The Highwayman's Mistress by Francine Howarth

clumsy at best.
      “I think not,” said Francois, ignoring
Hugh’s advance and not a backward step taken. “We duel fair, swords matched in
weight, or not at all.”
      Her heart lurched, sense of hope against
hope washing over her. Was this Francois’ way of letting Hugh back down with
honour? Would Hugh agree to no duel? Her hopes were instantly dashed, for
Francois threw the second rapier into the air causing it to somersault
mid-flight. It landed with its point embedded in the turf no more than a foot
in front of Hugh.
      Blood drained from Hugh’s face, his plight
now real. He knew himself to be facing a master of swordsmanship. He
momentarily faltered and stepped back, then cast his own sword aside, rid
himself of coat and reached for the rapier.
      Francois bowed, and Hugh advanced again.
This time Francois back-stepped, a parry to left, a parry to right, each time
warding off thrusts and wild slashes. She held her breath fearing the worst,
hand gripping Richard’s sleeve so tight she felt her knuckles would snap. He
cupped her hand, said, “Francois is toying with him, luring him into a false
sense of security.”
      Hugh seemed to have the advantage, his body
mass powered him forward while Francois had no alternative but to keep backing
away. The lucky strike she dreaded happened so suddenly she failed to see it
occur, and Francois was almost against the house wall. Her stomach lurched, as
blood poured from a gash on Francois left shoulder.
      Hugh’s laughter rang out in cruel mockery,
and Richard chuckled said, “That damn rose caught Francois a passing jab, and
mark my words he’s about to put the fear of God into Hugh.”
      She hoped not, at the same time she wanted
Francois safe from harm, too. “Can you not intervene, make them see sense? This
is madness, utter madness.”
      Her words fell on deaf ears and about to
push past Richard to at least try and get the two men to stop their stupid
duel, Angelica appeared at her elbow. “Do not fear, Francois will not kill that
idiot, but he will frighten him in to never, never call another man to a duel.”
      She wished that possible. “How can you be so
sure?”
      “I know my brother.”
      She did indeed, for Francois made a parry to
the left as Hugh thrust with force toward his heart and missed. Before he knew it
Francois had countered and sliced Hugh’s shirt from left wrist to shoulder and
not a drop of blood drawn. Forced to turnabout, he seemed stunned as Francois
backed up toying, teasing, and beckoned him to follow. Face reddened, shirt
soiled with sweat, Hugh seemed to lumber forward rather than as agile as when
the duel had begun. Yet Francois, lean muscled, taller by at least three
inches, his movements as agile as a cat, seeming no less tired than before.
      A commotion in the hallway erupted, voices
loud drifted along the passageway and her heart leapt to mouth. She could hear
her mother and Hugh’s father, and before she could gather her senses in
readiness to receive her mother, the two of them came sweeping toward her.
      Her mother looked utter distraught. “Where
is Hugh?”
      Hugh’s father was equally worried.
“Diamonta, tell me my son is safe.”
      “He foolishly called Francois to a duel.”
What else could she say? “They’re out there, now, fighting.”
      “Dear God,” said his father, rushing
forward.
      Richard stepped into his path. “Let Francois
teach him a lesson he won’t forget, and your son may live to old age. For he’s
a hot-headed young devil and foolish with it.”
      He then stepped aside allowing Hugh’s father
to stand alongside, they and Angelica’s eyes centred on the duel. Strangely she
suddenly felt detached from it all, for Richard’s words had reassured her
neither Francois nor Hugh were destined to die, it was as though she and her
mother were in another place, another time, her mother’s face as she remembered
from childhood: her expression one of love.