Taming the Wilde (8 page)

Roake and Morrow were having at one another when I came up on deck on afternoon and a fine sight it was too. The men seemed to be quite evenly matched, and though Morrow was of a sturdier build it did him little good in the contest. I could not help but notice that they were both dressed for the duel, their ensembles including hats which created a semi-formal ambiance. Morrow was perpetually attached to his headwear of course, so that was of little surprise, but Roake was sporting a rather dashing
three-cornered black tricorne with a matching feather that looked rather jaunty. I rather admired it, as I did their play. Caught up in their sport, both men were quite transformed. Temporarily relived from their normal roles they seemed lighter, the cares and pressures of their respective offices stowed away whilst they dashed back and forth making lunges and feints and declaring the occasional hit where there was none, rather like playful boys.

The duel was soon concluded and Morrow was declared the winner. There was polite applause from several of the officers who had been watching, and I noticed a small commotion amidst the sailors who by the looks of things had been placing bets on the outcome of the duel.

“Miss Wilde,” Roake approached me with a flashing smile, tucking his hat under his arm as he did. It was a small courtesy that I did not miss.

“You will have to be careful of your tendency to tumble,” he said, making reference to my first outing on the
Valliant’s deck under sail. “There are sharp objects about.”

Pleased with his jest, he donned his hat and turned to depart, but I was not prepared to let him go so easily. He had made light at my expense and I could not help but needle him a little. “You need not look quite so pleased with yourself, Master Roake,” I said to his back. “Your form leaves a great deal to be desired.”

“Is that so Miss Wilde,” Roake's eyes flashed in irritation as he turned towards me. “Am I to take it that you are also an accomplished swordswoman?”

I smiled slightly, feeling the rush of memory as I was transported back to childhood. I had been but a scrap of a girl when I was first introduced to the foil. I was perhaps eight years old and quite enamored of the son of our nearest neighbors, a boy of thirteen years of age. Richard was his name and where most young men would have eschewed the company of a much younger girl, he indulged my following him about. When he began his fencing lessons I begged him to teach me and he had done so very thoroughly indeed. As the years passed by I had become almost as competent as he. There had been some talk of us one day becoming betrothed, but the fever had taken him six months before it took my father. My knowledge of the blade was
all that remained of him.

“Have we lost you, Miss Wilde?”

I came back to the reality aboard the Valiant sharply. “You two were bashing about like drunks in a pig pen,” I said quite scathingly. “Fencing is about elegance and alacrity, not blundering force.” My assessment was on the harsh side and I almost regretted it the moment I spoke, thinking I had left myself open for punishment.

To my surprise, Roake cocked his head and smiled, playing with one end of his mustache thoughtfully. “You almost sound as if you know what you are talking about.”

“I do, don't I?”

The twinkle was back in his dark eyes, an expression that had always alarmed me in the past. “What say we have a wager, Miss
Wilde? I will give you a foil and ten chances to land a hit. If you fail to land a single hit, you will submit to a punishment of my choice.”

“And if I do?”

He smirked, thinking it unlikely in the extreme. “Then you will have an opportunity to seek clemency at your convenience.”

“For any matter?”

“For any matter.” He was so confident in his ability to best me that he was promising the world. Oh the things I could do with guaranteed clemency! I tried not to look too thrilled in case he became suspicious and revoked the offer.

“Very well,” I agreed.

“Miss Wilde fancies herself with a blade,” Roake announced those in earshot. “Let us see how she fares, shall we?”

There was a murmur of interest from those who had been drifting away at the conclusion of Morrow and Roake's duel. As they watched I prepared by slipping off my boots and feeling the deck beneath my feet. It had been scrubbed but was now quite dry so the planks provided ample grip. In short order I was provided with a foil, a reasonably
well-balanced weapon. It had been several years since the hilt of a blade had rested in my hand, but it felt familiar like the company of an old friend and I must confess that simply holding the foil bought a smile to my face as I was connected with a ghost of my former self.

I was not equipped with a vest or face guard for the rules of engagement stipulated that Roake was not going to attempt to make return attacks. Though the rule was clearly designed to ensure my safety, and to relieve Roake from the onerous charge of fighting a woman, it made our wager a more difficult proposition for me, for an opponent not distracted by the need to make counter attacks could focus entirely on defense.

We began our duel by facing off at a distance of ten yards or so. Roake stood in a lazy guard position, his foil down, his entire body open.  He was not wearing a guard across his face either, which rather limited my striking zone. I preferred to strike high against a male opponent, though it was easier to hit low, there were delicate parts of the male anatomy I did not wish to deliberately strike.

“Come Miss Wilde,” he called. “Let us begin. There is a rod waiting for your flesh!”

A burst of laughter from those around accompanied the statement and my reaction. Roake had not had cause to lay a hand on me in weeks and clearly that state of affairs did not please him. If I were to somehow lose this play fight, I was certain it would not go well for me. I was determined that I would not lose however, having seen Roake in action I knew his form to be sloppy, his reactions altogether too slow to be a real match for me.

I lifted my blade in salute and Roake did the same. As his blade came down I dashed
forward with a direct attack. I came upon him with such speed that he was forced to move backwards with a leap. He parried the blow, but only just and the button of my foil came wickedly close to grazing his chest.

There was a silence, then a rousing cheer. Roake's cocksure expression had faded to be replaced with a glittering wariness. I must confess that I allowed a broad smile to settle across my lips. In most all respects Roake was my better, but in this one, behind a blade, we were closer to equals than we had ever been. He was forced to look at me with a modicum of respect and to regard me with caution. The sport he thought he was going to be making with my person was no longer guaranteed. “A sneaking attack,” he declared in a low rumble. “You have nine opportunities left, Miss Wilde.”

Nine lives and I needed but one of them. A mischievous devil whispered in my ear that it would be amusing to make sport of Roake and I quite agreed. On my next approach I stalked forward slowly, moving first to the left and then to the right, drawing out a tension that Roake pretended to be indifferent to. At the very last moment I raised my blade, dodged his parry and swept the silver foil over his head, catching his hat on the button of my foil. I retreated, spinning the hat in triumph as cackles emitted from the onlookers, which now included a great many women who had made their way up onto the deck. I took pity on the man and ended the trick gracefully, plucking the hat from my blade and tossing it back to Roake who caught it and set it aside with an angry snort. “Eight more opportunities, Miss Wilde.”

The next few opportunities were wasted with a similar flamboyance. Having learned the foil as a child and indeed, from a child in many respects, my style gravitated towards the visually impressive. Richard and I had often practiced various stunts with our swords, including battling atop a barn – for which he was soundly licked and I quite roundly scolded. For my sixth attempt I performed a cartwheel before dropping the foil toward Roake's heart for an easy parry and during the seventh I made my attack with the left hand.
 

By that time there was a general merriment, most of which was at Roake's expense. “Three more chances, Miss Wilde.” He spoke with an impressive calm. I had been worried that his temper might boil over under such an attack, but he was taking his beating like a man.

I squandered a further two attempts, each time letting him glance my blow aside at the last moment. There was excitement rising in the crowd, and I must say I encouraged it. Roake too seemed to be enjoying the tension. As it came down to the last, I saw a glimmering smirk about his mouth, something he was clearly trying to restrain. “Just one attempt left, Miss Wilde.”

“Oh dear,” I feigned concern. “Oh dear oh dear whatever shall I do.” I raised my arms and cast about in a dramatic fashion, then turned and made a proper attack at last. Raising the foil I came forward in a high position then dropped low at the last moment, my knee grazing the deck as I thrust the foil up and under his guard and... Roake parried the blow.

His motion drove me forwards, following my blade as it skimmed harmlessly up over his shoulder. My own momentum was broken by his body. He put an arm about my waist to steady me as those around made a noisy din involving howls of despair and shouts of merriment, depending on where their loyalties had lain and where their bets had been placed. “Your flair for the dramatic has betrayed you, young Miss Wilde,” Roake purred in my ear.

“I... how...” I stammered. It made no sense. Roake had not moved that quickly or accurately at any point during his duel with Morrow.

“Now, about your punishment.” He placed his foil down and hefted me up over his shoulder as if I were some kind of prize.

I was too stunned to fight, even as the world spun about me and I ended up facing the
deck. I was very much in shock if the truth were to be known. I had been completely certain that I would land the final strike and my attack had been perfect. In the last parry Roake had moved with a speed and grace he had not deployed even once against Morrow. As he began to carry me away from the cheering crowd I realized that he had probably been underplaying his skill against the captain so as not to embarrass him.

“Oh my Lord,” I whispered under my breath, clutching at the back of his black shirt as he carried me to his cabin. What awaited me I could not imagine, and my anticipatory horror was doubled by the knowledge that whatever pains I was about to suffer, I had only myself to blame.

After hauling me off the deck to howls of merriment and the occasional shout of support, Roake set me down in his cabin and closed the door.
  The noise outside died away to a dull roar and I was left with my ears ringing as I straightened my dress and tried to compose myself. I had not done anything terribly wrong; indeed I had done nothing wrong at all. It was a wager, that was all, a little bet. Perhaps he would take pity on me. Perhaps his punishment would not be onerous or painful. Even as he discarded his coat and began rolling up his sleeves I maintained that hope, but the moment he opened his mouth, my worst fears were confirmed. “This punishment is as much for arrogance as it is because you have been spoiling for one.”

“I have not!”

“Is that so?” Roake placed his hands on his hips and gave me a striking look, that is to say, the sort of look he was in the habit of giving me before he struck me. “Then how do you explain that performance on deck?”

I pressed my lips together and thought. There was no good explanation, aside from that I had thought myself more accomplished than him and been quickly schooled as a result. He had played me as
skillfully as a fiddle. “You were pretending to be a great deal worse than you were for the benefit of the captain,” I said. “It is little wonder I was taken in, you have a talent for portraying believable ineptitude.”

“Yes, insult the man who is about to thrash you, an excellent plan Miss Wilde,” he said dryly, abandoning the conversation. “Come here before you multiply your punishment.” He sat at his chair and beckoned for me to draw closer. When I had gingerly crept forward enough to be considered in range, he gave another order. “Lay across my lap.” He gestured to the expanse of upper thigh between hip and knee, as if I might not be familiar with the body part he was referring to.

I recoiled at the intimacy of the position. I had no desire whatsoever to press my flesh to his in such a fashion, especially given the nature of what lurked at the apex of his thighs. The notion of being pressed so close to his manhood was mortifying in the extreme. “Can we not conduct this in some other position?”

“Certainly. You can lay back on the bunk and raise your legs to your chest if you wish.” My expression must have amused him, for he burst out laughing. “Do not look do scandalized.”

“But this is a scandal. They will think...” I cast my eye back towards the door whence the deck lay. “They will think many things.”

“Let them think what they will. You and I will know the truth of matters.”

“I am a poor woman. A convict. I have lost my home and family both. I have little left besides my honor. I beg you to respect that, Master Roake.”

He raised a slow, dark brow as I trembled next to him, eager to avoid my fate by any means possible. “What would you have me do? Make your punishment a public one?”