It wasn’t easy. Felton was good—really good—and it was bloody difficult to fend off his blows and not give him the fight he so obviously needed. Alex was fairly certain he could have bested him two years ago, but he had barely picked up a sword since then, and even going full out, he wasn’t sure he could do so now.

The realization infuriated him and made it even harder to take the trouncing Felton was giving him.

Like most Scots, Alex’s pride had always been a weakness, and he felt it stirring now with a dangerous sting. But he knew he couldn’t make his arm—the arm that he’d been claiming was too weak to use—appear fully healed. Pembroke was suspicious enough.

It was Alex’s own fault. He should have known better than to let the deception continue. Subterfuge had never been in his nature.

Although the injury had been real enough when he’d first arrived in London. He’d done more harm than he intended while trying to remove the mark that would identify him as a member of the Highland Guard. Being attacked and thrown into the pit prison of Berwick Castle after he’d surrendered hadn’t helped it any.

But even after the arm had healed, he’d continued the pretense. It provided him an excuse, a means of evading the truth that he didn’t want to face: that by switching sides, he couldn’t just wage his war in the corridors of some royal palace with words. There was every possibility—every likelihood with King Edward marching and his men mustering—that Alex was going to have to lift his sword against his former friends, brethren, and king. Men toward whom he inexplicably, even after all that had happened, still felt loyalty.

He couldn’t avoid the truth and hide behind an old injury any longer. He’d given his loyalty to the English. If war came, he was going to have to fight—and not, unfortunately, against Felton.

God only knew how he would stomach it. But if it put an end to the war, stopped the atrocities and suffering, he would do it, damn it. Besides, what choice did he have? He’d made his bed.

A blow to his shoulder with the back of Felton’s sword brought him harshly back to reality. The bastard was clearly enjoying himself and playing to the crowd, showing off his “superior” skill by toying with Alex. Felton knew full well that Alex’s weak arm would hamper his ability to retaliate.

Felton swung his sword high, bringing it down full force on Alex’s weak side. Alex blocked it, but Felton didn’t let up, pressing down, lowering Alex inch by inch to the ground. He wanted to humiliate him.