The Perfect Bride (24 page)

Then
she brought his hand to her lips.

Simon
was nearly undone. But the last shred of discipline forced him to retreat. He
pulled away from her. His hands fell to his side.

“Amanda,”
he rasped.

She
put her finger to his lips, forestalling his words.

"I
see that I do not have the power to force the Earl of Sommersby to lose control.
You mean to protect me from myself. I should be thankful but, alas, it is
beyond me."

She
smiled sadly. "Your heroism hereby stands reinstated, Lord
Sommersby."

She
left the room without a backward glance. For a long time Simon stared at the
spot where she had been.

***

Julian
had one eye open before Simon reached him.

As
Simon registered the fact that the man lay alone in bed, that Amanda had not
gone to him after all, Julian regarded him with a sardonic gaze that held no
surprise at this midnight invasion.   "I see that mine host has come for
his revenge," Julian said softly.

Simon
preferred not to examine the restless rage that had driven him to Julian's room
without so much as a candle to give warning of his presence.

"I
had the urge to meet you at foil,” he said in a measured tone that did not
quite mask the turmoil within him. “If you are of a mind for exercise."

Julian
shrugged. “So we are at that, are we?”

Simon
frowned. “At what?”

“Do
not take me for an idiot, Simon. I have seen the way you look at her. I did not
think you would let this afternoon go unanswered."

"Her?"

"The
woman you persist in respectfully calling `Miss Fitzhugh' even as your eyes
undress her like the lover you so desperately wish to be."

A
muscle twitched in Simon's jaw. "Your wit is useless here, Julian. All
that matters is the condition of your sword arm."

Tossing
aside the covers, Julian slid out of bed. Lines of exhaustion sprawled across
his face, but he managed a mocking grin.

"As
a matter of fact," Julian said, "my sword arm is in perfect
condition."

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Jeffers
gave a small prayer of thanks that he was not the one facing his lordship’s
coldly efficient sword and murderous eyes tonight.

"
Corps-a-corps!
"
the batman warned as a missed lunge sent his employer and the Duke of Claridge
into a bone-crushing embrace. Quickly, the opponents stepped back into
position.

In
a money fight, Jeffers would have had his blunt on the earl, who could read the
feint as if he had invented it and whose riposte was nigh legendary. A more
calculating, controlled swordsman Jeffers had never seen. In contrast, the duke
fought with the wild abandon of a man who did not care about his fate.

But
when Claridge executed an extraordinary double
prise-de-fer
and a
graceful
ballestra
, Jeffers wondered if he had underestimated the man.

His
employer handled a retreat as well as he did a lunge, however, and Jeffers
watched in admiration as Simon glided backward on his left foot, then his
right, a shoe’s length. Then he proceeded to engage Claridge in a slow,
repetitive beat of blades followed by a gentle but deep feint. The duke
sneered.

"Come,
man. You can do better than that," he taunted.

Unfazed,
Simon continued the slow beat and feint. Again and again came the lulling
motions until the duke gave a deliberately exaggerated yawn of boredom.

The
lightning lunge caught him mid-yawn. With a perfect extension of the left leg,
Simon scored high and inside to Claridge's chest, a flawless blow that would
have been fatal had the sword tip not been shielded. Then, pushing back on his
right heel, Simon returned to the guard stance as quickly and fluidly as any
acrobat.

Stung
at suffering the indignity of a trap, the duke threw himself at the earl with
an angry roar, and the match suddenly turned deadly. Locked in the lethal
embrace of close-quarter fighting, the blades whirled hungrily, seeking the
satisfaction of muscle and bone.

Jeffers
gasped in horror. In a tight brawl, each man risked the slicing ledge of his
opponent's weapon. It was one thing to engage in sport with tipped foils, quite
another to face the length of an unprotected blade.

Ducking
deeply, Simon narrowly avoided Claridge's cutover riposte. Then he whirled
inward to execute a thrust that missed by a hair's breadth.

Jeffers
knew the match must be stopped before disaster struck, but he dared not
intervene without getting his head bitten off by his employer or sliced off by
the duke's slashing sword. When a sudden grunt and a string of profanities
brought the bout to a momentary halt, Jeffers saw his chance.

"Hold!
Hold!" he cried as the duke touched his bleeding cheek.

Running
over with his medical kit, the batman saw that Simon had also been wounded. One
arm of his employer's shirt had been slashed to ribbons, and blood seeped from
a wound under the gaping cloth. Fumbling with his bandages, Jeffers shook his
head reproachfully.

The
combatants merely scowled at him.

"I
do not recall inviting you to this bout," Simon growled as Jeffers pressed
a cloth into his wound.

"No,
sir," Jeffers agreed, preparing another cloth pad with his free hand.
"But it is fortunate that I am here, is it not?"

"Only
if you can produce a bottle of brandy forthwith," Claridge interjected,
grimacing as Jeffers pressed the fresh cloth against his bleeding cheek.

"Make
that
two
bottles," Simon snarled.

Hurriedly
Jeffers produced brandy and glasses. Each man tossed off the drink in silence.
Finally, the duke spoke.

"Would
you like to hear about it?"

"Hear
about what?" Simon thrust his empty glass at Jeffers, who promptly
refilled it.

An
amused glint filled Claridge's eyes as he, too, held out his glass for a
refill. "About the night your Miss Fitzhugh took a turn with me on Lovers'
Walk."

"No,"
came the terse reply.

Jeffers
could not imagine how Miss Fitzhugh had come to be involved in this matter. But
eyeing Simon's suddenly rigid features, he decided that the duke was on the
verge of scoring a blow more stunning than any he might have achieved through
the
ballestra
.

"That
is unfortunate," the duke drawled softly, "for I shall tell you just
the same."

Simon
impaled his opponent with a look as sharp as any sabre. Good God, Jeffers
thought uneasily. What a fine pickle this is.

***

"Our
tenant handles a sword as well as you did, Mortimer."

"Well
enough, I suppose."

"I
thought Claridge had him for a moment."

"Claridge
is too wild. Edward must have driven him a bit mad over these last nights."

"Edward
could drive anyone mad — as you would know if you had ever lived with the
man."

"I
have endured my share of Edward over these last few centuries, Isabella."

"With
any luck, that is about to end. I have never seen Edward enjoy tormenting
anyone as much as he does Claridge."

"Yes,
but where does that get us?"

"Out
of this castle, of course! We must stay and endure Edward's screams only as
long as he remains here."

"You
think he may decide to go off with Claridge? It seems unlikely."

"Not
for a man subject to sweeping infatuations. I should know, Mortimer — all those
years of keeping up a front while he indulged in one affair after another. Did
you know that Edward passed all my beautiful wedding presents from Papa on to
Gaveston? At the coronation, Gaveston was dressed more magnificently than
Edward himself. I was never so mortified in my life."

"Is
that why you had Warwick murder the man?"

"A
queen cannot endure public embarrassment. I might have tolerated Edward's
mistresses, but to have the world know that he preferred Gaveston — it was too
much!"

"And
here I thought you cared not a fig for public opinion."

"Sarcasm
has never been your forte, Mortimer."

"Why
must you always want more than you have, Isabella? Anyway, how can you be so
certain that if Edward leaves the castle, we will be free?"

"Because
that is the way of things. We have paid well enough for our sins — five hundred
years of listening to Edward's screams. Can you imagine anything worse?"

"What
if what awaits beyond these walls is worse than what we have already
endured?"

"The
trouble with you, Mortimer, is that you insist on looking on the dark
side."

"It
is a side with which I am well-acquainted, Isabella, having spent so many centuries
with you."

"You
must have faith. Edward's fascination with Claridge will make him see that
there are more enjoyable ways to pass the time than screaming at us for
eternity. We will be free to float here and yon, inhabiting one fine human form
after another and indulging in all manner of fleshly delights denied us for so
long."

"I
thought you were content to inhabit our tenant and the chaperon, when the time
comes."

"They
are a stubborn pair, and it is taking far too long to get them together. Imagine
what would happen if we were free to seek out those who do not feel so
constrained."

"They
did go on a bit much about that kiss."

"This
era seems a bit stuffy, does it not? People are positively consumed with issues
of honor and propriety."

"I
imagine that you will find a way to change that, Isabella, should we manage to
flee the confines of this castle."

"But
it must happen soon, Mortimer, or I shall go mad. Why have we not succeeded
with our tenant and the chaperon? Can it be I have lost my touch?"

"You
have not had the faculty of touch for centuries, Isabella."

"But
I have always had the ability to inspire lustful thoughts, and thought is but
precursor to deed, as you know."

"I
daresay their thoughts are lustful enough, my dear. It is just that our tenant
and the chaperon seem to be burdened with an excess of principle."

"That
again! But her control lies in shards around her, and desire is making his nigh
to unbearable. Oh, Mortimer! Soon their lust will bloom for us."

"Hold
that thought, Isabella."

***

"Amanda,
may I talk to you?"

The
headache that had kept Amanda from rising with the alacrity with which she
usually greeted the day pounded anew in her brain as she opened her eyes and
regarded the troubled look on her cousin's face.

"If
it is advice you need, Felicity, you might as well talk to those horrid weapons
on the walls. I cannot think why your parents ever thought me a fit chaperon."

Felicity
hesitated. "You had difficulties with Claridge in the tunnel yesterday,
did you not?" When Amanda did not speak, Felicity sighed. "I thought
so. It is all my fault. I should not have insisted on exploring the area."

"No
one can blame you for wishing a moment alone with your betrothed," Amanda
said. "I have been your constant shadow, after all. It is only to be
expected that you would take the first opportunity to go off with him."

Felicity's
expression grew even more miserable. "It was not like that, Amanda. I
wanted to see the tunnels because I thought they might provide a good hiding
place."

"Hiding
place?" Amanda frowned.

"I
might as well tell you the whole." Felicity hesitated, then the words came
out in a sudden rush: "We have decided to run away."

Amanda’s
jaw dropped. "Run away? You and the earl?"

"Not
Lord Sommersby," Felicity corrected. "Stephen."

"Who
is Stephen?"

"Mr.
Frakes — the curator."

"Curator?"
Amanda put her hand to her aching head. "Dear Lord, Felicity, will you
please say something I can understand?"

"I
suppose he is not really a curator," Felicity conceded. "He is more
of a scholar. He is cataloguing the earl's books and weapons. And I mean to
marry him."

Amanda
groped for the tea the maid had placed by the side of her bed earlier. The fact
that it was cold barely registered. "You wish to marry a perfect
stranger?"

Felicity
crossed her arms. "He may be a stranger to you, Amanda, but
I
know
him well enough." Her eyes took on a dreamy expression. "Indeed, I
believe I know his very soul. He is a poet, a man who treasures the words of
the heart and the needs of the spirit."