Page 8 of A Midwinter Wager

Fitz spun around as the booming voice echoed across the camp, then cursed his luck. It was Colonel Allthorne, the regimental commander. The last person he would have wanted to get involved in this dispute.

Everyone started talking at once, bringing a look of pained resignation to Allthorne's face. "Come, Brandt, Fitzmaurice," he snapped. "I'll hear your stories in private. My tent, now."

Head held high, Fitz strode in his superior's wake, ignoring the muttered taunts and threats emanating from Brandt. The situation made him feel like a naughty schoolboy, and severely stung his pride—he'd never forgive Brandt for beating Claire Banton behind his tent, thus embroiling him in such an unpleasant, and public, display.

Colonel Allthorne settled behind his desk and steepled his fingers, looking from one to the other. "Captain Fitzmaurice, pray tell me—did I overhear you threatening to murder Captain Brandt?"

"Certainly not, sir." How could he imagine such a thing? Fitz hadn't set a foot wrong all the time he'd been with the regiment. The colonel must surely realize he was trustworthy.

"Then why won't he make it to major?"

Fitz ran a hand around the inside of his collar. "Because he has made a public spectacle of himself by assaulting and insulting a woman behind my tent."

"You're saying he raped her?"

Brandt started to speak but was waved into silence by the colonel.

"No. He had her skirts up and was birching her. And enjoying it in a carnal way, if you get my drift.” Fitz drew in a long breath. This was only a misdemeanor compared to what had followed. After a brief internal struggle, he decided it was best to tell the truth. There had been many witnesses, after all. “When I pulled him off, he struck me."

He felt Brandt stiffen beside him, and glanced down. The captain had turned scarlet and looked like a kettle about to boil over, hissing and spitting into the fire.

"Brandt, you may defend yourself against this accusation."

Brandt explained angrily that Claire Banton had been his woman for the past month, and that he paid her well to perform for him any service he wished. She was also a cursed whore and a tease, and Captain Fitzmaurice should have left well alone.

"He could hardly ignore you," the colonel pointed out, "as you chose to chastise the woman right behind his tent. It was ill-advised. Now, I'm not sure either of you is worthy of promotion, considering the spectacle you've just caused. Officers brawling in front of the men is inexcusable, and I may need to take it further."

A black mark against his name, a dent in his military career? Fitz's heart sank. He should have remained at home instead of joining the army, and devoted himself to a pastoral existence. Only… only he'd wanted to do something to make Cesca proud. Just being born into the peerage wasn't enough. He wanted to earn his place in the world—he wanted to deserve it. And now this debacle.

Colonel Allthorne was looking at him as if expecting some reply. Fitz swallowed. "My apologies, sir," he said. "I assume we are to be punished."

"In a sense. The men have heard you both threaten to call each other out. You must, therefore, make good your threats and seek satisfaction."

Satisfaction? Fitz's breath lodged painfully in his throat.

Was Colonel Allthorne suggesting a duel?