The Rogue (7 page)

“I was very clear.”

“An unwise man hangs hopes on gossamer thread.”

Just as then, when he had spoken to her like this, directly, honestly, she wanted to be close to him. But she was no longer a girl. She had learned about men since then. Now she needed him for one purpose.

Ignoring her spinning nerves, she went forward until she stood before him.

“Do a woman's words have no weight to you?”

His emerald eyes narrowed. “I admit myself confused.”

“By?”

“I don't think you are a flirt. I don't think you intend to seduce a man, then disappoint him, not in the usual manner. It does not suit your nature. But, then, I don't understand why you do this.”

“You wanted what you could not have.”

“I did.” He backed away. “But not this time. Forewarned is forearmed.”

“Then what harm will it cause to teach me to fight with a dagger? Please. At least teach me how to hold it correctly.”

For a stretched moment he only looked at her.

“What are you doing?” she finally said.

“I am reconsidering.”

Reconsidering
. She drummed her fingertips on the bow. “It is taking too long.”

He lifted a brow. “Impatient, are we?”

“We haven't much time before we are expected at our toilette to change clothes for lunch.”

“The huntswoman's leather must give way to the lady's lace,” he said. “Alas.”

“Alas? You would rather I wear boots in the dining room?”

“Alas that I cannot be present at your toilette.”

She
must not
smile. Not so easily and swiftly.

“What about ‘forewarned is forearmed'?” she said. “A moment ago you were determined not to flirt with me.”

“That wasn't flirting. I really am disappointed I haven't an entre into your boudoir.”

She bit back her smile as he walked away. As always, watching his body move did things to her insides, spun gravity in the wrong direction. But he was leaving.

“Where are you going?”

“Into more light.” Removing his sword and placing it aside, he halted in a splash of sunshine from an open stall window. “Set down your bow, Diana, and come here.”

Diana.
He had called her Diana that day in the wood, the virgin goddess of the hunt who would not allow herself to be captured by any god or mortal man.

“Now?” she said. “Here?”

“If you would rather not, my horse is still saddled. I can—”

“
No.
Yes, now,” she said, elation bubbling. She moved toward him. “Is this because we have spoken of the past and settled it? Bygones and such?”

“Not quite. But now I am thinking of your boudoir and something must be done about that.”

The quiver slipped from her fingers, strewing arrows upon the stable floor.

“I am only a man,” he said simply. “Distraction is sometimes necessary.” He reached into the top of his boot and drew forth a dagger with a blade perhaps five inches in length.

She stared. “You carry daggers in your boots?”

“Just the one, and only in this pair.” He approached her and took the bow from her slack hand. “Unlike the daughters of dukes, apparently, I don't find that I need quick access to a dagger on a daily basis.”

Not on a daily basis.

Nightly.

He was so close she could breathe in his scent and feel the reaction to it in her body.

“What a staid life you must lead,” she managed to say, watching him set aside the bow with the same grace with which he always moved. She had known spies and lords, but she had never known a man like this. Her friend Wyn Yale
carried the shadows with him when he wished. Ben's subdued elegance was unmatched. And Colin Gray declared authority in his very stance. But Frederick Evan Sterling made no statement of dominance, and he had no desire for stealth. With every muscle trained to serve him, he simply moved and it was poetry, art, beauty.

“Do you see where the handle of this dagger touches my palm?” He spread his hand.

“Yes.”

“Watch as I grip it.” His fingers settled again into place. She mimicked the clasp with her empty hand, then spread her fingers. “Your hands are unusually toned for a gentlewoman's,” he said. “Supple. Do you shoot often?”

“Every day.”

“Why doesn't your skin show it?”

“My maid files away the calluses.”

He looked up at her face.

“Every day?”

“I am the daughter of a duke. A gentleman does not expect to take a washerwoman's hand when he asks me to dance.”

Without warning he cupped the back of her hand and rolled the dagger handle into her palm. “Take care,” he said. “It is quite sharp.”

Six years.
For six years she had remembered the warmth of his skin, the moment when she had fled his caresses in the dark because she had been afraid of what she might do—what she might willingly give him. Now he held her and she wondered that she'd had the strength to flee.

“How sharp?” She could not command more than a whisper.

He moved away. “I use it to cut saddle leather.”

“How often do you find the need to do that?”

“Not often.” He folded his arms over his chest again and a smile teased the corner of his mouth. “That is why it is so sharp.”

The dagger felt light in her grip, well balanced and natural to hold.

“I am surprised this is so comfortable for me. Your hands are much larger than mine.”

“It's a good dagger.” His voice was odd—low and somewhat hoarse.

“Now you must show me how to use it.”

“You said you wished to know how to hold a dagger correctly. You are holding it correctly. Lesson over. The road awaits me.”

She rolled her eyes. “Come now—”

“
Sharp
”—he took a quick step back—“blade. Do refrain from speaking with your hands when you are wielding a weapon, my lady.”

My lady
, said without mockery.

“There. You have just taught me a second thing,” she said, readjusting her grip on the handle. “Stay for another thirty seconds and I'm sure I will learn all I must to whittle a stick, spear a fish, and skin a hare with this dagger.”

“I have never speared a fish with that dagger.” He moved close again. “Only a man's quadriceps.”

“Really?” she exclaimed. “Is that how fencing masters spend their leisure?”

“He was poised to impale me with a bayonet. It seemed appropriate at the time.”

“I daresay.”

“But I have in fact used it to skin a hare.”

“How did it taste?”

“It wasn't mud. So, I would say rather good.”

“That was in Spain. Wasn't it?” Six years ago he had just returned from the Peninsula. She had wanted to know everything about him, and she had asked and asked.

“Yes.”

Neither of them moved. They stood close and she stared at the dagger in her grip.

“Why do you carry it in your boot now?”

“So that I have it handy to teach ladies whom I encounter in stables, of course.”

“You did not encounter me in this stable.” She turned her face up to meet his gaze. “You followed me in here.”

“It is the place one puts a horse, which I happened to have with me.” Pleasure glinted in his eyes that traveled over her features.

“What else will you show me with this dagger now?”

“How to give it over safely to its owner so that neither of you get cut.”

“No.” She backed up. “I want to learn more.”

“The ‘please' seems to have gone astray. Interesting.”

She smiled. “Please.”

“This is a single-edged dagger. The edge is sharp, but the weapon is principally intended for stabbing rather than slicing, though it can be used for either.”

“Did you slice or stab the bayonet man's leg?”

“A bit of each. You are a bloodthirsty girl, aren't you?”

“I am not a girl.”

His gaze snapped to hers.

“Not any longer,” she said.

“To fight like a street thief,” he said, watching her face, “your movements must be swift and decisive.” He took up an arrow and gripped it mid-shaft, pointing the fletching toward her. “Imagine this is a knife coming at you. Knock it away.” He thrust the arrow forward and she tapped it aside with the dagger.

Both bronze brows rose. “A
knife
is coming at you and you bat at it like you would a fly?”

She tightened her grip on the handle. “Do it again.”

He did so and she smacked the arrow away.

“Better,” he said. “Now again, but quicker and with all of your strength. You are fighting for your life, recall.”

She slapped the shaft aside. Swiftly he thrust it toward her again.

“Ten times now, without pause,” he said.

With the dagger she knocked away the arrow shaft, the clacks louder and sharper each time. After ten, he paused and she flexed to relieve the tension in her shoulder.

“Feeling the burn?”

“Yes.”

“Adjust your stance.”

“How?”

“You are standing as though you intend to shoot. Loosen your knees and center the weight of your body over your feet. Tuck in your hips.”

She felt his eyes upon her. “This is a defensive action.”

“Effective if done swiftly.”

“What if the assailant comes from behind?” she asked.

“There are other maneuvers to defend against that.”

“What about offensive moves?”

“A good defense is the best offense.” If a man is not afraid of being killed, he has less reason to kill.”

Her arm halted then slowly lowered to her side. She was breathing far too swiftly for the small effort she had just put forth. The sunlight cast her eyes in an ethereal aura.

“Show me an offensive move.”

She was determined, and he had seen these eyes before: in the face of a courier he had run with, before the lad had set off for what became his final mission, to the front line.

“All right.”

“Wait.” She set down the dagger and began gathering up her skirts between her knees.

“What are you doing?”

“Making it easier to move.” Sweeping fabric back, she tucked it into the sash around her waist. The lightest stockings protected her legs from the chill air and he was staring. And as swiftly as he studied their long, lithe beauty, just as swiftly he wanted them wrapped around him.

“You have done this before,” he said. “The cinched skirts.”

“When I wish to ride astride and haven't dressed for it,” she said as though the sudden need to ride frequently overcame her before she could reach for a sidesaddle. But perhaps it did. There was a radiant impetuosity about her here, away from the house and his cousin and her father, that reminded him of that girl six years earlier—the girl who had not been afraid to meet a stranger in a wood at dawn
every day. Alone with him again now, she was a glorious mix of that girl and the heiress refined by London. And he was making a colossal mistake to remain in her presence for a minute longer.

She took up the dagger. “Now show me, please.”

He showed her. Instructing her how to readjust her grip on the handle and her stance so that the power of her arm came behind the dagger fully, he tried to ignore while he illustrated the simplest slice.

“Am I aiming for the chest?” she said, practicing the cut.

“There are four principal targets: the face, hands, groin, and Achilles heel. What you choose to strike depends on where you carry your weapon. Assuming it is at your hip, what target would you choose?”

“The groin?”

“Yes. Even a shallow slice there will impair an opponent. And if severed, the femoral artery bleeds swiftly. Try that movement, slowly first.”

She set her hand at her hip then slashed the dagger forward.

“Good,” he said, moving behind her, studying the angle of her hips and the sweet curves of her calves. “Now, swiftly. If you are smaller and weaker than your opponent, your greatest asset is surprise. Drop your shoulder. Throw the force into your forearm.”

She swung again.

“Too low,” he said. “Imagine an actual person before you.”

“You won't allow me to use you as a target, I suppose.”

“Certainly I will, the next time I wish to be gutted like a fish.” The strength in her arm was impressive, the flush upon her skin beautiful, and he was hard as iron. “Or emasculated,” he muttered.

She laughed, dropped a step back against a stall door, and surprised the cat sitting there. It howled and leaped forward, and she started, stumbled, and tripped on a drape of skirt.

Saint lunged. Hand clamping over her wrist, he grabbed her about the waist, yanking her body away from the dagger.

She fought him.

Wrenching out of his hold, she pulled herself over him, her thighs clamping about his hips, her left hand jamming against the base of his windpipe. The dagger quivered in her right hand a breath from his cheek.

He clamped his hand around hers and she shouted in surprise. But her grip held tight and her eyes were wide with terror.

He could break her fingers to dislodge the weapon. If she were a man, he would not hesitate. If she were any other woman, he would not be in this position. He had dropped his guard with her—
again
.

She hung above him, hair framing her face, her eyes now clouded as he stroked his thumb from the base of her palm upward.

The pressure on his neck relaxed, and he sucked in air through his bruised windpipe. Again he stroked from her wrist across her palm and along her thumb, cajoling the wild thing she had become, and he choked back the fury rising in him. This was the response of a woman who feared an attack—who
anticipated
attack.

She was still breathing hard. Once more he caressed her hand holding the dagger, trying to loosen her grip with gentle probing.