Dirk's mouth twisted, and he would have thrown himself at the baronet had not Jeremy guessed his intent.
"No, Dirk! He'll rip you open like a suckling pig!"
Sir Ian chuckled. "I would, with the greatest of pleasure, but I prefer not to dirty my blade."
Jeremy spoke quietly. "You'd better do what he says, Dirk. And no more fighting." He tried to balance himself on the rising and falling deck, and despite the humid warmth of the night air, he shivered. There was no doubt in his mind that Sir Ian meant to kill him once all witnesses had departed, and although his fear of death was not excessive, he wished fervently for a weapon with which to defend himself. He had been a fool to leave the cabin without his sword or, at the very least, a poniard. Also, quite incongruously, he felt curiously naked; had he known he was going to die, he would have dressed for the occasion in more than a pair of breeches and soft leather shoes.
"If I leave ye, he'll run ye through. I won't—do it!" Dirk planted his feet wide apart and glared murderously at Sir Ian.
The baronet sighed in exasperation. "If he fails to obey," he said, addressing himself to Jeremy, "I shall have no choice in the matter."
"Do as you're told. Dirk!" Jeremy tried to sound stern. "And there's no use trying to rouse the captain, for you'll only cause more trouble for yourself. The word of a manservant—and a colonial at that—won't go very far against that of a nobleman who is chamberlain to a duchess. Be a good fellow and go, Dirk. I can look after myself."
"B'twixt us, mebbe we could "
'There's nothing we can do. But I beg you not to worry, Dirk, for Sir Ian is not a butcher." Jeremy's mind was beginning to function clearly, and he took a long gamble. "He merely uses butchers to do jobs on which he doesn't care to soil his fingers. You see, he's a gentleman, and one gentleman would never cut down another who was unarmed and had no chance to defend himself. So go back to your pallet. Dirk. You'll find me in mine, waiting for my breakfast in a very few hours."
Dirk stepped forward, patted his friend clumsily on the shoulder, then walked slowly toward the companionway leading to the fo'c'sle. Every few feet he looked back over his shoulder, expecting to see Jeremy spitted on the baronet's sword, but each time he could tell that Sir Ian was watching him, so he neither paused nor disobeyed.
When he was gone, Jeremy faced the blade point. "Let's finish this," he said curtly. "If you have no intention of behaving like a gentleman, it would be best for you to dispatch me quickly."
"You consider yourself worthy of treatment reserved for gentlemen?" Sir lan's voice was lazy and amused.
"Naturally." Jeremy spoke calmly, but hope flared.
"Despite the fact that you are an impostor?" The question was asked calmly.
Jeremy's brain whirled, and he hoped that the Scotsman could not read his expression in the dark. There was no choice but to bluff. "I am afraid, Sir Ian, that I must ask you to explain yourself."
"Let us not waste your time or mine in pretense. Mademoiselle Groliere was acquainted with the real Terence Bartlett.
But I do not care to argue or pursue the point with you. To me it is sufficient that you are a scoundrel. However, I see a way to rid the world of you at no embarrassment to Her Grace or myself. You still insist—whoever you may be—that you are a gentleman?"
"I am." Jeremy's voice rang out clearly.
"We shall see. Precede me into the dining saloon. Walk slowly and make no attempt to raise an alarm or to escape from me, or I shall be forced to skewer you as I would a hog." An undercurrent of hate was evident in his even tone.
"You need have no fear that I shall run away from you. Sir Ian. It is not my habit to run—from anyone."
Jeremy turned and started down the deck. The Bonnie Maid was moving into somewhat calmer seas but continued to pitch heavily, and the young gunsmith wondered if Sir Ian intended to run him through from behind and then push his body overboard. He admittedly had intended to claim there had been one "accident" tonight and might find it convenient to arrange another.
Opening the heavy door into the passageway, Jeremy walked down the lurching, silent corridor to the dining saloon, where a single candle stub burned low in a glass protector. "Light the candles in the other brackets," Sir lan's voice behind him commanded.
"The brig is still tossing pretty badly," Jeremy replied, inching around the big table and feeling a momentary sense of relief at putting the solid oak between himself and the Scotsman's weapon. "And there's danger of fire "
"Do as I say!" Sir Ian was harsh, impatient.
Shrugging, Jeremy removed the glass protector, lifted the burning stub from its socket, then made his way carefully around the stateroom, lighting every taper still upright. Many had been dislodged during the storm, but a sufficient number remained to make the chamber bright.
Sir Ian stood at his ease, swaying slightly as he acclimated himself to the ship's motion, which was more noticeable inside than it had been on deck. "All right, gentleman," he said. "I shall give you a chance to defend yourself. No shadow of blame can be attached to me if you are found with a sword in your hand after a fair and honorable duel. However, lest you think for an instant that I believe you are someone of quality, let me tell you that I am permitting you to arm yourself merely for my personal convenience—and because it amuses me. I have resented the way you have looked at the Duchess, and killing you on deck would have been too quick for my taste. Now I can put you to death as you deserve to die, slowly." He waved with his sword toward the far wall.
"You see quite an array of blades there," he said airily. "Help yourself to one that strikes your fancy, one that you feel will enable you to demonstrate your gentlemanly skill."
The young gunsmith eyed the swords on the length of the bulkhead; Sir lan's steel was an exceptionally long one, and he would need one equally long, at least, for the Scotsman's reach was greater than his own. After an agonizing moment of indecision he spotted the weapon for which he was searching: its blade was straight, its point sharp, and the heavy iron hilt guard was practical if slightly clumsy.
He reached up, jerked it from it pins, and swished it back and forth to test its balance. All at once his fears and his sense of depression left him. The odds were no longer so overwhelmingly against him, and the baronet was in for a surprise. "On your guard—and at your peril!" Sir lan's snarl sounded directly behind him, around the edge of the table, and Jeremy turned just in time to see the other's blade lunging toward him. At that instant the Bonnie Maid plunged ponderously into a trough, and Sir Ian slipped. His sword whistled harmlessly past the young gunsmith's shoulder, and by the time he recovered his stance Jeremy had turned and was in position.
"You are fortunate, impostor. This crowded cabin is not my idea of a perfect dueling ground, but it will serve." Again Sir Ian lunged, but this time the blow, aimed for Jeremy's throat, was neatly parried.
Metal rang against metal as the brig pitched, then Jeremy feinted and drove straight for the baronet's heart. Sir Ian barely managed to deflect the thrust and danced out of reach around the table, astonishment breaking the poised, ironic mask of his features.
"Where did you learn to use a blade with your left hand, charlatan?" he asked, rasping.
Not bothering to answer, Jeremy followed him slowly, pausing for an instant to steady himself with his free hand as the ship jarred and slid sideways. Sir Ian watched him, then chuckled. It was a deliberate sound, irritating and patronizing, and Jeremy was finally impelled to speak.
"I was taught," he said slowly, "to handle a sword in either hand, but to use my left only when intending to run my adversary through."
Sir Ian flicked his sword upward in a mock salute. "I shall remember that, charlatan, when we bury you at sea." Taking the initiative, he leaped forward, recklessly disregarding the brig's motion, and again steel beat against steel as they slowly circled the table.