Free Mask of Duplicity (The Jacobite Chronicles Book 1) by Julia Brannan Page B

your whip with those who cannot fight back, you coward!”
    Richard’s face reddened, and he took a step toward her.
    “No one calls me coward, sister, not even my family,” he growled.
    “Family!” Beth cried. “You call yourself my family! My staff are far more family to me than you will ever be! I am ashamed to own you as my brother. You make me sick!”
    He saw red. Lunging forward, he swung his fist, catching her squarely on the side of the head before she could move and sending her sprawling into the hay, where she lay as though dead. Richard bent over her, his fist still clenched
    “No!” John cried. He moved forward out of the shadows, brandishing a pitchfork threateningly. Richard straightened slowly, and turned on the balls of his feet to face his attacker, drawing his sword smoothly from the scabbard at the same time. He quickly gauged the situation. The boy facing him was white and his eyes had widened at the sight of the sword, but he did not back off. Concern for his mistress overrode his fear, and Richard felt a momentary flicker of admiration for the boy’s courage, before his anger at the insult to him overrode any finer emotions.
    “Stand away from Beth,” John commanded, his voice trembling.
    That was good. He was terrified, and more likely to make a mistake. Richard was not overly worried. He was an expert swordsman, and contrary to what his sister believed, for all his faults, he was no coward. However, the boy was young and strong, and very competent with a pitchfork. Richard’s instinct was to make a fight of it, and kill the boy, but if he did, there would be sure to be an enquiry, at which his sister would no doubt speak against him. Richard knew he would not be convicted, but he could do without the inconvenience at a time when he was hoping for promotion.
    “Well, boy,” he said quietly. “It seems we have a situation. Why don’t you put down that ridiculous thing and we can talk about it?”
    “I said stand away from Beth,” the boy repeated. Richard moved away, two steps, then another. “You will not hurt her any more. She was trying to help me,” John said.
    “I had no intention of hurting her. I was trying to see if she was all right,” Richard replied truthfully. He had hit her harder than he intended and was a little worried by her stillness. But at the moment he was more concerned for his own safety. The pitchfork shook in the stable boy’s hands, and Richard smiled.
    “Come, see sense,” he said reasonably. “You are brave, but I am a soldier, trained in arms. You cannot beat me. You must know that. Put the pitchfork down. I promise not to hurt your mistress, you have my word as a gentleman.”
    John still hesitated, and Richard fought to quell the rage that rose in him. How dare this puppy doubt his word as a gentleman!
    “Put down the pitchfork,” he said, “And you may leave.”
    John wavered for an instant, and Richard pounced. With one sweep of his sword he sent the pitchfork flying from John’s grasp, then drove his fist into the boy’s stomach. He doubled up with a strangled gasp, winded, and Richard seized him by the hair, pushing him back into the wall. He writhed in the older man’s grasp, fighting for breath, until Richard placed the sword across his neck.
    John froze, although his throat still worked convulsively as he managed to draw a trickle of air into his lungs. Richard pressed slightly, and a thread of red appeared along the line of the blade.
    “You have five minutes to pack your things and be gone,” he said coldly. “In six minutes I will come looking for you. If I find you, I will kill you. Is that clear?” John’s eyes flickered over his assailant’s shoulder, but there was nothing more he could do for Beth. He nodded. Blood trickled down the blade of the sword.
    Richard released John so quickly he staggered. Then regaining his balance, he ran out of the barn.
    The soldier went to where the youth’s shirt still lay discarded on the