Triumph in Arms (25 page)
Authors: Jennifer Blake
“Not entirely,” she said softly. “You could have killed Theodore to remove him from your path, but you didn’t.”
His laugh was sardonic as he looked away down the road behind her. “I wanted to, God knows. And I wished to high heaven I had when he ran away, back to where he had left Marguerite. I knew it would destroy you if he harmed her in any way, and I had misjudged him, had let him live to do it.”
“Because you are a master at arms, and gallant with it.”
“For what good it did me. Or you.”
“Oh, but I have a tendre for men who use swords but know their limits,” she said, her voice lilting with the joy rising inside her. “In fact, I could never marry just any man for the sake of River’s Edge. Being something of a half-breed myself, mixed French Creole and
Américain,
I must have such a one as my husband, a
maître d’armes
of mixed blood who is also the last Great Sun of the Natchez. He is the only one who could ever please me.”
His head snapped back toward her. “Reine…”
“Is that not clear enough for you?” she inquired, her gaze steady for all its hot brightness. “I can be more precise. Only one man could ever persuade me to give up my widow’s weeds this time, just one. He is the
man who made certain, finally, that I would wear them. You may not have taken Theodore’s life to save Marguerite, but you were there to see that Chalmette had time for the deed.”
He swung down from the black stallion in a lithe and powerful movement, stepped to her mare and pulled her down into his arms. She was ready, had already unhooked her knee from the pommel and leaned toward him. He held her close, allowing her to slide down his body while an expression of granted happiness so intense it was close to agony lay over his features.
“Reine,” he said again in a husky whisper, and kissed her while standing there in the middle of the road. He caressed her back with his strong hands, captured the thick coil of hair at the nape of her neck in the cage of his fingers while he took possession of her mouth, her life.
“Not here,” she gasped when she felt his warm hand close over her breast, when she could struggle free enough to breathe, to form coherent words. Taking his hand, she drew him off the road, behind the bulwark of the great oak’s wide trunk.
He came willingly enough, only pausing to gather the reins of their horses and draw them with him. He ground-tethered them with a quick gesture before taking her into his arms once more.
“Madame Pingre,” he said in low threat, “do you recall a lesson on watching what you say?”
What had she said? She could not recall with any accuracy, not while his hands molded her curves to his
touch and the dusk drew in around them, hiding them in its gray folds. Her voice no more than a whisper, she asked, “What of it?”
“I am the only man who can please you, so you said. It was, just possibly, true at the time. Shall we see if it can be true again?”
She really must watch what she said. She must watch carefully for the right thing, the proper and most innocently salacious comment she could discover that would bring him to her, devilishly smiling like this, into her arms, into her heart.
“Why not?” she said on a swift intake of breath as he moved closer, fitting his hips into the cradle of her thighs.
“Oh, why not?”
Historical detail fascinates me, particularly as found in the news sheets of old New Orleans. With their notices of arrivals and departures of ships and steamboats, seasonal merchandise, operatic performances, subscription balls, dancing, drawing and fencing lessons and a thousand other things, they are like moments in time captured on microfilm. Using these sources to make life in the Vieux Carré as depicted in the Masters at Arms series as true as possible was a labor of love.
Several of the
maîtres d’armes
mentioned in passing, including Gilbert “Titi” Rosière, Bastile Croquere, Jean “Pepe” Lulla and Marcel Dauphin—were living masters. They, with their companions, played their parts with style and grace until the beginning of the Civil War. By the war’s end, the way of life that made their profession necessary and profitable had vanished and so they faded from view. It has been my pleasure to allow them to live again.
My love affair with men who wield swords is not over, however. I’m currently researching the waning days of knights in shining armor, circa 1485–1495, when medieval austerity began to give way to the glories of the Renaissance. My next three books will be set at the court of the reigning king of England, the first of the Tudors, Henry VII. Into that turbulent and colorful lifestyle, rife with scandal and danger, I’ve placed the accursed Three Graces of Graydon, sisters who bring disaster to any man who attempts to possess them without love. As I write now, my mind swirls with velvet and pearls, mottos and pennons, the rights of kings, pele towers, battlements and medieval manners. I am excited about bringing this era to life, and hope you enjoy its vivid grandeur, as well.
Caney Lake
April 19, 2009
All the characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author, and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all the incidents are pure invention.
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First published in Great Britain 2010
Harlequin Mills & Boon Limited,
Eton House, 18-24 Paradise Road, Richmond, Surrey TW9 1SR
© Patricia Maxwell 2010
ISBN: 978-1-408-92128-9
