by Jenna Jaxon
Will sniggered over by the wall. When Redmond snapped a look at him, the sound cut off. “Bait me at your peril, Lady Dalbury.” His gaze returned to her face. “It matters not to me how you die. I could have you beaten to death, and in the darkness, Duncan would not be able to tell from across the pond.”
“I suppose it is easier to beat a woman who is defenseless, especially when there are three of you,” she mused, though chills raced down her spine at his words. “You must be afraid of a fair fight.” She stared scornfully into Redmond’s eyes. “Did Duncan tell you of my skill with a sword, then? Of course, you could have witnessed it first hand at the duel, had you not been dead drunk at the time.”
Though she had anticipated his backhanded slap and braced herself, it smarted worse than the earlier one. She returned her stare to his face, now mere inches from hers. “As I said, it is easier to fight when one’s opponent cannot fight back.”
Redmond laughed then, and her heart sank. But then he replied, “You would fight me wouldn’t you, little hellion? And with a sword. Even though Duncan made short work of you, so I was told. You think I am less skilled than he?”
“I never underestimate my opponents, Mr. Redmond. Do you?”
Gaze not wavering from hers, he snapped his fingers. “Release her hands and feet, Jameson. Crawley, guard her with your sword drawn.” As the blade rang free, steel hissed on steel.
Redmond bored into her with his stare. All she could see were black pupils bordered by a sliver of blue. “You wish to fence with me, Lady Dalbury? You wish a memento of my blade to take to your grave? I will oblige you. We still have some time to kill.” He lingered on the final word. “The third floor attic is unused and will accommodate us nicely. Your cries will scarcely be heard when I cut your face. A just revenge, don’t you think, for your scarring of Duncan? A cheek for a cheek, as it were?”
As her arms were released, pain screamed through the muscles and she stifled a groan. Her shoulders hurt horribly from the unnatural position they had occupied for the last several hours. She shrugged, trying to loosen them up. To make a good showing with a sword, she would need all her faculties to be in top form. She stood, acting more unsteady on her feet than she actually felt. If her opponent’s confidence was boosted under false pretenses, then so much the better for her.
Redmond led the way out of the office, Kat right behind him and Nigel behind her, his sword pressed uncomfortably into her back. They wound up flights of shadowy back stairs, music, laughter, grunts and moans emanating from closed doors on the first and second floors. She had hoped to fix her mind on the coming fight, but the embarrassing sounds of a working brothel intruded on her senses. By the time they arrived on the third floor, she was grateful for the relative quiet of the attic. Her cheeks cooled a trifle. But this was no time for modesty; she was about to be scandalous herself.
Her captor led her into a large chamber, where many wooden crates and several trunks lined the walls. The center of the room, however, was completely clear, if a little dusty. All three men carried candles or candelabra so there would certainly be enough light if they were placed on either side of the fencing area.
Kat bit her lip and untied the strings that fastened the petticoat of her riding habit. The garment slid to the floor. She stepped out of it, kicked it to the side of the room. The velvet jacket, she would retain, both for support and protection. It was only slightly more restrictive than her fencing jacket. She glanced up, to find all three men agog at her.
“You truly did not believe that I would fence in a skirt, did you, Mr. Redmond?” She smiled at the man’s sudden discomfiture. Nigel and Will were all but drooling, but she dismissed them from her mind. Focus on the major threat only. She stood, looking expectantly at her opponent.
“I will need a blade,” she reminded him.
He continued to stare at her stocking-clad legs, which were quite visible from the bottom of her chemise, just below her knees, to the tops of her brown buskins. Redmond, now clad only in shirt and breeches, gulped comically and gestured at Nigel. “Give her your sword, Crawley.”
Nigel’s immediate scowl clearly indicated his dislike of the idea. With reluctance, he handed the gleaming rapier to her. “Don’t be gettin’ it dirty, now.”
“Then pray Mr. Redmond is not a heavy bleeder.”
Nigel laughed at her bravado then returned to his place beside the doorway, still chuckling and shaking his head. Armed as well, Will had his sword drawn in case she decided to bolt.
Katarina had no such thoughts. Instead, she tested the balance of the blade, becoming familiar with the feel of it in her hand. She tried to limber up her stiff legs and arms with a few mild lunges. At least the blade itself was of good quality, well kept, and comfortable in her hand. She needed all the advantages she could get, and thrust the sword through her chemise, cutting down the front from mid-thigh to the hem, doubling her mobility.
She paid no mind to the men’s startled gasps, until she glanced over at Redmond. His gaze flicked over her exposed legs. When he wet his lips with his tongue, her composure slipped a notch. The last thing she wished to do was encourage his attentions on a more personal level.
Redmond eyes grew hard in the uncertain candlelight. “Shall we have at it, my lady?” His bow mocked her in its overblown courtesy.
“We shall, Mr. Redmond. What is to be the determination of the winner? Will first blood do?” She took her place opposite the man she longed to kill, though her primary goal was only to distract him.
“First blood to last blood, Lady Dalbury. You die tonight, regardless. Why not let it be with a sword in your hand? You profess such a love for the blade. Would you not wish to die in your lover’s arms, so to speak?”
“Only if you would.”
He laughed at that and lunged, his sword engaging hers instantly. She had suspected he would attack without warning, so fended him off easily. Redmond received a very nasty shock for he had, of course, completely underestimated her skill. When she parried his initial thrust, his face changed from incredulous surprise to grim concentration as she pressed her attack. Metal rang on metal as she advanced, pushing him down the attic, only to have him turn and press her back.
“Hah!” Her opponent crowed openly as he landed the first blow, a light slash to her left arm that cut the material but did not draw blood.
Finding a way under his guard, she landed a solid thrust to his thigh.
“You bitch!” he shrieked, punctuating the cry with a wild slash.
Maintaining her guard, she waited cautiously for her next opportunity. That she was tiring more easily concerned her. Nevertheless, she intensified her demand for endurance from her body. She could not collapse now.
Out of the corner of her eye she saw Nigel slip out of the door, and the momentary distraction cost her a cut across her shoulder, the sting of the blow telling her, this time, Redmond’s sword had bitten deep enough.
Silently she cursed her flagging strength, her shorter reach, cursed Duncan for not showing her that damned disarm. She would have to attempt it anyway; her strength was fading. Her strained breaths, hot in her lungs, screamed for her to end the match now.
With a fury born of desperation, she whipped about, sword singing, redoubling her effort to drive her opponent down the chamber. She picked her moment, as he blocked a swipe to his head and lunged, attempting to disarm him. Another commotion from the hallway proved a distraction that caused her to knock his blade awry, but did not disengage it from his fingers. He retaliated by thrusting his sword all the way through her upper left arm.
Her scream echoed loudly in the chamber. God, her arm was on fire! Any movement of the embedded sword sent unimaginable agony through the limb. Would she vomit or faint? She swallowed hard and tried to focus. Noting her opponent’s smug countenance, she whipped her blade around and slashed it against his right side.
The astonishment on his face was replaced by pure rage, then he pulled on his sword. She gave another echoing
shriek as his blade tore out of her flesh, and sat down hard. Redmond lurched toward her, sword once more upraised. His mouth moved, but a roaring in her ears drowned out whatever he was saying.
Lethargy stole over her as she tried to raise her weapon to fend him off, but her arm would not do her bidding. As he staggered toward her like grim Death himself, she dug down into her innermost reserves. Redmond pointed his blade down at her heart, raised his arm for the kill. She tilted her blade up and plunged it into his groin.
His high-pitched scream deafened her. He stared down at her, arm hovering, then crashed backward onto the floor, dragging the sword out of her hand.
As he twitched and moaned, the horror of the moment filled her. She had killed a man, but could feel nothing but thankfulness she was finally safe from him. Continuing to observe the jerking body, she became aware of boot heels pounding across the floor toward her. She turned to meet this new menace and found herself scooped up in strong arms. Her husband’s face hovered over her, white-lipped and ashen, but a beloved sight to see.
“Katarina! My God, I died a thousand times watching you and Tommy!” He squeezed her to him as though he would hide her inside himself. “I could do nothing lest I distract you and give him the advantage. My love, you were insane to engage him. He almost killed you.”
Lethargy stole through her again, and she closed her eyes. Hard planks lay beneath her back, so he must have lowered her to the floor. Then, a curious ripping sound. Despite fatigue so deep she longed to sleep forever, the noise roused her. She opened her eyes. Duncan, bare-chested, tore his good linen shirt into strips. Why was he ruining his shirt? Her sluggish brain tried in vain to reason it out, until he lifted her arm and fire shot down it in a searing sweep. A shrill scream escaped her lips.
The next thing she knew, he had hoisted her into his arms again and rushed out of the room. Her arm felt caught in a vise, and she glanced down. A red-stained bandage covered the wound. Her husband’s handiwork, she supposed. Her head lolled against his shoulder. Through a jumbled impression of constables milling throughout the corridor, she saw Nigel and Will down on their knees, then closed her eyes against the whirling in her head.
When they emerged into the warm night air, she roused and gazed into her husband’s dear face long enough to ask, “Now will you show me that damned disarm?” Then her head fell back and darkness descended.
Chapter 35
Large volumes of books scattered around her, Katarina sat up in bed, fuming. In the three weeks since her ordeal, not once had she left her bed, not even to be carried down to the sitting room for a change of scenery. Even more disconcerting, she had been a captive audience for Duncan’s admonitions regarding her behavior at the House of Pleasure. His choice words regarding her fencing, her dishabille during the match, and her disregard for her own safety, had led him to vow not to let her out of his sight until she had recovered completely.
Of course, when he’d rushed up to the third floor and found his best friend thrusting a sword into her arm, he’d been badly frightened. He’d watched the rest of the match play out, terrified to interfere, though ready to assist her if the opportunity arose. His need to protect her was behind his ultimatums, but she did not relish being confined to the house for several more weeks.
To add insult to injury, this morning Dr. Pritchett, though pronouncing her arm healing well, had insisted on another week of bed rest. His concern was understandable, but she might just scream at more enforced idleness. Perhaps, she could get the sentence extended to include the whole house so she could at least be carried from room to room.
A light rap on the door, and Duncan appeared with a letter in his hand. He had shown Dr. Pritchett out, probably plotting with the man to increase the prescription for bed rest. But she smiled at her husband. The light in his eyes boded good news.
“What is it, my love?” She pushed several volumes away and patted the bed beside her. “Who is the letter from?”
Duncan leaned down, grazed a kiss over her lips then sat back on the bed. “It is from Reginald Matthews, sweet.” His eyes fairly glowed with a secret knowledge. “He has news.”
A gasp escaped her. She struggled to sit up further in bed. “Of Juliet! Oh, Duncan, how wonderful! Where is she?”
“A letter from a contact in Carlisle, near the Scottish border, reports that a man and woman took up residence at my property there in early July. The agent went to the estate, asking for Lady Juliet, but was turned away. The servants are being very closemouthed about whoever is staying there. It has to be Juliet, for they would have admitted no one else. So I am leaving first thing in the morning, love. I must get to the bottom of this matter.” He laid the letter on the bedside table and gathered her to him, mindful of her bandaged arm. “I will miss you sorely, sweetheart, but I should be back inside of three weeks.”
Head cocked, she gave him a withering look. “Do you really think I am going to let you go without me, Duncan? I can ride in a carriage as well as I can lie in this bed.”
“No, you cannot, Katarina. The doctor said another week of bed rest, meaning it is to be spent in a bed. You will not jeopardize your life again. God knows, you came close enough to losing it.”
The reproach seared her, and she cast her gaze down to the coverlet. Loss of blood from her wound and the exhaustion of the duel had almost killed her. According to Dr. Pritchett. though, she would mend. “Then, wait until I can go with you, Duncan. You did say you were not going to let me out of your sight. And you won’t be able to see me if you are off to the north and I am here,” she wheedled, and turned on all the charm she could muster.
He smiled, so it must be working.
“And I would miss you too dreadfully if you were gone for three weeks. Please stay with me?”
He played idly with her hand for a moment. “Five months ago, I believe, those sentiments would have been quite different, would they not, my dear?”
Kat smiled. “Yes, they certainly would have. And aren’t you glad they have changed? Stay with me, love.” She ran a finger over his lips. “Dr. Pritchett said it was safe for you to come back to my bed. You would make bed rest so much more appealing.”
“You asked the doctor that?” His tone was shocked, but his eyes twinkled.
“And you did not?” She drew him down for a scorching kiss designed to make him forget travel and any other plans for the day.
Duncan surrendered readily, taking her into his arms. “I suppose we could take this time to work on putting an heir in the nursery.”
Katarina smiled into his eyes, but shook her head. “No, we don’t need to do that.”
“But, sweetheart, I thought you said...I thought you meant...” Duncan frowned, looking puzzled.
“I mean, my love, that there is no more work to do.” She watched his face change as her meaning sank in, and laughed at the incredulous look that spread over it. “I am already carrying your child. So you can’t go north without me. Without us.” She rubbed her hand over her still-flat belly, then drew his hand there as well.
He gazed at her, disbelief stamped on his face. “You are sure?”
“Dr. Pritchett confirmed it before he left.”
“Oh, Katarina!” He seized her lips once more, deepening the searing kiss, then expanded it to include her earlobe, her neck, her breasts. She sighed and relaxed under her husband’s ardent ministrations. Perhaps bed rest was not a bad idea after all.
As he moved more securely onto the bed, several of her volumes crashed to the floor. He sat up with a frown and retrieved the nearest book, then looked at her quizzically. “You’re reading Shakespeare?”
She nodded, her smile widening. “I’m searching for names for this little one.” She patted her belly once more, glad her secret could now be shared. “This morning I finished Two Gentlemen of Verona, but I don’t think I liked any of those. I like Antonio from The Merchant of Venice. Both Shakespeare and Italian. Since I am not likely to see Italy’s sunny climes in the near future,
I can at least hear the language in my son’s name.”
“Your son? You can’t know that for sure, love, though it would be convenient for you to produce an heir so efficiently.”
“Oh, it will be a boy, never fear.” His puzzled expression at her certainty caused her to shake her head in mock regret. “I do not doubt, Duncan, that anyone possessed of such a single-minded nature as you would ever sire anything other than males. If I bear ten children, I am sure they will all be boys and I will pine for a daughter all my life.”
“And yet, my dear,” he chuckled, “in truth, he could just as well be a she.”
She arched a brow. “Would you like to wager on that?”
“I am always happy to make a wager with you, love.” Duncan’s face radiated eagerness, an impish smile curled his lips. “I think I have an unbroken streak of good luck where you are concerned. What shall we wager?”
“If a boy, we will set out, overland, for Italy as soon as he is able to travel and I will learn your disarm from Signore Fucile.”
“Fair enough.” He picked her hand off the coverlet and began to nibble his way up her arm slowly.
“And if this is a girl, Duncan?” She prompted him after enjoying several moments of blissful chills running up her arm.
“If this child is a girl, love...” He paused his journey at her elbow to meet her gaze. His eyes warmed to a deep, chocolate brown. “We will try very, very hard to put an heir in the nursery inside of a year.”
Katarina pursed her lips in a deliberate pout. “No Italy?”
“Not if we still need an heir.” He lifted her face to his. “Do not be disappointed, my love. There will be...compensations.” He kissed her conveniently puckered lips then slipped deep into her mouth with a hunger that made her weak. “So you really should consider girls’ names also, my dear.”
Relaxed and smiling, she leaned back against the pillows. “If, and I truly doubt it will be the case, but if this babe turns out to be a girl, she shall be Miranda from The Tempest. A pretty name, but one I fear I will never have cause to use.”
