“Swear on the most sacred thing ye know that ye willna’ gang to Kensington.”
“The alternative, madam.”
She was silent; she trembled so that his sword jangled under her foot, yet she held herself straight and there was no flinching in her eyes.
He answered himself: “It is obvious.”
He glanced at the three silent faces.
“No one save a woman would have tricked my sword away—give it back to me.”
She caught her breath sharply.
“No—there must be no fighting.”
Jerome Caryl’s eyes narrowed: “So you are going to have me butchered—like a dog.”
She called out in Gaelic to the Highlanders. They advanced to the coach door; a wild scorn sprang into Jerome Caryl’s soft face. “Give me my sword,” he said fiercely. “I am a gentleman.”