Guarded Heart (20 page)

“I s'pose.”

“Especially one so attractive.”

“She's not bad to look at and knows what people need.”

Thinking of the oblivion-in-a-glass that she had brought him, Gavin could only agree. Abandoning his teasing of what appeared to be his young friend's blossoming infatuation, he veered to another subject. “Did Dr. Labatut indicate how long we will be dependent on Madame Herriot's hospitality?”

“Not that I heard. Madame Faucher said you're not to be moved until your back full of stitches come out.”

“I am obliged to her for that as well.” He could, he was almost certain, remove himself from the bed and the town house and make his way to his own atelier or, failing that, could convalesce with either Nicholas and Juliette or with Caid and his Lisette. He did not choose. Lying here on his side, if not flat on his back, seemed a perfect position from which to feel out the defenses of Madame Faucher before their secret and deadly duel of intentions commenced again. “It appears we have a week at least.”

“A week for what?”

He should remember, Gavin thought, that his self-appointed nurse was brighter than most, in spite of acquiring his only schooling on the streets, or perhaps because of it. “Oh, to enjoy the luxuries of pheasant-painted
pots de chambre
and other such beguiling bits of luxury.”

Nathaniel gave him a sidelong look. “And the company of the ladies?”

“That, too,” Gavin answered, his smile seraphic with anticipation. “That above all else.”

“Y
ou want me to what?”

Ariadne replaced the tongs she had used to add coal to the fire before she swung toward Gavin in his bed. The day had turned gray again beyond the windows and clammy coolness hung in the bedchamber given over to him. It was nothing to the strained chill in her voice.

“Is it too much to ask? An intimate service, I will agree, but I was certain you must have done as much for your husband many times.”

An intimate service…

She would not think of such things. Nor would she think of the fact that he would not be lying there in need of shaving if not for her. She had wasted enough time in an agony of guilt over Sasha's dastardly trick that had brought Gavin Blackford to this pass.

“We are not so closely related,” she said, her straight gaze daring him to elaborate. “Besides, you have Nathaniel for such things.”

“And a fine valet he is turning out to be,” Gavin said as he lay with his hands piously folded on his chest and audacity lurking in the dark blue of his eyes. “Nevertheless, I shudder at the thought of his hand holding a razor at my throat. Past habits learned on the streets may overcome him. That is, if he isn't too worried at the mere thought to come near me.”

“Nonsense. I'm sure he was never such a desperate criminal as to—” She stopped, alerted by the brightness of his eyes. “You spoke in jest. I might have known.”

“Not about his state of nerves. He has refused to relieve me of my beard for fear of terminating the career of one he hopes will eventually advance his own.”

“There is always Solon. I'm sure he has acted as valet to male guests in the past.”

“Blancmange is nothing in comparison to the good Solon. He's too shaky by far. And so I turn to you.”

This sword master was entirely too persuasive, she thought; she could feel the force of his will even as he lay supine and as outwardly docile as a saint. He was too charming and attractive as well, his gaze too piercing. Sparring with him in this way gave her the oddest sensation, as if her nerves were as tightly wound as a clock spring or she had taken too much wine so her heart raced with half-mad euphoria and her body tingled with some odd expectation. Why it should be so, she could not guess. A half dozen times in the days just past she had stood beside his bed, watching him sleep and wondering at the unfairness of it.

“I'm a female and virtual stranger, yet you would trust me not to be a cutthroat indeed.”

He did not even blink at that suggestion. “Well, there is the matter of your experience. Unless you feel an attack of nerves coming over you as well?”

“I am not of a nervous disposition.” She winced as she realized she had just banished her most viable excuse. Clutching for another, she went on. “Still, you must admit it's hardly what might be called a respectable service.”

“As you pointed out before, your presence in this room is not respectable,” he said with maddening logic. “What is this one small thing more? Of course, if you are reluctant to come so near…”

“I hope I am not that foolish.”

His gaze turned watchful. “What of wary? I did rather take advantage the other evening. If I apologize most abjectly would your mind be easier?”

She would as soon he had not reminded her at all. That kiss and its sensual magic hovered on the outer fringes of her mind, surging in upon her at the most inconvenient moments. She wished that it had never happened. She had been perfectly satisfied with the memories she carried of Jean Marc's mildly passionate embraces and the softness of his lips upon hers. Now the experience with her husband seemed tame and lacking in fire—his mouth too soft, too moist. Contrasting it with Gavin's kiss made her feel so heated that she moved further away from the leaping fire and let the paisley shawl of silk and mohair she wore slip from her shoulders to catch at the bends of her elbows.

“My mind is easy enough,” she said.

“And quite made up? I do see. Yet here I lie with a beard of thorns that allows me no peace, much less comfort. Perhaps you will ask Maurelle to step in here so I may persuade her to divest me of it.”

“She has not yet risen from her bed and it unlikely to do so for another two hours.”

“I could, if forced, undertake to wake her. Racket is something she can't abide as I recall.”

She gave him a look of annoyance. “You would, too, even knowing she is quite worn out from entertaining those who came to inquire after you last evening.”

Interest rose in his eyes. “I had visitors? Who might they have been?”

“At least a dozen sword masters have appeared in sequence, including your half-brother, the American who was your second along with Denys Vallier and your other friends who were at the levee some days ago. They were most concerned, but would not allow you to be disturbed.”

“They are all consideration,” he said, his voice dry.

“If you think they were kept from you…” she began with a frown.

“No, no, only that they may be wondering why they should not pay their respects at my own address.”

“Maurelle made that quite clear, I think.”

“A woman in a thousand, and quite handy with a razor, I have no doubt at all. If you will just ring for someone to fetch her?”

He meant to have his way. Polite but relentlessly persistent, he would not rest until someone shaved him. That he had chosen her for the task was suspect in the extreme. She could think of no reason for it unless simply that she was available and represented a challenge. Or perhaps he was bored enough to view instructing her in the use of a different kind of blade as amusing.

That he might find her attractive she rejected as scarcely worth a thought; ennui and propinquity could make any woman look good to a bedridden male. As for deeper motives, they could only apply if he knew who she was and what she wanted of him, and nothing in his eyes or his attitude suggested such a thing.

Why, then, was she so uneasy?

Yes, but what did it matter? She had been uneasy from the day she had met Gavin Blackford.

“Oh, very well, I will shave you.” Grasping the bellpull beside the fireplace, she gave it a swift yank to summon a servant to bring hot water before she went on. “If you lose more blood than you have already, you will have only yourself to blame.”

It was Nathaniel who brought the steaming brass can, and he who rummaged in Gavin's belongings, brought from the atelier, for the accoutrements of shaving. Laying the soap cup and brush beside the wash basin, he picked up a strip of heavy leather and stropped the straight-edge razor to shining sharpness.

A small smile curled one corner of the boy's mouth as he worked, a smile that made a frown gather between Ariadne's eyes. “
Mon Dieu,
Monsieur Nathaniel, do you find something comical about this business?”

“Oh, no, madame,” he said, instantly wiping all expression from his features.

“You were grinning. I saw you.”

The boy flung a quick glance at her patient. “It just struck me as funny. Monsieur Blackford lets me do nothing for him, but you now….”

“But I?”

“You're different.” Testing the razor's edge on his thumb, he gave a small nod of satisfaction before placing it beside the brush and soap cup.

“Obviously,” Gavin interrupted, his voice soft. “That will do, I think.”

“She asked.”

“So she did, and you told her and are now done here. You may go and see to my laundry or whatever else needs attention.”

“But I wanted to see how a female barber works.”

“Mosquitoes pant for a taste of blood, but that doesn't mean it's allowed.”

“All right,” the boy said with a sigh, “I'm going.” He sketched a truncated bow in Ariadne's direction. “Ring the bell when you're done, madame, and I'll come to clear things away.”

When the door closed behind Nathaniel, she glanced at the man in the bed. “He's very polite.”

“He's Satan's own minion, a demon sent to be my plague and penance. But polite, yes.” He paused, dismissing the subject of Nathaniel. “You could draw up a chair for your task, though I believe you will be more comfortable if you sit here beside me on the bed.”

“Standing will be quite all right.”

“As you prefer.” He lay relaxed, patiently waiting for her to begin.

Contrary to Gavin's expectations, she had shaved Jean Marc only once or twice during the final days of his illness, when his valet had a day off. That had not been so very difficult a task as his whiskers had been thin and light around the small tuft of a beard he wore on his chin. Gavin Blackford's beard was much heavier. It covered the lower half of his face with shades of brown and red among the gleaming gold. The task was daunting, and that was without the necessity for coming close to him, touching him.

But wasn't this what she had wanted when she suggested to Maurelle that he be brought to the town house? She should be glad of the opportunity to come nearer to him. From that point of view, her refusal of a seat beside him was a mistake. It had been instinctive, she thought, based on purest self-protection. When had she grown so timorous?

It would not do to change her mind too quickly in his presence. He might begin to suspect she was up to something, even if he could not discern the extent of it. He was not a stupid man by any means; it would have been far better if he had been.

Turning from him, she busied herself by pouring hot water into the china basin then dropping a small linen towel into it. When it was soaked, she lifted it gingerly and squeezed a large portion of the water from it. Turning quickly, she laid it over the lower portion of his face and smoothed the edges down his neck.

Water was about to drip on his nightshirt. Hastily, she caught up a longer towel and spread it over his chest and his pillow to protect them. While the wet cloth softened the whiskers, she turned away to dip the shaving brush in water, then swirl it around and around in the soap cup to work up a thick lather. Finally, it was ready. She whisked away the wet towel and began to apply the soap.

It was impossible to avoid his mouth. She did not try after a moment, but quickly worked the lather into his beard with a brush. Once that was done, she used the pad of her thumb to skim over the smooth surfaces of his lips, removing the excess foam. A smear lingered on his lower lip and she wiped it again, slowly gliding her thumb over the firm yet silken surface.

His lips parted and she felt the swift breath he drew as it wafted across her fingers. Her eyes flicked up to meet his. A suspended look hovered in their blue depths, along with what seemed to be searing doubt. An instant later, his lashes came down and both were gone.

“Your fingers are so cool,” he said, bringing one hand up from under the towel to wipe the remaining soap from his upper lip with his own hand.

“Does it bother you?” Concern for the wash of color across his cheekbones touched her, so she reached to lay the backs of her fingers against his forehead. “Perhaps you have a fever.”

“I should not be at all surprised,” he answered in dry tones. “You should not be cold, however. Warm your hands at the fire by all means. I can wait.”

“I'm perfectly fine.” She reached for the razor, glad of the excuse to turn away.

“As you will.”

The straight-edge was a work of art in its way, the blade of Sheffield steel, the handle of ivory with Gavin's initials inlaid in gold. Smaller than many such instruments, it was well-balanced in her hand. It seemed fitting that a man whose life could depend on the quality of his sword should have an affinity for good workmanship in any blade.

“Second thoughts?” he inquired, his gaze watchful.

“Simply admiring the workmanship.” She flipped the inlaid work toward him.

“It was made in Spain, a gift from my father on my sixteenth birthday.”

“A proud moment, I imagine.”

“Symbolic, yes, or it might have been if he had been present. It was handed to me by my valet.”

His voice was without expression, but a shadow of bitterness lay over his face. Pursuing its cause, she said, “Your father was no longer…”

“Alive? Oh, yes, he was bonny and blithe, just away on one of his missions for the crown. That was how he added interest and importance to his days—his roles of landed gentleman, clubman, husband and father lacking something in that regard.”

“At least you knew him,” she said shortly. She had never had that privilege with her real father.

“Did I? The prattle of infants did not enthrall him. We, my brothers and I, were shuffled off to live with a grandfather who thought…But never mind.”

“Go on. I should like to hear.” Emboldened by his absorption in the past, she began with short strokes to rake the frighteningly sharp blade down the hard plane of his right cheek.

“The story is boringly common.”

“Not to me.”