fine,’ Bruce growled. ‘Listen, McRae, I want to make a deal with you.’
    His words sounded distant, as if spoken by someone standing at the other side of the room.
    Snap out of it and focus, damn it. Since last night, he’d thought long and hard about what he really wanted, what was important for him and his people, and now was the time to make his claim.
    â€˜Another deal? Yesterday you were prepared to sell me Wrath to extricate yourself from the debts your drunken fool of grandfather plunged you into – debts my lawyers advised me to buy off the bank so that I could take control of Wrath and kick you out of your miserable, crumbly old tower. I wonder what kind of deal you have in mind now.’
    As he puffed on his cigar, his face became faint and disappeared behind the smoke.
    Don’t let him see you’re ill.
    â€˜I’m not interested in the titles, in this fancy castle or in your wealth,’ Bruce said in a slow voice. ‘Believe it or not, I don’t want to be a McRae, legitimate or illegitimate. I spent my lifetime despising that very name.’
    His cravat was coiled around his neck like a snake, preventing him from breathing. What had possessed him to tie it so tightly? Letting go of the armchair he started to loosen it but his fingers were clumsy and it took two attempts. He undid the top buttons of his shirt as well.
    â€˜So what do you want?’ McRae sneered.
    â€˜I want the bank