Daring In a Blue Dress (13 page)

“Shin thingies?”

“Technical term,” she said loftily, and strapped greaves to his lower legs. “Vandal says we don't do sabatons—the
things that cover your feet—unless you are in competition. These go on your upper thighs, and strap into the arming points. OK, now stand up.”

Alden got to his feet, shaking his legs. They felt like they each weighed ten stone.

“Here's the breastplate. No, don't try to hold it. I'll tie it onto your shoulder straps. See? The extra padding up there takes the weight so it doesn't hurt you.”

“That's what you think,” Alden said, shifting the armor a little so it didn't dig into his tendons.

“Now for the arms and hands, and then the helm, and you're ready to do battle!”

“Assuming I'd be able to move, yes, but with all this on, I doubt if I can even take a step, let alone raise my hand and strike a blow.”

“I bet you will. Alec says your adrenaline kicks in as soon as the lesson starts. Why don't you practice walking around while Vandal finishes up with that class? The next one is due to start in ten minutes.”

Alden spent the next ten minutes walking up and down along the line of hay bales, wondering if avoiding Lisa was worth the heatstroke he was sure to acquire by standing out in the sun in full plate metal.

“Going to join us today?” Vandal asked, clanking his way over to where Alden was sweating profusely under all his armor. Both men were helmless, since Vandal evidently didn't wear one, and Alden couldn't bear to be closed into it with the heat of the day.

“Mercy talked me into it. I trust I am an acceptable student? I don't have any experience at combat with swords.”

“This is a beginners' class,” Vandal answered, and gestured to three men who were sitting in various poses
of exhaustion on the bales of hay, sipping from bottles of water. “You're a bit behind the others, but let's give you an introduction to the art of melee combat while they're taking a break. I believe there is one other newcomer—you, sir?”

“That's right,” came a familiar booming voice from inside a conical helm. One metal-encased hand lifted up the visor to reveal Barry Butcher. “Heard about the fighting classes, and decided it was an opportunity I couldn't miss.”

“You know each other?” Vandal asked with a raised eyebrow.

“Yes,” Alden replied with a weak smile, then continued before Barry could go into detail. “I don't intend to do more than just have an introduction, if that's all right. I do have a house to renovate, after all.”

Vandal made a gesture that Alden assumed was a shrug under what had to be at least a hundred pounds of armor. “Whatever you like. Now, I'll need you two to each pick a weapon. Beginners are limited to sword or mace. You'll find the practice weapons behind you.”

“Ah, a mace. I like the looks of this,” Barry said, hefting a long-handled mace in one hand. “This could take the legs out from under a man in one blow. Yes, this will do nicely.”

Alden bared his teeth in another smile at the speculative look Barry cast his way, and took a sword. He felt that, somehow, a sword was a more gentlemanly weapon.

“Good. Now we'll go over some of the basic rules of melee combat. If you violate any of them, you are out of the class, understand?”

Both men nodded.

“First thing: no stabbing motions of any sort. Doesn't
matter where or with what weapon you're using—no stabbing. Likewise, no horizontal blows to the back of the neck. In addition, for the purposes of this class, we are declaring the following areas off-limits to blows: groin, feet, and back of knees.”

Mercy came forward with two shields, handing them to each man. She grinned at Alden, and gave him a thumbs-up.

“Shields up,” Vandal said, and just as Alden raised his, trying to get used to the weight of it, Vandal lunged forward with a sword, and viciously attacked the shield a number of times. Alden staggered backward, not expecting the assault, and also not braced for the strength needed to keep the shield in position.

“What the hell?” he said when Vandal stopped. His hand felt numb for a few seconds.

“You need to get used to taking blows with your shield. Remember to use it as a barrier. The fewer blows that get through to you, the longer you'll last.”

He repeated the process with Barry, who was ready for it, and didn't seem to suffer from any difficulty in fending off the blows.

“Right. Mercy, the helms.”

Mercy returned with a box containing padded cotton helm linings, a couple of mail collars, and the two helms.

“Collars first, then arming caps, then helm,” Vandal instructed.

Alden donned the mail collar, which was supposed to protect his neck, then the thick padded arming cap, which tied under the chin, and finally, the helm fit snugly over the cap.

“Ready?” Vandal asked, and closed the visor on Alden's helm.

Instantly, Alden was pulled to a different world. Sounds were muffled and distant, and his range of vision was extremely limited to just what was directly in front of him. He could see Barry's eyes glittering through the narrow slit of his helm, and felt a jolt of adrenaline.

“Go!” Vandal shouted.

Barry swung his mace before Alden could even raise his shield, taking a blow to the head that didn't hurt, but left him reeling a few steps nonetheless. He saw Barry raise his arm again, and this time got his shield up and, struggling under the heavy armor, managed once again to block the blow. His breath sounded harsh in his ears, drowning out all other sounds but that of the frantic beating of his heart. Barry swung again and Alden blocked, lifting his sword in the air in a menacing fashion.

He couldn't bring himself to swing it, though. It didn't seem right to be striking a man with a huge sword, even if they were wearing armor, and the weapons were blunted.

Then Barry swung the mace again, catching the edge of Alden's shield, and ripping it from his hand. Barry didn't wait for a reaction—he slammed a shield into Alden's chest, and a big metal-covered fist into the visor of his helm.

Fury rose in Alden, adrenaline spiking him hot and fast, causing him to whirl around and slice at Barry's rib cage with his sword, sending the older man stumbling to the side. He used that moment to reclaim his shield, then, when Barry lifted his mace, lunged forward, slamming both shield and sword against the man's head.

Barry almost fell backward, but retained his footing, and gave a little shake of his head. Mindful of the off-limit zones, Alden whacked Barry across the knees with
the sword, while striking again with the shield, this time knocking Barry's shield away.

Alden took a blow to the shoulder, but it almost didn't register, so focused was he on defeating his opponent. He kicked out, his foot landing on the center of Barry's chest, causing him to stagger backward several steps before falling onto his back. Alden leaped forward—as much of a leap as he could accomplish clad in all that metal—and held his sword over Barry's head.

Vandal came into his field of view, waving his hands, which Alden took to be the cease-fire gesture.

“Nicely done,” Vandal said a minute later, having pulled off the helm and arming cap. Alden was sweating profusely, his breath coming in fast, short gulps, but he felt absolutely wonderful, just as if he'd really fought off a vicious attacker.

That feeling lasted until Mercy helped him off with his armor, some forty minutes later. By then, the blows that he'd taken first from Barry, then from the other students as they'd plunged into a free-for-all melee, began to take their toll.

“Ow,” he told her as she began to unbuckle all the bits of armor. Vandal and Alec were doing likewise for the other students. “That hurts.”

“What does?” She paused in the act of removing his chest plate. “Your shoulder?”

“No. Breathing. Also, living. Living and breathing hurts.”

“Uh-huh. Bet you're going to be a mass of bruises tomorrow,” she answered without the slightest hint of sympathy. “You looked like you were having fun, though. Were you?”

He thought about that while she peeled off the rest of
his armor. “I suppose so. It was difficult at first, but then some sort of primal fight-or-flight instinct seemed to kick in, and all I wanted to do was bash the others to bits. It's a bit unnerving just how much I wanted that.”

“Supposedly, melee fighting like this relieves tensions and stored aggressions. Perhaps it was good for you to work all that out of your system.”

“Perhaps.” He was about to say more when a voice cut through his thoughts.

“Well, didn't you look the perfect knight in
literal
shining armor? I've never seen such a manly-man sort of activity before in all my born days. It just thrilled me to my very core, it did indeed! I declare I could just
fall
at your feet with admiration.”

Lisa moved around to where he was sitting. Mercy shot her a curious glance, but continued to remove his greaves.

Alden's tongue immediately tied itself into a knot. He was very aware of Mercy silently working to free him from the grip of the armor and the thick cotton arming clothes, but she wouldn't meet his gaze.

“How long is this fair going on?” Lisa asked, glancing around. “I do hope you're going to fight again. I'll be sure to cheer you on if you do.”

His shoulders slumped when Mercy slipped off the arming doublet.

Now what the hell was he going to do?

“A
lden,” I said softly.

He sat frozen on a bale of hay, his eyes wide and startled, his hands fisted on his knees.

“Hmm?” His gaze shifted to me.

I tapped his hand with my finger. “I can't get your gloves off if you don't relax.”

He looked down. “Oh. Sorry.”

“I just
love
all this, I truly do,” the woman who had approached us said in a thick Georgian accent. “I did drama while I was in college, you know? And I loved dressing up and pretending I was, oh, just all sorts of people. It's just
ever
so much fun. Since you're done with the show, when your servant there gets done undoing all those bits and pieces, Alden, perhaps you can show me around?”

“I'm not a servant,” I said politely, holding back a snippy answer. I had enough experience working in the service industry to know how poorly sarcasm goes over with the customer. “My name is Mercy, and I'm the archery instruct—”

It was my turn to freeze. The woman's sentence had finally filtered all the way through my brain.
Alden?
She knew Alden's name? I looked up from where I was kneeling at his feet. He was watching me, not the woman, but with an expression in his eyes that I couldn't read. Was it a plea for help? Sympathy? Anger, betrayal, disinterest? I simply couldn't tell, and didn't want to embarrass him in what was sure to be an awkward situation, so I kept quiet.

Alden must have realized the silence was stretching far too long, and finally, as I got the last bit of armor and arming gear off him, said, “Erm.”

I got to my feet, stowing away everything but the arming items back into their appropriate tubs. The heavy cotton doublets and hose were laid out to be aired overnight, and laundered by an industrial laundry every week.

“I'm Lisa,” the woman said, giving me a saccharine smile. “I'm here because—”

“She's here to help me with the renovations,” Alden said quickly, at the exact same moment that Lisa finished her sentence with, “—Lady Sybilla needs some help.”

An awkward silence fell. Alden cleared his throat, and said hurriedly, “Yes. Lady Sybilla does need help with . . . er . . .”

“She's writing her memoirs,” Lisa said, showing a lot of her teeth in a smile. Far too many teeth, I thought.
“And of course, I'll be happy to help you in
whatever
way you'd like, Alden.”

Alden cleared his throat a second time, and made an abrupt gesture. “Shall we . . . urm . . . shall we go to the house? Er . . . Lisa?”

I alternated between empathy and irritation at his attempt to hide the truth from me. This was clearly the woman he'd been waiting for, the one he wasn't sure he wanted a relationship with, but if the way she clung to his arm as she all but dragged him off to the castle was anything to go by, she certainly wanted him.

“Well, that was interesting,” a voice said behind me.

“Wasn't it, though?” My teeth ground slightly. I made an effort to stop, and cast a glance at Fenice, who moved up to stand next to me, watching as the two figures drifted into the house. “I wonder if that accent is as phony as her hair color.”

Fenice laughed. “Oooh, jealous? I thought you said that you and Alden
weren't
a couple?”

“We're not. We just . . . we have mutual . . . uh . . .”

“Interests?”

“Yeah, that.” I lifted my chin and tried to look like I hadn't just been daydreaming about stripping Alden and having my way with him. “What he does with redheaded hussies is no business of mine.”

“A hussy, is she?” Fenice laughed again, and then punched me in the arm with her good hand. “I like you, Mercy. So I'm going to give you a piece of advice that I learned from a friend of mine named Pepper. She told me once that a life filled with regret for all the desires left unexplored was a form of early death, and the only way to truly live was to take the opportunities presented.”

“A suitably vague statement that could apply to just
about any situation, but which I gather is intended to encourage me to go after Alden?”

“Only if you really want him.” She gave a little one-shoulder half shrug. “I can only offer Pepper's advice, since I've seen it in action, and I know it has some merit. Ugh. What is that brother of mine doing now? Patrick! You can't start another class now—people need to eat sometime, you know, and it's after five!”

“Do you still need me to help disarm?” I called after her.

“No, Patrick can do it,” she answered, storming off to free the students Vandal had herded back into the center of the fighting area.

“Okeydoke.” I started to leave when the man whom Alden had been fighting limped over to me. He was quite tall and very wide, and had a red face that clashed horribly with his ginger hair.

“Do you work here?” he asked, wiping his sweaty face with a towel. “I'm looking for someone who can take a message to Alden Ainslie, the owner.”

“I work for Vandal and Fenice, but I'm staying at the house, so I can take a message if you like.”

“Staying at the house, eh?” He gave me a piercing look. “How'd that happen?”

“It's something that Vandal and Fenice arranged.”

“Ah.” He glanced around. “They're just here for the month, yes?”

“Three weeks.” I was starting to get a bit irritated by this man. Although his manner was pleasant enough, I felt that in some way he was giving me the third degree. I slapped a smile on my face to cover up any hostility that might have shown, and asked, “What message is it you wanted to give Alden? A note, or a verbal message?”

“Verbal will do. Remind him that Barry Butcher—that's me—will be by tomorrow to talk about the terms of selling the tit reserve.”

I gawked at him for a moment, then realized he must be talking about birds. “I didn't realize Alden was selling land off.”

“It would be best if he'd sell us the whole package of house and land,” Barry said, tossing the towel in a garbage bucket set up for that purpose. “We had a study made, and it was decided the house would make an excellent administrative center for the Hairy Tit Conservancy, as well as house a first-rate interpretive center that would explain to tourists the importance of local birds in the ecosystem.”

“That sounds awesome,” I said, wondering if Alden was considering Barry's offer. It was a shame if he was—I'd much prefer to see the house restored to its former glory than be converted into offices and a tourist facility.

He shot me another keen-eyed look. “Glad to see a woman with a good head on her shoulders. You be sure to tell Alden I'll be back tomorrow.”

“Will do,” I told him, watching for a few moments after he took himself off. Something about the way he grilled me still rankled, but a review of the conversation left me shaking my head at my paranoid thoughts.

Since I was officially done for the day, I went back to the clothing shed to make sure everything was tidied away there, chatted briefly with some of the family members waiting for their men to disarm, and double-checked that I had put all the archery equipment away.

“I don't give a damn what Alden does,” I told myself
as I marched to the house, intent on taking a shower, washing that man right out of my hair, and fixing food that I could eat somewhere private.

My inner self asked me why I would make such a patently untrue statement when it was clear I very much did care what he did. Was it because I had planned on hooking up with him, and thus felt that in some way he was “mine”? That made sense, more sense than the idea that I could have a deep connection with a man I'd met twenty-four hours ago.

There was no sign of Alden or the Southern belle, but I did meet Lady Sybilla's maid, Adams, while she was carrying a large vase of flowers, walking slowly and carefully, the vase way too overloaded for someone with such gnarled hands.

“Here, let me help you,” I said, hurrying up to her. “What pretty flowers. The roses are gorgeous, but, oh, the carnations smell heavenly.”

Adams gracefully let me take the vase, inclining her head in a pretty good imitation of her mistress. “Her ladyship has always insisted on fresh flowers when they are in bloom.”

“She's a wise woman to enjoy them. I never can seem to bring myself to buy them, since they last such a short time, but they are lovely to look at.”

“Are you on your way to organize her ladyship's papers?” Adams asked as she paused next to the door leading to Lady Sybilla's suite of rooms.

“Not just yet. I hope to put some time in on them tonight.”

She sniffed. “I will lock them away safely, then.”

“I didn't think they were particularly valuable,” I
protested, feeling guilty nonetheless. “From what I saw, they were just a bunch of household accounts going back a few centuries, and some notes of tenants, and cattle, and horses.”

“All of Lady Sybilla's possessions are valuable,” she replied with a pinched expression. “Even if you do not value them. Thus I will lock them away until you can find the time to fulfill your promise to Lady Sybilla.”

The accusation in her tone was all too clear.

“I have a paying job that I have to do during the day,” I pointed out. “And I have every intention of doing what I said I'd do, which was sort through the papers and put them in some semblance of order, but it's not going to be an instant thing. Please tell Lady Sybilla that I'll do my best as quickly as I can.”

“Hrmph,” Adams sniffed again, her curled lip saying much about what she thought of people who did not put Lady Sybilla first in all things, and taking the vase without another word, she left me, closing the door firmly behind her.

“You're welcome,” I told the door, and continued on to the back staircase that provided a shortcut to the wing with my bedroom. I banged loudly on the door a couple of times, then flung it open and stomped my feet until I felt like a deranged flamenco dancer.

“All right, all you mice. Just get the hell out of here long enough for me to grab some clothes and take a shower.”

I listened intently, but didn't hear (or see) anything moving, so entered the room. There was another note that had obviously been slipped under the door. I wondered what I had to do to get the message across to Vandal that I wasn't particularly interested in him.

Dear Mercy,

I'm sorry.

I stared at the bizarre note, and wondered what the hell Vandal was apologizing about. A thought occurred to me that so startled me, it had me rooted in the center of the room while my brain turned it over and over. What if it wasn't Vandal sending me the notes? That meant it had to be Alden. But why would he send me notes?

“For that reason,” I said aloud, still mulling over the idea, “why would Vandal? No, I think it must be Alden. Which is oddly sweet of him. I think I'll reply.”

I stomped my way over to my luggage, which I'd left closely zipped shut against mousey intruders, and dug through my duffel until I pulled out a small journal and a nibbed pen that I used whenever I felt overly introspective. I also gathered up clean clothes and my bath things, and entered the bathroom I shared with Fenice.

A mouse sat up in the bathtub, and gave me a startled look.

I screamed, slammed the door shut, and, grabbing my duffel bag, raced out of the room, the hairs on my arms standing on end in horror. I ran to Alden's room and, without even knocking, flung open the door and ran inside.

Alden stood next to the bed, stark naked and wet, a towel in his hands as he dried off his chest, the surprised look on his face quickly fading away to something unreadable (damn him—I liked it much better when I could read his expressions).

“Sorry,” I said, panting a little despite the short distance between our rooms. “There was a mouse in the
bathtub, Alden. A mouse. In the bathtub. It mocked me—it sneered and mocked and waved its mousey claws at me as if it was inviting me in so it could ravage me. You must have just had a shower. You look good naked.”

I slapped a hand over my mouth at the last sentence, not having intended on saying it out loud.

“I have had a shower, yes, and I'm sorry you were nearly ravaged by a wild mouse,” he said, much to my sorrow wrapping the towel around his waist. “I called an exterminator earlier today, but he won't be out until tomorrow.”

“Well, I hope you don't mind if I stay here until he demouses my room,” I said, setting my bag down on the hard wooden chair. “Or rather, I hope your girlfriend doesn't mind.”

“My . . .” He stopped, a little frown pulling down his eyebrows. “I gather you are referring to Lisa. If so, I assure you that she is just an acquaintance. She was sent to . . . well . . .”

“I heard her cover story,” I said, holding up a hand to stop him. “It's none of my business what you do even if we were about to hook up before your kitchen caught on fire.”

“Why don't we agree to forget Lisa? She is my guest here, but nothing more than that,” he said, moving over to where I stood. A shiver ran down my back at both the heat in his eyes and the way he brushed a strand of hair off my cheek. “I'd much rather talk about you staying with me in this room, and how you suggest we set up the sleeping arrangements.”

I reached up and pulled his head down to mine, laying my lips on his in a way that let him know I reciprocated that shimmer of passion in his eyes. His mouth was as
wonderful as I remembered, but this time, rather than this just being a kiss, Alden's body got into the act. His hands were on my behind, pulling me tight against him, his legs as hard as steel where they pressed into mine. I melted against him, feeling all my soft, squishy bits making the differences between us obvious.

His lips parted from mine for a few seconds. “You taste spicy.”