Silver-Tongued Devil (Louisiana Plantation Collection)

by Blake, Jennifer

  “Deborah,” Renold said with a ringing quality in his voice, “you may give the office to start.”

  It was an honor and, perhaps, an indication of other things. Angelica heard the inrush of the other girl’s breath. Deborah paused so long it seemed she might refuse the office. Then she spoke.

  “En garde!”

  The blades swept up in salute, then down again, in perfect unison. The two men settled into position. Light glimmered in brief lightning along the lengths of the matched swords as they crossed at the tip, steadied with points touching. The first searching tap chimed with a delicate, musical sound.

  Their initial moves were used for testing only. The quick, shuffling feet as they circled, the supple revolving of taut wrists, the swift feints and half-completed maneuvers ended as often as not with a laugh and an easy comment. Slowly, however, the cadence increased, the click and chime of the blades took on a more challenging resonance.

  Abruptly, orange sparks blossomed, showering down as sword edges scraped. “Oh!” Deborah exclaimed as the two men strained together, hilt to hilt, then sprang apart to stand breathing deep. She clapped her hands over her mouth at once to prevent another outcry.

  The wind ruffled the men’s hair and billowed the fullness of their shirts about their waists. Narrowing their eyes against it, they plunged forward in attack again.

  Back and forth, their feet shuffled on the floor. The swords clanged like tolling bells. Hard-muscled, determined, they advanced and retreated, lunged and parried, extended to feint so their trousers clung to the muscles of their legs, then leaped back again to avoid a sudden defensive charge. The sheen of perspiration appeared on their faces and made their shirts cling across the shoulders.

  Renold’s hair was curling with the dampness. He flung it back from his eyes, then grinned as he parried Michel’s attempt to make use of that second of inattention. Keeping his guard, he recoiled with the smooth competence of iron muscles and perfect control.

  “Hold,” Michel said in hard tones. He stepped back and dropped the point of his sword toward the cypress boards of the floor.

  Renold eased his stance, resting his blade tip on the floor also. Placing his hands on the sword hilt, he said, “What is it?”

  “Have you forgotten how many times I’ve watched you at the salle d’armes — not to mention standing as second while you fought for your life? This is child’s play.”

  “You’re suggesting I’m being too easy on you?”

  “I know it.” Michel’s eyes were shaded with disdain.

  Renold moved his shoulders as if shrugging off responsibility. “Then guard yourself well, my friend.”

  It became plain in the next few minutes that Michel had been right. The contest took on a faster pace, a sharper edge. The two men plunged back and forth over the length of the gallery in incisive offensive and counteroffensive while their footsteps made rough thunder on the boards. The feints were quicker, the parries more desperate. The clanging of the blades jarred on the ears and scraped nerves.

  Michel’s hair became wet with his exertions. His breathing took on a rasp. A grim cast closed over his features, turning them into a mask of endurance and determination while his gaze grew fixed on the tip of his opponent’s sword. Pressing, withdrawing, he displayed a competent knowledge of swordmen’s tricks and a willingness to use them. His blade slithered and slipped against Renold’s, searching for an opening.

  Still, Michel was cautious by nature, and it showed in his swordplay. He took no chances, tried no exotic ruses or strategies.

  Renold was more flamboyant. His feints crackled with power, his parries and ripostes were not only dexterous but wickedly effective. In his advances there was subtlety and glittering grace. Michel, sweating, retreated before him.

  Yet Michel was not overwhelmed. He might lack Renold’s brilliance, but he was not to be despised as a swordsman. His form was excellent and there was force and stamina in his hard shoulders and firm leg muscles. Above all else, he had heart.

  “I make you my compliments,” Renold said to Michel with a tinge of surprise in his voice as he leaped back from a whistling cut that should have sliced his arm open to the elbow. “I didn’t know you were quite so able.”

  “That’s because you would never try me,” Michel said through his teeth. He surged forward with a blacksmith’s hammering of steel on steel.

  “It’s too easy for practice to become real when pain is inflicted.” Renold danced back from Michel’s offensive, deflecting it without apparent effort.

  Michel recovered before he answered. “But a small injury or two can teach self-knowledge.”

  “Something you think I am in need of?” Renold essayed a ruse that almost succeeded, but was flicked aside with a scream of blades and a spray of sparks.

  “It’s possible, though I had myself in mind.” Michel lunged into a classic effort that was countered with such a nimble device that he had to stumble backward in hard-pressed defense.

  So the fight continued, back and forth, with neither of the two men in perfect ascendancy over the other. Yet. It still seemed that Renold was holding some measure of skill in reserve, waiting for the moment when it would be most useful.

  Angelica thought after a time that she saw what he intended. She could be wrong; it was so dangerous. Michel did not know, could not guess the hairsbreadth escape that loomed, the clever manipulation that could, and just might, prove fatal.

  Her eyes burned as she followed the thrust and parry without blinking. Her chest rose and fell, still she could not get enough air. In the center of her body was a piercing ache, as if she could feel the thrust of a sword in her own vitals. She made a soft sound of distress.

  “It’s awful, awful. He’ll kill Michel,” Deborah moaned, clasping and unclasping her hands. “They’ve got to stop.”

  “Impossible. They can’t.” The words were no more than a whisper. Angelica would not turn her gaze toward the other girl for fear Deborah might see her terrible fear.

  “There must be something that will put an end to it. There has to be.” The other girl clapped her hands together in sudden inspiration. “The lamps! They can’t fight without light We could put them out.”

  “We don’t dare!”

  “You might not,” Deborah said.

  “What if it doesn’t work?” Angelica objected. “What if they don’t stop?” For the two men to slash and thrust at each other without being able to see would be murderously risky.

  “What else is there?”

  There was no answer to that. In any case, Deborah did not wait for one. Running to where the nearest lamp glowed, she bent to cup her hand over the globe and blow it out. Spinning around, she ran toward the one in the opposite corner.

  Renold uttered a soft imprecation. His gaze flicked to his half-sister and away again. His face hardened.

  And abruptly, his blade became a whirl of slicing proficiency. It sang, snicked, screamed, beating a tattoo of incipient injury against the sword in Michel’s hand. Feinting, Renold swirled into an attack with such blinding speed that it dazzled the eyes and numbed the brain. He extended in fluid strength and deliberate intent, wrist turning in an artful tactic which no doubt had some renown and a name bestowed by Italian fencing masters. Michel plunged to meet it with a wild upswing and blank eyes.

  “Oh, no,” Deborah moaned as she saw that her action had accelerated the fight. “No,” she said again. Then closing her eyes tight, she swung and ran with outstretched hands toward the flashing blades.

  “Dear God,” Angelica breathed in horror, and sprang after the other girl.

  Her feet skimmed the floor. She felt her hair slide as her hairpins jarred loose. Close, so close. She shot out her hand with her fingers spread to grasp. They closed on the sleeve of Deborah’s dress, ripping, dragging her to a halt.

  But they were both within the arc of attack, with the clatter of steel ringing in their ears. They had interrupted the rhythm of the fight.

  Renol
d, nimbly sidestepping, avoided them. Michel, defending still with a desperate riposte and finding no opposition, stumbled into a desperate lunge that sent his blade straight at Deborah’s heart. It hissed toward her with the glint of blue fire along its length, too fast to follow, impossible to deflect.

  Almost impossible.

  Renold leaped forward. There was a flurry of action too swift to follow. A harsh breath, a soft grunt. Michel gave a short, shocked cry and drew back. His sword shimmered in his hand with the sudden tremor that ran over his body. Its point, upraised, gleamed a bright, jewel-like red in the lamplight.

  The clank of a blade falling to the floor brought Angelica around in a whirl of skirts. Renold’s sword rolled against her skirt hem and lay still. He clasped his shoulder with his good left hand while his right arm hung at his side with his fingers slack and useless. Blood seeped from under his palm, creeping black-red into the white of his linen shirt.

  For a fleeting instant, Angelica felt light-headed with the muddled clash of horror and relief. Then she stepped quickly toward Renold and closed her hands on his arm. Her voice much calmer than she expected, she said, “Come inside at once where we can see the damage.”

  Michel flung his sword from him so it whipped the air, spinning into the night beyond the gallery. He sprang to Deborah and pulled her into his arms. “Sacred mother of God,” he said, “are you all right? Tell me you are all right!”

  “Yes, yes,” Deborah said on a sharply indrawn breath, then buried her face in his shirt front.

  “What did you think you were doing? You could have been killed.” Michel gathered her close, rocking her in his arms, though his color above her head was waxen pale.

  By then Tit Jean, never far away, was at his maître’s side. But as Renold was urged toward the salon between the manservant and Angelica, he pulled away from them.

  “Well done, my friend,” he said to Michel in dry tones. “Though I think you owe me a return match.”

  Michel, facing him with Deborah in the curve of his arm, shook his head. “No credit whatever is due; I’m well aware it was an accident that I touched you. But you were right before. This isn’t necessary between us.”

  Renold’s glance touched his sister, then returned to mesh with that of his friend. “Apparently not.”

  “Try it again, and I’ll kill both of you!” Deborah interjected with fervor. “I’ve never been so frightened in my life.”

  “Or I,” Angelica agreed.

  “In that case,” Renold drawled, “I suppose it may have been worth it after all.”

  “What!” Outrage leaped into Deborah’s eyes as she met her brother’s gaze.

  “Never mind,” he answered, smiling before he swung away and moved into the house.

  They remained in the salon only long enough to make certain that nothing vital had been touched by the sword thrust. It seemed to have merely pierced the hollow below his collar bone and slid through to the back. Clean and uncomplicated, it was Tit Jean’s opinion the wound would be stiff and sore, but cause no great incapacitation unless blood poisoning should set in.

  The manservant was not entirely satisfied with his diagnosis alone, but wanted to send for a doctor, then rouse Madame Delaup. Renold refused to allow it. He was, he said, in no mood to be prodded and poked, nor was he interested in hearing strictures on his conduct more lethal than the sword thrust itself. All he wanted was to repair to his dressing room and have his wound bandaged with as little fuss as possible. Collecting Angelica with a tilt of his head, bidding Michel and Deborah a casual good night, he moved off in that direction.

  In the dressing room, he took the bandage box from Tit Jean and put it in Angelica’s hands. To the manservant he said, “I believe we forgot the restorative. Would you find brandy and bring it here? Oh, and afterward, go along and see if Michel has need of a bottle.”

  “But maître, who will tend you?” The manservant stopped. His head came up and he looked at Angelica with intent interest.

  “Exactly so. You are supplanted. If you hear no yell for help from this direction in the next quarter hour, you may go to bed.”

  The words were dry, Renold’s manner casual, yet Angelica felt an odd catch in the beat of her heart.

  The ghost of a smile came and went across Tit Jean’s coffee brown face. Inclining his head to Renold, he indicated his understanding. He left the room, then, closing the door quietly behind him.

  Angelica turned away to set the bandage box on the washstand. Lifting the lid, she said, “I’ve bandaged a cut foot and a few sliced fingers, but nothing like this.”

  “You’ll manage,” Renold answered easily. Looking around, he pulled a chair closer to the washstand and sat down on it

  She considered the rolls of linen, the scissors and needles and strong-smelling salves in the box, trying to concentrate. After a moment, she set out what she thought she would need, then turned to the pitcher and bowl on the washstand. A brass can of warm water sat ready to be used for their ablutions before bed. She poured a generous amount into the bowl and dropped a cloth into it before she turned back to Renold.

  His face was bland, but his eyes were bright. She thought she knew the reason. He had achieved what he had set out to do, which was to increase Deborah’s interest in Michel. Taking his cue from his mother, he had sought to make his friend an object of sympathy by forcing him into a fight and then wounding him. It had not worked out quite as planned, but the results had been much the same.

  She said, “I suppose you’re happy.”

  His gaze was sapient, but he was not inclined to be confiding. “Should I be?”

  “Your try at playing Cupid by making Michel a martyr appears to have succeeded, even if you were felled by your own arrow.”

  “Are you disappointed?”

  “Disappointed? I can’t think why I should be.” The words were spoken almost at random. She put her hand on his wrist, removing his fingers from his injury. The flow of blood had slowed, almost stopping. Her movements quick, she began to strip his shirt from the waist of his trousers. It was, unfortunately, one made in the old style, without a front opening. It would have to come off over his head.

  “You appear to have lost a devoted admirer, while being forced to patch up a mere husband.” He reached to pick up a fat silver-gold curl that had rolled forward in front of her shoulder and sat rubbing it between thumb and forefinger.

  “There is no question of force.” In fact, she was glad to have something to do so she would not have to think about the moment the sword had plunged into his flesh. She also prized these moments, however brief they might be, when he needed her.

  “Lift your arms, please, as much as you can.”

  He released her hair to do as she asked, ducking his head so she could pull the bunched shirt off over his head. The movement left his hair rakishly tousled, but he made no move to smooth it. Watching her while she discarded the shirt and picked up the cloth in the bowl to squeeze the excess water from it, he said, “There was also no question of making him a martyr.”

  She met his clear green gaze, her own startled. “You mean you picked a quarrel with Michel because he — because you thought he was an admirer?”

  “Not precisely, though I had my reasons.”

  She absorbed that as she moved nearer to him and reached with her cloth to wipe the edges of his injury. He rested his left hand at her waist, halting her movements while he shifted one long leg out of the way. He then drew her between his knees so she had better access to his shoulder. He did not remove his hand, but settled it more firmly on her hip.

  The position was practical, and more comfortable than leaning forward to reach him. It was also disturbing in its familiarity. Though she slept beside him in the night, and often woke lying against him, she was not used to casual intimacy during the course of the day.

  She kept her eyes lowered while she attended to the task at hand. As the seconds ticked past, however, a feeling of strain invaded her senses. It was no
t helped by his thumb moving in a slow circle around her hipbone.

  “These reasons,” she said in an effort to maintain some degree of normality, “I don’t suppose you mean to tell me what they might be.”

  “I am waiting with bated breath,” he said, inhaling sharply as she came too near the quick, “to see if you can puzzle that out for yourself.”

  A frown drew her brows together. There was no time to answer, however, for Tit Jean reappeared with the brandy tray.

  There were two glasses, and the manservant poured out two measures of the fiery liqueur. Angelica, at his insistence, sipped a little of the one that he pressed into her hand. She nearly choked on it, though after a moment, it did seem to help melt the knot of lingering disturbance inside her. Nevertheless, the best use for the brandy, she thought, was to clean the sword cut.

  The fumes rose to her head as she tipped the glass to wet a clean cloth, then used it to sponge the deep stab injury. With the utmost care, she allowed a little to seep into the center.

  Perhaps the alcohol did something for her mental processes, for it was as she was reaching for a pad of linen to cover the wound that abrupt enlightenment came to her. She met Renold’s eyes an instant, then returned to what she was doing as she considered it.

  The purpose of the duel had never been to elicit compassion for Michel, or to draw out his half-sister’s feelings for his friend; that was not Renold’s way. His intention, rather, had been to make of Michel a hero, a man who had stood up for Deborah in argument and carried that argument to its extreme, a meeting on the field of honor.

  She said with a trace of wonder, “You planned for Michel to win. You intended to be injured.”