Guarded Heart (15 page)

“You gave me away as if I was a doll with no rights or affections. I cried after you, but still you went away and left me.”

Her mother's face crumpled. “You were so young. I didn't realize, didn't think you would remember.”

“I'm not a child any more. I am a woman in my own right with plans, hopes, needs, things that must be done before I can rest.” She went on in near incoherence. “I have much to accomplish before I can even begin to think of what else I may do.”

“Yes…Yes, I see. You will not be traveling home with us then?”

Ariadne made a helpless gesture. “It's impossible.”

“As you say.” Her mother seemed to age before her eyes. Tears dripped down her face and she let them, as if she had forgotten the handkerchief she shredded between her fingers. Then she squared her shoulders and rose to face her visitors. “You must do what you will, my Ariadne. You will see that I won't give you up this time; I bore you and will always feel the connection of blood between us. When you are clear in your mind, and if the decision is in our favor, you will be welcome wherever I am and you will be loved as always. And now, I must bid you good afternoon. I have much to do and steamboats and funerals will not wait.”

Mere moments later, Ariadne was back out on the banquette with Maurelle walking at her side. Disturbance rang in her mind more loudly than their footsteps. She had said nothing she did not feel, and yet her voice echoed in her own ears as shrill and anguished, like a child protesting unfairness in a world where nothing was fair. If her mother had taken her in her arms…

But no, nothing would have been changed, nothing made different. It could not be.

Nothing seemed to be going as it should with her plans. No one was turning out as she expected.

Her mother had been magnificent at the end of the visit; that she freely admitted. Perhaps something of her own determination and clear-speaking had been derived from her. It would have been nice to know what else she might have inherited. Only thinking of it left her in a pall of regret. It also made her afraid in some manner she could not quite grasp.

It brought Gavin Blackford far too vividly to mind.

She had returned in spirit a thousand times during the night before to their
phrase d'armes
in the
garçonnière.
The mere thought of it made her heart beat faster while heat suffused her. Like partners in a dangerous dance, they had moved together with her following his lead. It had seemed right that it should be so at the time, though she wondered now at her acquiescence. It was as if she had been in a thrall; she could think of no other explanation.

He fascinated her, no matter how she might deny it. How powerfully he moved, the muscles of his legs and arms flexing, elongating, gliding to the direction of a superior intellect. His gaze was mesmerizing, so concentrated, as if nothing existed except the moment and their place, with the two of them in it. No movement she made escaped him. That he approved of her form, her style, could not be doubted, since he was quick to point out her errors otherwise. The knowledge was exhilarating, almost intoxicating in its way.

Not that she was under his spell or anywhere near it. She noted his formidable strength and approach to swordplay for the use such knowledge might be to her later. That was all. Most certainly, that was all. If she was sometimes confused, sometimes wondered if she could cling to the vow of revenge made before she left Paris, well, she was female after all and subject to the same mixed feelings as the rest of her sex. Second thoughts in the dark of the night were only natural.

Did he know? Was it possible?

These questions obsessed her. Could Gavin Blackford have learned in some manner that he was her enemy, the man she had sworn to kill?

Surely not, for what man, knowing, would or could continue as if nothing had changed? Why would he appear for their lessons while aware he was instructing someone who longed to press a sword's point into his chest?

It had been a mistake to tell him anything of her design in the beginning. And yet, he would never have agreed to take her on as a client if she had not used it to rouse his interest. She would not have had the shadow of a chance to defeat him.

Yes, but what chance had she now?

That doubt whispered at the edges of her mind, wrapping around the warm and beating center of her heart as she walked homeward beside Maurelle. For it, there was only one answer.

The risk must be taken.

G
avin awoke to the beat and clang, snick, slide and measured pauses of a bout with épées. The sound blended with a fading dream in which he faced Ariadne again with sword in hand though they were both as naked as the day they were born and his mind sang a paean to breasts as white and pink as a winter sunrise kissing mounds of snow. He groaned and squeezed his eyes shut again.

The noise that woke him came from his salon beneath his third-floor bedchamber. Apparently Nathaniel had found himself a sparring partner. Excellent. Let him wear out some other would-be swordsman while developing his hand and eye. Only why in God's heaven did he have to do it at the crack of dawn?

It was no later than that, judging from the pale and watery light through the window. Certainly it was far too early to be so energetic. The average French Creole gentleman seldom rose before midmorning due to the late nights of Latin habits; it would be hours before clients began to appear. Gavin rolled over, dragging his pillow over his ears and closing his eyes again.

At once, the image of Ariadne in her outrageous attire rose in his mind. Why it should be that a man's pantaloons and linen shirt should make a woman's form a thousand times more exotically feminine he could not tell; he only knew that it did. The silken folds and damp hollows were so different from the normal anatomy concealed under broadcloth and worsted that the very thought of them scorched his brain.

Acute and heavy discomfort assailed him, and he wrenched over on the cotton-stuffed mattress, flopping onto his back with a sound of disgust. Intemperate passion was not his normal style. Besides, he was supposed to have more control. What had become of it was a mystery, though not more of one than his virulent attraction to Madame Faucher. Who could have guessed that obsession could be aroused in him by a woman who wanted nothing from him except his death?

Well, the lady also meant to learn the exact way to bring that death about from the man most knowledgeable in that regard. Namely him. It was a novel approach to a kill, if nothing else.

God's teeth, but what was he thinking that he was actually attempting to show her? It was madness, beyond logic. She must be a sorceress that she could persuade him to it.

Deadly angel or witch? She was both, and more. Lost child, unawakened widow, terrified lady—he saw all those things in her eyes. He longed so to remedy them that the venture seemed worth any cost.

He did not discount the danger. She was female, tender and sometimes confused, but her purpose burned inside her with perilous brightness. And her cause, he knew to his sorrow, was just.

The tremulous courage of Francis Dorelle as he faced him, sword in hand, on that rain-washed dawn four years ago bloomed in Gavin's memory. With it also came repentance so scorching that it blistered his mind.

Abruptly, he flung back the covers and surged from the bed. Padding on bare feet to the washstand, he poured water from a china pitcher into its matching bowl then, plunging his hands into it, splashed his face again and again.

As he reached for a linen towel, he caught a glimpse of his face in the mirror. The cut on his chin was marked this morning only by a dried scab. Ariadne had seemed aghast that she might have caused it. That recollection, as he blotted dry the small spot of soreness, was the single glimmer of hope he had that killing him would not be easy for her.

On descending to the salon, Gavin discovered that Denys Vallier, brother of Rio's wife Celina, the Condessa de Lérida, was the man Nathaniel was engaged with on the strip. Both young men were sweating like mules from the exertion; Denys's hair was damp and curling around his hot face and Nathaniel's stood out in wet, sandy tufts. The shirts and pantaloons of both clung with every lunge, and the close room smelled like a cockpit on Saturday night. Gavin walked to the French doors that gave onto the balcony overlooking the Passage and swung both sets open to the morning freshness. Then he turned to watch the two on the strip.

They were well-matched in size, better than he might have expected. Denys, being older by six or seven years, had only an inch or so of reach and a few pounds over the younger boy, advantages Nathaniel made up for by dogged determination. Their extensions were nice, advances clean and with good control of their weapons; their speed was well-calculated, footwork excellent and parries without excess motion. If neither showed any propensity for intricate wrist work, it was explained by the fact that this was a friendly bout and nothing more.

Proof that it was amicable was amply provided by the fact that Denys was holding back. His was the greater skill by a marked degree, since he had studied with his brother-in-law, the great Rio de Silva, before and after Rio became the Conde de Lérida, and was no stranger in the other salons up and down the Passage. Gavin did not make a habit of meeting his friends on the piste, but he had enjoyed a friendly phrase or two with Vallier, so knew his merit.

Nathaniel seemed to believe there was no higher calling than to become a
maître d'armes.
Gavin hadn't the heart to disabuse him of the idea—or else, as he sometimes thought, he needed the boy's high certainty to compensate for his own disillusion. To watch Nathaniel's pleasure in a well-executed touch, to see his confidence improving every day along with his gain in muscular strength, was like seeing himself at the same age: determined, involved, certain that might and right could be the same thing.

The question, as he was well aware, was how long the occupation of sword master would be a viable one. Dueling, with its code that drove men to perfect their swordsmanship, was in decline in the rest of the world. The preference for pistols, and the American view that revenge rather than the preservation of honor was its purpose, had taken the heart out of it. Only here in the Vieux Carré of New Orleans where the code of the gentleman still prevailed was its grip unbroken. Something inside Gavin yearned after this last remnant of bygone chivalry and sought diligently to preserve it.

It was not that he was unaware of its abuses, the hot tempers it fostered, the needless deaths of stiff-rumped idiots too stubborn or too proud to admit a fault, the subtle blackmail made possible by exceptional skill. He had seen all these things at close hand, and participated in some of them. Still, he had grave doubts of what society might be like if there was no recourse for a gentleman who felt he had been wronged, no way for a private individual to prevent men who lacked fundamental respect for their fellow human beings from preying on them.

Abruptly, Denys executed a parry in low quarte at terrific speed, swirling immediately into a riposte that allowed him to skim forward and press the point of his épée to Nathaniel's chest padding so it bent in a gentle curve. Gavin abandoned philosophy to begin a measured applause.

“Touché,” Nathaniel acknowledged in disgust.

Disengaging, stepping out of position, Denys stripped off his face mask and tucked it under his arm with his épée before turning to Gavin with his usual warm grin. “Did we wake you? If so, I tender my apologies. I'm only up myself because Celina's latest brat has the colic. Hardly three months old, the poor mite, and I expect any day to hear that my sister is
enceinte
again, considering the way she and Rio make eyes at each other across the breakfast table. It's enough to put a man off his food.”

“Tell Rio,” Gavin recommended, his voice dry.

“Thank you, no. I like the arrangement of my face as it is. You wouldn't care to take on the task?”

“Not without full armor and a clanking great herd of pachyderms to drive before me.” He went on without pause. “If the reference to breakfast was a hint that you have not had your morning coffee, then consider yourself invited to join us. Nathaniel?”

“Yeah, I know,” the boy answered with a roll of his warm brown eyes. “Café au lait, at once. Don't talk about nothing interesting till I get back.” Taking the masks and chest pads that he and Denys had removed, he set them back in their proper places then made for the stairs which led to the ground-floor kitchen.

“He improves,” Denys said with a nod toward the doorway where Nathaniel had disappeared as they moved to one of several tables which ringed the open room.

“He should, since he's certainly dedicated enough.”

“And has an excellent teacher.”

“If only he'd pay as much attention to attempts at correcting his language.”

Denys's eyes gleamed with amusement in his olive face. “His coffee is nearly as lacking. I daresay we shall be able to read
L'Abeille
through the dregs. Why do you permit it?”

“Because,” Gavin answered as he seated himself, “he so enjoys making it. And I prefer it to the mud you call coffee that seems constructed to make a man's bowels shudder. But no matter. Colicky offspring and connubial jealousy aside, what really brings you out so early?”

“Rumors,” Denys answered promptly, his features taking on a serious mien. “Did you really parade down the street with your arm around the lovely Widow Faucher?”

“In support only, after she had seen assorted people parboiled like so many succulent shrimp. Is that what the gossips are saying?”

“Not with such graphic detail.” Denys winced before he continued. “The consensus seems to be that the lady is ruining herself by keeping company with the fast set Madame Herriot has around her, particularly keeping late-night assignations with a certain gentleman of the sword.”

“Nameless, faceless and insubstantial as air?”

“Not so you'd notice, unless ghosts are yellow-haired and whistle their way homeward.”

“Bloody hell,” Gavin said with feeling.

“I thought you might feel that way, which is why I let it be known that you are a particular friend of Madame Herriot's.”

“For which favor, like a hound bringing a partridge to place at his master's feet, you require a pat on the head. Or are you hunting for explanations?”

“Neither are required,” Denys answered, his cheerfulness unimpaired. “I bring the tittle-tattle to you in case there is something you care to do about it. Other than annihilate the messenger, of course.”

The different but no less painful possibility that formed on Gavin's tongue remained unspoken as footsteps pounded on the stairs. Slower and firmer than the gallop preferred by Nathaniel, they signaled either the arrival of another guest or an extremely early client.

It was the first, in the person of the large American, Kerr Wallace. With him came the aroma of fresh-baked bread emanating from the pair of baguettes he carried under one arm.

“Breakfast,” the tall, russet-brown haired gentleman said by way of greeting as he whipped out one long loaf and brandished it at them like a sword while amusement gleamed in his slate-gray eyes. “Tough as whet-leather and sits in your stomach like a rock, but I've taken a liking to it.” His voice turned hopeful. “I don't suppose you have butter?”

“Nathaniel can produce a bowl, no doubt.” Gavin, reconciled to playing host, waved toward another seat at the table.

Soon they were all enjoying the simple morning repast, including Nathaniel who was uncharacteristically quiet as he sat with his shoulders straight and face flushed with his pleasure at being one of them. Conversation was brisk but general. They mentioned a mysterious white leather trunk currently being advertised in
L'Abeille
as part of some thief's recovered booty which should be reclaimed by its owner; moved from there to the duel of the concerts being held between the two famous violinists wintering in the city, Old Bull and Vieux Temps, then on to the fate of the hospitalized victims from the explosion of the steamboat which had been identified as the
Bluebell
out of Shreveport on the Red River. Two had died of their terrible injuries, it seemed, but those remaining were expected to recover. Finally, Denys told a tale of an impromptu duel outside a quadroon ball resulting in injuries to both parties that was then followed by a hilarious champagne supper which drowned the differences of the combatants in drink.

Kerr, leaning back in his chair, holding his coffee cup with his fingertips, fixed Gavin with his crooked smile. “Speaking of jumped-up duels, how fares the Brotherhood these days, friend? I've heard precious little of late about that merry band.”

Denys answered before he could speak. “That's because there's little to tell, thanks to the depredations of Blackford here. Well, and Croquère. Most gentlemen are on their best behavior for fear of attracting their attention—or else they take good care to keep their worst deeds hidden.”

They
referred to the informal cadre of sword masters who had banded together a few years back to strike a blow for those left with scant protection by lax policing, primarily women and children. The conditions had been occasioned by the division of the city into three separate municipalities with each having its thin but competing force of gendarmes. Matters had improved somewhat in the past year or two, but were still less than ideal. The Vieux Carré, or Old Square, known to the Americans as the French Quarter, was designated the First Municipality as was right and proper considering it encompassed the original limits of the city laid out by Bienville's engineers. It was here that the sword masters concentrated their efforts since it was where they plied their trade.