Guarded Heart (3 page)

A
riadne was consumed with impatience as she waited for the sword master to arrive on the following evening. She had envisioned this moment for such a long time. That it was almost upon her seemed not quite real.

Everything was in readiness in this bedchamber of the Herriot town house's
garçonnière
wing. Whoever had planned the room must have had a large family of boys for it was long and narrow, on the order of a dormitory, with white plastered walls above a wainscoting of durable cypress wood. Its six single beds had been removed and several candelabra on floor stands brought in to line the walls between the windows; though the main reception rooms boasted gaslight, Maurelle was too frugal a housewife to extend it throughout the town house. The tall window sashes were wide open and the shutters thrown back for air, in spite of the winter coolness and incessant rain which fell into the courtyard on one side and the street on the other. Wine and water sat ready in case of need. A strip of canvas perhaps five-feet wide and fifteen paces long, and marked at the middle and on each end, had been laid down the center. This was the fencing strip, the piste upon which the lessons would take place.

Ariadne could think of nothing more that might be required. Now she paced, the skirt of her old gray walking costume swishing around her feet and her hands squeezed together in front of her until they were numb, as if the tightness of her grip could hold her being together.

Maurelle's other guests were in place; she could hear the distant sound of their voices and laughter and the slap of cards. Why had the
maître d'armes
not yet arrived? What was keeping him? Had he decided he could not be bothered to instruct her after all?

“Monsieur Blackford, madame.”

She whirled to see Solon, Maurelle's tall and dignified majordomo of many years. With the grace of an aristocrat he dipped his graying head before stepping aside to allow the Englishman to enter. The manservant carried a sword case under his arm which he had apparently taken from Blackford along with his hat, cane and rain-damp cloak. These items he placed on a table, then bowed again, his angular features rigidly correct, as he offered refreshment. When it was declined, he presented the compliments of his mistress and asked that they ring if anything more was required. Then he departed.

Ariadne, left alone with the sword master, stared at him for a suspended instant. He was dressed for the evening in a double-breasted coat and trousers of dark blue worsted, a waistcoat with a subtle cream plaid and white silk cravat. His sartorial choice was doubtless suitable for the gathering of Maurelle's friends that he was supposedly attending but seemed to indicate little chance for more. It could mean that he did not intend anything serious in the way of a fencing demonstration.

Her movements stiff, she came forward, finally, to offer her hand in its short glove. “It's gratifying to see you at last, monsieur. I had begun to think you would not put in an appearance.”

“I did give you my word, Madame Faucher.” He inclined his blond head over her fingertips but did not release them. Straightening, he shifted his hold to clasp her hand as he might on greeting a man. “Tighten your grip,” he said, “as much as you are able.”

“Monsieur?” The warmth and intimacy of his firm grasp sent a tremor along her arm while it seemed she could feel the steel-hard ridges of his swordsman's calluses through the layers of their leather gloves. Vexation stirred inside her. Touching this man in anything more than the most civil of greetings had not been a part of her plan.

“You cannot hurt me,” he said, his smile whimsical. “Or if you do, I'll make certain you never know it.”

His eyes were so very blue seen at this close range. Quiet humor shifted in their depths like rays of sunlight striking through clear seas, giving him an unexpected attraction. The mingled scents of starched linen, spiced shaving soap and clean male skin drifted toward her like a subtle invasion, so she had an almost irresistible urge to jerk away from him. That she did not had less to do with self-control than it did with the knowledge that it might prove impossible. She had no wish to appear ineffectual, now or ever.

“Nor,” he added in quiet assurance, “will I harm you.”

He thought she was afraid of him, or at least wary of his intentions. That she could not allow.

“No,” she said with a quick lift of her chin. “I'm sure you will not.” She grasped his hand then, clamping down with all her strength. He maintained his hold but did not return the pressure. If he felt anything at all of the compression she exerted, he gave no sign, just as he had promised.

She was not quite so sanguine. The heat of his warm, hard palm nestled so close against the sensitive surface of hers was distressingly intimate in spite of their coverings. She could sense the surging power, rigidly contained, inside him. He was too close as well; it was all she could do to remain where she stood instead of stepping away a safe distance.

“Excellent,” he said after an instant of assessment. “You should have no trouble keeping a grip on your weapon.”

She gave a short nod and relaxed her grasp. He released her at once, which was something of a surprise since she had half expected him to prolong the moment, possibly even make some flirtatious remark. Most gentlemen of her acquaintance would have done so as a matter of form, because they thought it expected if for no other reason. She was glad he recognized that she had no interest in such meaningless flirtation.

“Have you any experience at all on the fencing strip?” He spoke over his shoulder as he moved to where Solon had placed the sword case.

“None whatever.”

“Yet you have chosen a sword as the method of your retaliation. Why, if I may ask? A taste for sharp objects, or is it the pretty silver chasing that sometimes appears on the blade?”

Annoyance for his condescension gave a bite to her voice as she answered. “Neither. It seems suitable as it's the gentleman's chosen weapon.”

“Which presupposes some skill on his part.” He unfastened the catch of the rosewood case and laid back the lid. Taking a long and slender foil from it, he held it up, sighting down its length as if checking for straightness. “And you are still certain this is what you want?”

“Quite positive.”

Abruptly, he turned and sent the foil spinning in her direction. Horror took Ariadne's breath as she saw it arching toward her, twirling—an elongated top surrounded by yellow-orange candlelight, making a swirling nimbus. To fling up her arm was purest instinct. The foil's hilt struck her gloved wrist a numbing blow. The glittering blade rolled down her skirts, clattering to the floor where it spun in a half circle before coming to a stop. She stood rigid, staring at it.

“The idea,” Gavin Blackford said in soft reproof, “was for you to catch it.”

She shuddered, pushed away the blackness that hovered at the edges of her mind. She had never handled a sword, never thought to do so until a few short months ago. For an instant, she was torn with doubt. How was she to go through with this? It seemed impossible. Yes, but how could she not when her soul's peace depended upon it?

Reaching for anger as both goad and shield, she said, “You might have warned me of your intention, monsieur. I'm not here to play games.”

“Nor am I,” he answered, his voice hard. “Fencing is a craft requiring strong nerves and instant responses as well as strength and skill. If you are going to scream and cower away from any weapon that comes toward you, then we may as well abandon the exercise now. It will save valuable time for us both.”

What right had he to test her? She was paying him to impart his skill, not to judge her fitness. Yet he had a point, even if she didn't care for it.

Stooping with careful fortitude, controlling the tremor in her fingers, she reached to pick up the foil then rose again to her full height. “Thank you for the object lesson,” she said, her voice taut and her gaze on the blade she held. “I shall not display such weakness again.”

He did not reply for long moments. It seemed she could feel the heat of his regard as he searched her half-averted face. She was far too aware of its intensity and the intelligence which drove it. For a single instant, she felt a thrill of fear that he might penetrate her defenses, discover everything there was to know about her. Angry panic rose into her throat, threatening to choke her.

“If you can manage that,” he said finally, his voice laced with grave amusement, “then you will do better than most.”

Her relief was so great that she almost sagged with it. She was also annoyed with herself. He was surely not so perceptive as all that, could not be given his history. If he had been, she would not be here. “Then you may depend upon it.”

His brief nod indicated his satisfaction before he went on. “I should tell you, perhaps, that you have certain advantages on the fencing strip because you are a woman.”

“You surprise me.”

“Permit me to enumerate,” he continued with the lift of a dark gold brow, perhaps for her ironic tone. “Because your lower limbs are in more equal proportion to your torso, compared to men with their longer legs, you will be more stable as you move up and down the strip, less likely to stumble or be forced backward against your will. Women are neater in their movements, generally speaking, also not given to wasting effort with showy moves that have no purpose. Some masters feel that women are better able to divide their attention during contests, to concentrate on what their opponent is doing while planning their next attack.”

If he was aware of the sacrilege in speaking to her of lower limbs, he seemed not to recognize it. That fact allowed her to ignore the heat in her own face. “And the disadvantages, since I'm sure you mean to point those out to me?”

“A shorter reach in the lunge for most females, merely because their arms are not as long in proportion to their bodies. Added to that is an ingrained reluctance to attack when the opportunity presents itself or to take advantage of an opponent's weakness.” His smile twisted. “The last two are traits to be encouraged in future wives and mothers, of course. You will have to overcome whatever lessons you may have learned in that direction.”

“I'll endeavor to do so. Is there more?”

He tipped his head in assent as he turned to lift the other foil from its case. “Look at your weapon, if you please.”

“Yes?” She held it in imitation of the way he handled his, with her right hand grasping the handle and the tip balanced on the fingers of her left.

“This is a foil, the practice weapon of fencing, lighter than an épée, more limber by far than a sword. It will become an extension of your arm, another finger on your hand.”

What followed then was careful instruction in the various parts of the fencing foil—handle and pommel, guard, crossbar, blade and blunted end—plus its care and cleaning. He then fitted the one she held to her hand, adding padding so the handle would not be too large, and showing her exactly how to hold it. She was introduced to the idea of the canvas chest padding which protected vital organs and the screen mask which prevented facial injury—these last by description only since they were not on hand this evening. When that was done, he directed her attention to the canvas fencing strip where he pointed out the exacting etiquette which applied there at all times, including the salute to an opponent and other aspects of sporting conduct.

Ariadne listened to every word as if her life depended on it, which it might. As he spoke, her gaze rested on the face of the sword master. It was plain that he took special pleasure in the details of the profession he had embraced. His thoroughness also hinted at why he was a master of it. She could respect that, if nothing else.

She had no wish to respect him, nor did she care to stand listening to the rhythm of his deeply mellow English voice which gave his French such a musical lilt. He was much too personable, too utterly sure of himself and his skill. The set of his shoulders and tilt of his golden head, the superb athletic control with which he moved, his manner of dress and the excellent fit of his clothing—everything about him set her teeth on edge. She could feel the magnetism of his masculine presence aligned to an effortless charisma which seemed to draw her to him. The way the light in the long room fell across his face—gilding it, picking out hollows, angles and shadows—was far too intriguing. The caverns of darkness beyond the candle's glow and the clattering rain outside the windows closed them in together in a most disturbing manner. If they did not soon get down to the business at hand, she would scream.

“Monsieur Blackford,” she said at last. “I have no desire or plan to set myself up as a female teacher of fencing. The intricacies of the art, while no doubt fascinating to its devotees such as yourself, are of little use to me. All I require is the ability to face a man with sword in hand.”

“Also to live to tell about it later, or so I assume. Or do you intend merely to sell your soul at a dear price?”

“Whatever my purpose may be, lectures on the manners and graces of the dueling field seem unlikely to advance it.”

“The way a man dies, or lives as the case may be, is surely as important as the fact of it.”