Guarded Heart (4 page)

She frowned at him even as the quiet intensity of his voice played havoc with her nerves, making her feel a little breathless while tightening the tips of her breasts. She had not expected such an idealistic attitude from him. “No doubt that's so,” she said in tart rebuttal, “or it should be, in a bout between equals over a point of honor. The meeting I envision is quite otherwise.”

“A mere chastisement—swift, vicious and, if need be, underhanded.”

“I didn't say that.”

“As with a downdraft of carrion crows falling on dead meat, some things naturally follow.”

“Monsieur!” She could hardly believe that he had just compared her to a vulture. He had, hadn't he?

He went on without pause or change of expression. “But don't think I delay for the sake of your sweet smiles. These preliminaries, tedious as they may be, are quite normal. It was only after a long month of such dull lessons and other exercises that I was first allowed to take sword in hand.”

He had received no smiles from her, sweet or not, which meant he was baiting her. That he dared did nothing to soothe her irritation. “What you may have suffered is of no concern to me since I have only one meeting for which to prepare instead of a lifetime of such things,” she said as she whipped the air before him with a singing hiss of her blade. “Could we please get to the true use of these foils?”

He moved so swiftly it was a mere blur in the candlelight. One moment he stood at ease three paces away, the next she was lodged against his hard length, pressed to him from breast to knees with her wrist in his grasp and her foil held well away from their bodies. The breath left her lungs for a stunned instant. Then she inhaled sharply, jerking against his hold.

“Never take a swipe at a man with sword in hand unless you mean it,” he said with biting precision as he glared down at her. “A swordsman's instinct is for instant, unthinking defense. His very life depends on it. If he holds a sword of his own, the attacker could be spitted before he sees whether it's friend or foe, man or woman. He might, no doubt
would,
cry out to heaven at the pity of piercing so soft a breast as yours, but you would be no less dead.”

She could feel the thud of his heart, the hard muscles of his arm as they pressed into her through the stays at the back of her bodice, the firm columns of his legs where he had waded into her skirts. His body heat seemed to seep into her pores, routing a chill she had not known she felt. A shiver caught her unaware, and she struggled briefly against his hold. It was stronger than any she had ever known, far more inescapable than any her husband had ever employed. It seemed to sap her will, so it was all she could do to remain stiff and unyielding in his grasp instead of leaning into its steel-like support.

“Release me,” she said between her teeth.

“On the instant, if you will tell me you take my meaning.”

“I may have been careless, but I'm not stupid. I understand perfectly.”

A short, silent laugh shook him; she felt it. “Valiant and vinegary. It must suffice. Because it does, I will speed the lessons to reach a match with foils as soon as possible. First, however, there are a few more details you should know.”

As abruptly as he had caught her to him, he let her go. She swayed a little, seeking her balance. He put out a quick hand in aid but she only glanced at it, uncomprehending.

Being held in his arms should have been loathsome and her release a joy. That neither was true stunned her into immobility. She had been surprised by his swiftness, angered by his daring, stirred by the heated hardness of his body but not, unaccountably, repulsed. To be set away from him gave her a hollow feeling in her stomach, as if she had been rejected. It was disconcerting in the extreme and, yes, even a little frightening. What manner of woman was she that she could be affected in this way?

She had planned so carefully. She had known Gavin Blackford was attractive to women. Why had she not taken that detail into consideration?

The truth was, she had thought herself immune. Because she had known no man in a physical sense except her elderly husband who roused mere compassion, had met none in the salons of Paris who caused her heart to beat faster, she had discounted the possibility of a physical response. That had been an error, one to be avoided from this point onward. She truly did learn from her mistakes.

“Madame?”

She lifted her lashes to search his face for triumph, amusement, some sign that he recognized her dilemma. The blue depths of his eyes were clear, his firm mouth with its sensual curves and tucked corners unsmiling; a quirked brow expressed nothing more than polite inquiry.

He had taken her foil as he stepped away, firmly removing it from her possession and placing it on the side table. It was just as well. She had greater need of a living teacher than a dead one.

“You spoke of other details,” she said, her voice strained.

He was still for a long moment before he gave a short nod. “So I did. Let us talk of stamina and breathing, the placement of feet, chalk lines and, above all, control.”

“Control.” She had taken a deep, reviving breath while he spoke and was glad to discover that her voice was now reasonably well-modulated.

“Of both our weapons and ourselves,” he answered, going on without pause, “Come, take your place here on the piste.”

He didn't touch her, but only indicated with a smooth gesture of one hand where he wanted her to stand. Lips compressed, she moved to where he directed, turned to face him. It seemed, with his talk of control, that he might have noticed her confusion after all. That would not do. The last thing she wanted was for him to think there was anything personal in her approach to him. Pride would not permit the use of feminine wiles as a trap. Neither could she see any satisfaction in it.

“Now,” he said, his features serious as he joined her on the stretch of canvas, “hold out your arms in this manner.”

She did as he illustrated, spreading her arms away from her body and as straight as the tightly fitted sleeve of her walking costume would allow. He shifted until their fingertips overlapped a few inches. Then, as she watched, he turned three-quarters toward her and dropped into a crouch with knees spread, right arm still extended and left bent at the elbow with his hand held at the level of his head.

“Face me and take this position with your right arm extended.”

She followed the directive, though she could feel a flush burn its way from her neck to her hairline. All her life long she had been told that a lady never sat or stood with her knees apart. To deliberately spread them, and in front of this Englishman, was like abandoning all modesty. It felt suggestive, even erotic, though she recognized the stance as the typical swordsman's crouch often seen in the mock swordplay of opera and theater.

“Lower,” he said. “Bend your knees more. Lift your arms higher.”

Her skirts puddled on the floor around her as she complied with the first command, but her tight sleeves prevented elevation of her arms much above the level of her waist. She snatched at the cloth constricting her shoulders, attempting to drag it higher.

He shook his head. “Let that go for the moment, though you will need to wear something with more ease as we progress. Now. Raise your heels until you are on your toes. Lower again. Raise and lower. Again, and yet again. Excellent. This is the movement you will do a hundred times each morning, and again each evening, in order to strengthen the leg muscles. You see?”

“I see.” What she saw was the flexing of the long muscles in his legs and the faint impression of manly parts at his crotch. That was before she dragged her gaze upward to where amusement glimmered in his eyes. He apparently understood her discomfiture but thought it misplaced, or else that she had brought it upon herself so had no right to protest. Nor would she, though she clenched her teeth until the muscles of her jaws ached.

“
Bien.
Now lunge toward me—like so.”

He launched himself, hand closed as if he grasped a foil. The movement was well-oiled, from thousands upon thousands of repetitions, as natural to him as breathing. It was swift, silent and so powerful that his fist came within inches of her chest. His features were set and his eyes suddenly opaque, as if he had closed off all feeling, retreating inside himself to a place where none could reach. If there had been a sword in his hand, she knew without question that she would be dead.

She had not flinched or moved. It was some consolation.

Sudden anger boiled up inside her as he retreated to his former stance. She surged in his wake with her own imaginary sword gripped tight. Her aim was low, held by her sleeve and so angled downward. When she stopped, her tight fist grazed his groin.

They stood in frozen tableau. An instant later, his lips twitched and bright hilarity leaped into his eyes. With a crack of laughter, he reeled away, his upper body racked by chuckles that had a rusty sound.

Mortification held Ariadne immobile for long seconds. She spun then, clapping her hands to her fiery cheeks as she put her back to him.

She knew, oh, she
did
know, what lay behind the smooth front of his pantaloons where her knuckles had grazed him, knew the meaning of the steel-like firmness she had touched. That she'd had the temerity, or the bad luck, to land just there was one thing, but that he could laugh at her for it was quite another. She saw nothing remotely funny about it.

That something in the lesson thus far had aroused him left her aghast as well. Men were indiscriminate in their passions, or so she gathered from her sojourn in Parisian society, but this was most unsuitable. How was she to continue if she had to worry that he might press unwelcome attentions upon her?

Even so, she was aware of the slow, hot shift of some half-realized feeling inside her. Part of it was gratification that a man of such dangerous reputation could see her as desirable. For the rest, she preferred not to look too closely.

Passions of the fevered, desperate kind portrayed between doomed lovers in her favorite operas were foreign to Ariadne. She had been fond of her husband in a mild fashion, had honored him for his kindness and attention to her comfort. Allowing him to make love to her had been a duty, one never too onerous or particularly unsettling. Afterward, he had always been so grateful, so very loving that it was nearly enough. Yet sometimes when he had fallen into snoring sleep, she had lain staring into the dark while her body jerked with nerves and unsettled yearning and tears tracked slowly into her hair. And she had wondered then, as she did now, if it might not have been different with another man.

But not this one. No, never, ever this one.

H
er face, her face…

Gavin choked, trying to control the unholy amusement that shook him. His glacially superior pupil could not have looked more appalled if she had discovered he had a jungle snake in his pantaloons. He was sure she would have preferred it.

Regardless, her lunge had been well-executed. She had taken him by surprise as no one had in many a long day, not since he first stepped onto a fencing strip. Her form had been excellent, particularly given the handicap of petticoats, corseting and the ridiculously close-fitting sleeves which rendered a woman helpless in the current fragile and wan style. It was possible she might turn out to be a credit to her
maître
.

Not that the possibility was an object with him. His purpose from the moment he entered the
garçonnière
had been to discourage her ambition to become a swordswoman. On second thought now, he was inclined to go forward with these visits. He could not remember when he had been so entertained. And if the truth be told, he wondered what it would take to bring the lady to touch him with willingness, perhaps even pleasure.

No small amount of that inclination was brought on by the flash of awareness he had caught once again in her eyes, some flicker of hot emotion that roused his curiosity. He had the distinct impression that she would not have cared if she had emasculated him. It was a novel idea, given her remote attitude, one he was inclined to put to the test if the situation arose.

Schooling his features to suitable gravity, he turned back toward his pupil. “Forgive me, Madame Faucher. My sense of the ridiculous sometimes runs away with me.”

“You are saying that I…”

“No, no, you mistake me,” he assured her. “Ferocity in the attack is a fine thing, but requires a weapon to complete it. Perhaps we should take up the foils for this session after all.”

“You mean it?”

“I do,” he answered, and stepped to where the foils lay on the table with candlelight glimmering along their blades. Choosing one at random, he presented it formally, with a bow and the hilt across his wrist.

The lady met his eyes for a long moment, her own darkly pensive, as if she wondered at his purpose. He could hardly blame her since he was not sure himself. Testing her further might be no more than an excuse to prolong the lesson. No matter; he would do it still. Like the war it resembled, a bout with crossed blades brought out the true natures of those engaged in it. There was little he would not know about the young widow Faucher when they were done.

She lifted her chin as if accepting the challenge she saw in his eyes. Then she took the foil from him and stepped back with the quickness of distrust. He could not but approve. She had more reason than she knew.

Instead of picking up his own foil, Gavin reached for the buttons of his double-breasted frock coat and slipped them from their holes before shrugging off the close-fitting garment and tossing it aside. Removing his watch and chain from his waistcoat pockets, he let them slide from his hand onto the table. He could have stopped there with perfect comfort, but it did not suit him. She was watching, he knew, for he could see her set and pale features from the corner of his eyes. With leisurely movements then, he freed his swirled-glass waistcoat buttons from their holes and stripped away that layer. It was a solecism for a gentleman to appear in his shirt sleeves in front of a lady, of course, and he half expected her to turn her back, make some protest, even leave him. She did none of those things, but stood waiting with a suspended look on her face.

His impulse, to see if he could shake her nerve, was undoubtedly base, but he would not be deflected from it by her valiance. With a rueful smile curving his lips, he reached for his cream silk cravat, pulling it loose and discarding it, then removed, in fine deliberation, the two top studs of his shirt.

“Unconventional, I will agree,” he said in answer to the curl of her lower lip as he began to fold back the cuffs of his sleeves, “but I do not, as a rule, fence in full evening dress.”

“Only when honor demands it, I do understand. You must not regard my presence.”

“Oh, I don't since this is hardly a social occasion.”

“Precisely.”

It was a reminder, if he needed one, that there was no basis for the two of them to meet socially. None was required. Folding back the other cuff, he took his foil in a hard grip and stepped back onto the strip.

“This,” he said, tapping the canvas under their feet with the blunted tip of his blade, “is our world for the moment. If either of us steps off it, the bout is ended and the one who transgressed is the loser. If you want to concede at any time, you have only to say a single word: stop. If I touch you with my foil, you must acknowledge the hit by the classic signal of calling out touché. I will naturally do the same. We begin with a salute, after which we assume the guard position you have been shown. When I give the order, we will raise our weapons and cross them at the tips. I will then provide the signal to begin. Your object during this first lesson will be to touch me, no more than that. All targets are to be above the waist.” He paused then ended in soft promise, “And my purpose, of course, will be to touch you. But…only above the waist.”

Her eyes blazed at him, hot as the fires of hell as she absorbed the innuendo, and rich color bloomed across her cheekbones. He was satisfied. Annoyance with him would perhaps compensate for whatever self-consciousness she might feel due to lack of skill and, just possibly, remove any curb she might be inclined to put on her natural instincts.

He had not brought the usual chest padding and masks since he had expected to have no use for them this evening. It occurred to him as he stood there that without them this initial bout, or
phrase d'armes,
had the feel of a duel. It made no difference. He had no intention of harming a hair on the lady's head. That she could touch him was so unlikely that he hardly considered it at all.

“Ready?” he asked with the lift of a brow.

Her nod was positive, the grip she took on her foil like a stranglehold.

“Good.” His foil whistled as he swept it up before his face, then out in a wide arc as he made her an ironic bow.
“Salute!”

Eyes narrowed, she copied his action. He thought her lips trembled a little at the corners, but she compressed them and stood waiting.

“En garde.”

He raised his blade, holding it steady. She lifted her arm, but could not quite meet his steel for the restriction of her sleeve. Obligingly, he lowered his foil tip a fraction as a concession to her problem.

Frustration crossed her features and she reached with her free hand to pull at the tight gray sleeve. The result was plainly inadequate and she scowled as she tried two of three times to stretch higher from the shoulder.

The current fashion seemed likely to defeat her. Gavin stepped back out of the engaged position.

“Wait. Please,” she said without quite looking at him. Curling her fingers like claws, she dug them into the cloth of her sleeve and gave a hard wrench. A dull rip sounded, and the stitches holding it at the shoulder seam gave a fraction. She pulled again to break those remaining, then peeled the tight tube of fabric down her arm and tossed it behind her. A cool smile tipped her mouth and she turned to face him again.

Gavin stood in his tracks, his gaze on the bare skin of her arm where it emerged from the ragged armhole. He had wondered if the rest of her had the same warm-pearl bloom as her neck and bosom. Now he knew. Oh, it did indeed. And the nonchalant way she had exposed her arm to his gaze, as if it mattered not at all that he saw, stirred his blood to a slow boil. What would it be like to stand and watch while she ripped away layer after layer of clothing, emerging in naked, incandescent splendor? Would she dare him to touch her or beckon him near?

“En garde?”

She was waiting for the rise of his sword arm. If he was lucky, she would not notice that condition had already been achieved by another portion of his anatomy. Removing the concealment of his coat had been a monumental error, a bit of provocation she had trumped without trying. He would do well to remember it next time he sought to disturb her composure.

With a short nod, he lifted his foil, crossing the lady's at the tip. Her blade felt steady, as if she might have gained confidence from the small respite. That was just as well for her sake, he thought with conscious benevolence.

“Begin,” he said with an encouraging nod.

She struck straight for his heart. Lips tight, teeth clenched, she came at him with every ounce of her strength and murder in her eyes. No tentative beating of blades or delicate forays, no exploration of his competence or the force of his objectives, just a lunging attack at his vitals that came close, too close, to succeeding.

His guard came up before his brain kicked into motion. Slapping her point aside, he parried, defending with a scrape of blades that rained orange sparks onto the floor. There was only one thing to be done after that, and he did it with ruthless competence. Swirling his wrist in hard riposte, he caught her steel, bending, binding, lifting as he stepped into her guard.

She cried out. The foil flew from her hand, describing a shining arch before it struck the floor with a hollow thud and went spinning away across the room.

“God's teeth, woman, what do you think you're doing?” He slung his own blade onto the table with a hard clatter before turning back to face her.

She was holding her wrist, rubbing it, her face pale, almost bloodless. “Fencing,” she answered tightly.

“Committing bloody murder is more like it.”

“Isn't that the point?” The words had a strained sound.

“This isn't a duel and I'm not your enemy. You're here to learn to defend yourself. Slashing and stabbing in a wild rage won't do it.” He paused, nodded toward her wrist. “Did I hurt you?”

“It's only numb.” She shook her hand then let her arms fall to her side as she raised her eyes to his. “Perhaps it will be best if we stop here.”

She was furious that he had disarmed her. He had expected no less. Still he had not thought she would give up so easily. “As you wish,” he said, and began to fold down his cuffs. “Consider this evening's lesson an experiment, one without charge.”

“And tomorrow evening?”

His fingers stilled. “You expect to continue?”

“Of a certainty. You said I was to say stop to end our passage at arms, not to end the lessons.”

She despised him and seemed to scorn his methods. She was not, insofar as he could see, here with him this evening because she hoped for a passionate affair, nor had she a titillated inclination to make love to a man with blood on his hands as did some women he had known. He had done what he might to discourage her ambition, and thought she disliked it intensely. Yet she suggested another assignation.

What did she want of him? That there was something, he knew very well; he could feel it with every instinct he possessed. Whatever her game, he should refuse to play.

Oh, yes, he should refuse, but where was the pleasure in that? As alive and intrigued as he felt at this moment, it just might be that whatever she wanted from him, she could have with his blessing.

“It is best to rest a day between lessons until the muscles become accustomed to the exercise. I will be here the day after tomorrow then, madame. And you? Will you come to me all armored with woe and anger—oh, and something less in the way of petticoats?”

“Wait,” she said without a smile. “Wait, and you shall see.”

Gavin inclined his head. It was puerile, stupid and entirely selfish under the circumstances, perhaps, but he intended to do that very thing.

Nothing whatever could prevent him.