Guarded Heart (18 page)

“If you expect to send me running home with my hands over my ears at such a suggestion, you will have to try harder,” she said, in spite of the hot color that flooded her face and the pulse throbbing in her throat.

He lifted his right hand, turning it in the pale light until she could see the ink stains that marked the fingers. “I was making my will, a tradition in this event. If you think me immune from the reflections attendant on such a task, you are in error. Mortality's malignant stare comes to us all, with or without sword in hand. If choosing between a sharp, quick death and some drawn out, black-biled fever or pus-wracked injury becomes necessary, most men would choose the first. But it is seldom welcome.”

The pain fretting his voice was such an echo of the endless ache inside her for the same cause that her throat tightened into a hard knot. Driven by something more vital than the anger that had brought her out into the night streets, she stepped forward to put a hand on his arm. “Then stop this meeting,” she said in low tones holding the very supplication he had named. “Send a message at once saying you withdraw the challenge.”

“The time for that is past,” he answered with his gaze on her white-tipped fingers. “To withdraw now would be seen as lack of zeal for the fight.”

“Why not as the magnanimous gesture of a man strong enough to brave the consequences?” The muscles of his arm under her hand were stone hard, but she did not think it was to support her or to impress her. It seemed to her heightened senses to be a sign of the restraint he held upon himself.

“Oh, but what if, by chance, you should feel some warm and scented welling of generosity, after all, some inclination to banish death's specter for the protector of your good name? Even Caesar turned his head while a gladiator destined for the circus maximus took a woman into his bed the night before.”

For a scant second, she caught a glimpse of something in his face which sent alarm coursing through her veins. Was it real or only a trick of the uncertain light? No matter, it held her while she searched his eyes, trying to see it again. And in that instant, he moved, taking her arm and whirling her into the dark and narrow inset of the stairwell with her back against the wall and his body pressed against her from breast to knees. His smoothed a hand from her elbow to her shoulder then cupped her chin to tilt her head. His mouth, hot, scented with night freshness and the sweet and heady liqueur he must have drunk while making his last testament, came down upon hers.

Shock and fury exploded in her mind along with a surge of wild delight. This, this was what she had expected of him, what she required. Shuddering with the heat of his body against the chill of her own, with the abrupt gratification of overstrained nerves, she curled her fingers into the fabric of his coat. His lips were smooth, firm at the corners as they moved upon hers. His thumb brushed the corners where they met so her own tingled, throbbing as they swelled to meet his. There was unconscious mastery in his hold. The hard planes of his body enthralled her, incited a drifting impulse to be closer, to feel his weight, absorb his warmth. Hot triumph and something more spiraled up from somewhere deep inside her, mounting to her brain.

The sure touch of his tongue along the line of her lips made her gasp, allowing entry for his careful probing. He swept the silken underside of her lower lip, glided over the pearl-glazed edges of her teeth, and plumbed her warm, moist depths in a rhythm that hinted, beguiled. She met the incursion in delicate, startled exploration, but was suddenly wary of its sweet flavor, its temptation. Boneless acquiescence hovered, sapping her will, threatening her purpose.

Without releasing her mouth, he shifted his hold, using one hand to find the edges of her cloak and slide his hand inside. His fingers outlined a breast, enclosed it, and sought its tightly beaded nipple. His gentle pressure upon that sensitive tip, the delicate way he rolled it with his fingertips, as if testing the ripeness of a small, sweet grape, caught her unaware with its certainty, its intimation of unlimited pleasure.

Never before had she felt like this, not on her wedding night or afterward, when the first pain of penetration was over and physical accommodation eased. Never had she been so overwhelmed by tastes, textures and touches, or the brand of hot, unbidden joy that unfurled in the deepest recesses of her body and mind. She was drowning in languor, drifting on the intoxicating surge of unexpected pleasure. Unfair, so unfair that this man should find its wellspring, should be able to unlock the source of her darkest, most alluring dreams. The betrayal of it stuck her like a blow and a sob caught in her throat.

He raised his head, whispered a curse as he released her. With meticulous care, he straightened the edges of her cloak, raised her hood to screen her features. Then he offered his arm. “Depravity comes in many forms,” he said, his voice even, without inflection as he offered his arm, “but I have not yet sunk to the lowest of them. I prefer my women willing and heart-whole. Yes, and with their thoughts uncluttered by concern for other men. Forgive the experiment. It was not meant to harm either of us.”

“I have not been harmed.” Her voice sounded stilted in her own ears. She accepted his support because it was as necessary as it was polite.

“No. But you were not alone in that stairwell,” he answered as he led her relentlessly back out into the Passage. “And you will not be on the field beneath the oaks in the morning.”

G
avin half expected to see Ariadne at the dueling ground in spite of what he'd said the night before; he did not put it past her to find some way of flouting public opinion and common sense by attending. A number of closed carriages sat off to one side, apparently the conveyances of spectators, but no females were in view. That she was not there might be owed to Maurelle's good sense or else fatigue due to her late-night excursion. It was just as well, either way. It gave him no pleasure to think the lady might rejoice in seeing him injured.

God, but what had been in his mind when he kissed her? The answer was
very little
, if the truth were known. He had thought, in his ignorance of her mettle, that Ariadne might have sent Novgorodcev to goad him into this ill-considered duel. It was only as she faced him with her plea to avoid it that he realized she was outraged because the Russian seemed likely to steal the honor she craved, that of dispatching him herself.

His reaction to her presence, so unwary, so unprotected there at his atelier, had been predictable but no less stupid for all that. Now the scent and taste of her was embedded in his mind. It was a dangerous distraction.

He had come so close to taking her in blind, searing passion and a welter of crushed velvet and wrinkled skirts, like some street walker. Was it the conscious testing of her resolve which moved him, as he had thought, or sheer blind concupiscence? He wished he knew, wished as well that he could be certain he would have released her short of rutting consummation if she had not made that small sound of distress.

He could not be at all sure.

More than that, the mind-cracking effort it had taken to force himself away from her still sang in his blood like some ancient war chant. With luck, it might give him the edge necessary to face death while mounted on an animal whose most certain instinct was to avoid it. His one consolation was that Novgorodcev's horse, a big gray gelding with a white blaze, was unlikely to be better trained. Duels such as this one were not so common as to fill the stables of New Orleans with steeds trained to stand while someone tried to hack off their ears.

It was Caid who had supplied Gavin's mount from the selection he and his wife, Lisette, kept for their private use. The black stallion was a mixture of stock horse, plains pony and Arabian from the look of him, bred for stamina and speed, and trained to knee commands. Gavin had put him through his paces the afternoon before and thought he would do.

The dawn was gray and dripping, an introduction to yet another wet day. It made for uncertain conditions here under the oaks that splattered the ground with heavy droplets every time the wind stirred the branches overhead. How much difference that might make could well depend on the length of the meeting, which would dictate how much muck the churning of the horses' hooves created. Gavin was not inclined to prolong it and suspected the Russian would favor a fast outcome as well.

Novgorodcev wore gray to match the day and his mount, an excellent choice in the morning's uncertain light. What Nathaniel had laid out for Gavin included buckskin pantaloons and a double-breasted coat of royal blue with gold buttons so highly polished they seemed designed to invite a round-house slash from his opponent. Though Gavin deplored the boy's continued determination to act as his servant, he could only approve the choice. Flamboyant defiance suited his mood.

Nathaniel stood at Gavin's knee at the moment, in his role as second. Biting his lower lip, the boy watched the Russian circle the field at a fast clip as if to shake the fidgets out of the gray. It was an impressive performance if you were easily taken in by ramrod posture and military form allied to a horseman's bulging thighs under gray-dyed doeskin. Since the occasion was not a military review, Gavin reserved judgment.

The chief seconds huddled in the middle of the field in deep discussion. After a moment, they broke apart, each moving to rejoin his principal at opposite ends of the field. Novgorodcev trotted out to meet his man, while Gavin waited for Denys Vallier and Kerr Wallace to reach him.

The American's face was grave as he came to a halt. “The rules we're agreed on are basically the same as for any other meeting, as you may imagine,” he said, keeping his voice low. “You will meet with Novgorodcev in the center of the field where you will exchange the usual salute. At the
on guard
command, you will stand ready. The signal to begin will be a dropped handkerchief, and this will start the first charge. Touches will remain above the waist. Any deliberate injury to a mount will be called as a foul and reason to end the meeting. The man who rides beyond the marked boundaries will forfeit the match. If one of you is unhorsed, the other will dismount at once and the fight will continue on the ground. Understood?”

“It's to be cut and thrust with the aim of brutal slaughter,” Gavin said in agreement. “Though never let it be said it was unfair.”

“You did challenge him.” The reminder was spoken in even tones, though sympathetic understanding lay in the smokey gray of Wallace's eyes.

“With the utmost pleasure, and would again. So let us go trippingly toward this dance and the partner whose name is on our card.”

He waited for no reply, but saluted Kerr, Denys and Nathaniel then put his heels to his mount and trotted out to meet the Russian. When the black's head was close enough to his opponent's stocky gray that the two horses seemed to blow into each other's nostrils, he stopped. Novgorodcev sat stiff and correct on his European saddle, his hair like silver spikes, his face a superior mask with his stiffly pomaded mustache hiding his upper lip and his eyes glittering like ice under his brows. Gavin swept up his blade in whistling salute, to which his opponent replied in kind. A moment late, the
en garde
command rang out, and they tightened their reins to the same tensile stretch as their nerves.

The handkerchief dropped, a white flag that plummeted, then caught a breath of air and settled slowly to the wet grass. Before it touched the ground, they came together, the horses shoulder to shoulder in a thudding impact that threw them back on their haunches. The Russian swung, a blow that would have severed Gavin's neck from his head had it struck. Gavin ducked, caught his opponent's blade with a heavy clang and rasping spurt of sparks, parried, thrust and was repulsed. Then they settled into the fight.

Novgorodcev was no weakling; of that there was little doubt. He depended on his strength, however, scorning finesse in favor of powerful moves of mechanical perfection. Instead of allowing his mount to aid his movements, he controlled it with rigid force. Grim as a blacksmith at his anvil, he hammered away, seeking to overcome with sheer rote labor. In less than a minute, Gavin could predict with minute accuracy exactly how he would attack, and when. By watching his opponent's eyes, he could also tell where the Russian would aim.

A fight with sabers, so it had been said, was like war. And in any battle, the man who used his brain had the advantage over one who depended on brawn. Gavin was inclined to put this ancient wisdom to the test.

He capered around the Russian on his lighter black, keeping his movements easy yet precise, as if in the dance that he had labeled this match. The tactic forced Novgorodcev to expend his strength in useless swings of his heavy weapon and tested his ability to maneuver the gray. It also gauged the Russian's grasp on his temper. The last was not without limit, Gavin discovered, and set himself to see that he surpassed it. An opponent who let his rage overcome him was a man half-defeated.

Their blades chimed and beat while they twisted and turned in their saddles, pulling their mounts hard around time and again, reaching with grunting effort. Gavin's muscles burned and sweat poured in runnels to thread through his brows, wilt his collar and soak his coat. His palm grew slippery upon the saber's hilt, and he snatched time while wheeling away from a particularly brutal slash to dry it on his pantaloon-covered thigh. Lather flew like spume from the horses, dotting the grass, flecking their boots. The ground churned beneath their hooves, becoming a green-brown morass underfoot, a pig-sty of mud in which the horses slipped and had to be held in to prevent them from falling.

Gavin could feel the boiling of blood-lust in his veins, hear the thunder of his heartbeat in his ears as a counterpoint to the rhythm of his blows against his opponent's sword. He saw the same half-crazed urge to kill in the feral stare of the Russian, felt it in his attack. In some distant part of his mind, he knew he should have a thought for how Madame Faucher might feel if he should kill her favorite, but he was too intent on preserving his own hide and pride to care what she might think.

Novgorodcev did care, or so it seemed, cared what his lady love might feel if he were defeated, cared that his pride might be tarnished. It animated his every stratagem, surged to the forefront when he saw, finally, that the match might be a draw. If neither man could be touched, then the seconds would call quits and the thing would be at an end.

The only way to change the outcome, the only path to victory, appeared to be by default, using cunning and deceit. Novgorodcev, desperate for the end he desired, chose that road without hesitation.

Gavin marked the pivotal moment by the narrowing of the Russian's eyes, his speculative glance in the midst of clamorous attack, his unconscious telegraphing of where he meant to strike the crippling, prohibited blow. He saw, and kicked the black stallion into a hard turn, dragging him away from the whining descent of that viciously misdirected sword.

It was not enough.

The Russian's saber point flashed as it cut into hide and muscle, laying open the black stallion's flank. The horse screamed, pain-maddened, as he erupted in kicking fury, bucking, side-hopping, leaping toward the boundary line which marked certain forfeiture.

There was only one thing to be done. Kicking free of the stirrups, Gavin sprang from the saddle.

The ground came up to meet him and he stumbled, slid in green slime, felt his feet fly out from under him. His breath left his lungs as he slammed down, landing flat on his back. His sword bounced from his grasp, turned end over end out of his reach.

By specific rules of the engagement, Novgorodcev should have come to a halt and dismounted to fight on foot. Instead, he spurred the big gray toward Gavin at a pounding run. His sword swung high in a glittering arc before beginning to fall, reaching, reaching. Shouts and yells rent the tree-shadowed sky. The seconds sprang forward at a run, their pounding footsteps lost in the earthshaking thunder of the gray's hooves.

Timing was an instinct, not a thought. Gavin waited, trying to catch his breath. At the last second, he wrenched over with a hard contraction of muscles, diving into a roll that carried him out of the gray's path. He felt the wind of the horse's hooves inches from his head, heard the singing whistle of the saber in the Russian's fist as Novgorodcev leaned forward and down for the blow, felt the tug as the blade sliced his coat at an angle across the back and to the side.

Novgorodcev flew past, began to turn mere yards away. The gray sidled, whinnying from the cut of the bit as he was jerked into a too-tight turn. Gavin leaped erect with the burning, reckless strength that flares up when rage and purpose merge. As Novgorodcev thundered toward him again, he side-stepped and lunged to grab his long coat-skirt. Swinging on it with his full weight, Gavin dragged the Russian from the saddle.

Novgorodcev came down in a flailing of arms and legs and unwieldy steel. Gavin caught his sword hand and twisted, jerking the saber free. Then he brought the heavy hilt down in a quick blow behind his opponent's ear with all his power and anger. Novgorodcev grunted, slumping to the ground in a sprawl while blood stained his white hair a sickly pink.

Gavin swayed where he stood. A trickle of something hot and wet was running down his back and over his left hip. He felt on fire from his neck to the backs of his knees. Pain colored his vision in shades of red, gathering in livid intensity as it burrowed into him. He saw Nathaniel coming closer, his face twisted and raindrops standing on his cheeks. Kerr Wallace was behind the boy though he seemed to be fading, moving in a ground mist of gray fog.

The mist reached out then, taking him down with it to muddy grass that had turned soft and warm. Yet amid the storm in his ears, Gavin caught the powdery sweetness of woman's scent, felt the brush of a cool, smooth hand on his forehead while the low music of a woman's voice fell on his ears, chiding in tearful anger threaded with the husky rasp of horror.

Ariadne, he would swear it. Ariadne had come after all.

“Stupid, stupid men,” she whispered for him alone, “to bleed and die for so little cause and be so
damnably
noble with it.”