by Ivie, Jackie
There wasn’t any carpeting. The floor beneath him was of an off-white color, glossed to a mirror finish. It showcased the punctuation of furnishings: elaborately carved side tables, high-backed chairs, and paintings the height of three-story buildings. They reached the end of the room and turned into another one, this one ablaze with light from a low hanging, double row of crystal chandeliers, each larger than her apartment. They reflected and re-reflected off gilded walls, highlighting stuffed settees, carved tables, a grand-father clock that dwarfed them, and everywhere she looked was more richness.
He stopped, shuffling her slightly as he fussed with something behind her back.
“Is this real?” she asked.
He slanted a glance down toward her, imprinting her with amber-laden heat. An eyebrow quirked upward, and then he winked. Takaiya’s frame gave an answer with a little lurch against him. She had to look aside, suffering another blush that warmed her cheeks. That gained her an immediate tightening of his arms about her, and an accompanying hardness in his chest. The man was astoundingly stunning. Women had to have reacted to him long before her. This couldn’t be entirely her fault!
A click sounded behind her and then a long hum. He stepped back as a vault door swung into the space they’d just vacated.
“Define real,” he finally replied.
“The furnishings…all about.”
“Oh. That. Oui. They are real furnishings.”
Takaiya lowered her chin and regarded him, using her blankest stare until he looked away. A becoming flush overtook the lower portion of his face, making it more sculpted. And his lips looked strangely askew, as if bruised. Or plumped. Or pushed out by his tongue. Or something else.
“I meant…are they real antiques?”
“Oh. In that event, again the answer is oui.”
“They look museum quality.”
“They are. Late Bourbon Dynasty. French. Old Regime. Mostly.”
“Mostly?”
“I keep the prize pieces of my collection upstairs.”
“You do?”
“Oui. Much more dust and decay up there.”
That was puzzling. She let it go. She had more worries. He took them through a solid steel opening, entering what should be steel walls and bank vaulting. It wasn’t. She heard the door slowly close behind them as her eyes took in wainscoted walls, dark paneling above and darker wallpaper below. She couldn’t tell the paper color, due to the volume of furniture he’d filled the space with. The next room was worse. And the next. Every spot on the wall seemed packed with furniture, knick-knacks, and bric-a-brac. The quickness of his movement and the mass of patterns and color was nauseating. She focused back on him.
“Looks like dust would be an issue here.”
“Really?”
“It’s too cluttered. Messy.”
“You don’t like late Victorian era?”
“I’ve never seen it before…but I don’t think so.”
“I’ll have it moved upstairs, too.”
He started moving again, passing from the Victorian parlor suite of rooms into one that echoed with space. Light.
Another smile touched his mouth, gapping it slightly, revealing the tips of very sharp teeth. Takaiya glanced there and he immediately sobered. Looked away. And then stopped beneath the shadow of another thick archway. This one required another code. Takaiya watched him concentrate as his hand moved behind her, punching numbers in. The door swung inward this time, revealing old iron stud-work along finely carved wood. Almost medieval-looking. Or early Italian renaissance. She hadn’t studied history other than that of the Hisushu Clan, so wasn’t sure.
No. It was definitely medieval. Nothing light or airy in sight.
“You have a lot of security.”
“When one has enemies, one compensates.”
The room they entered was constructed of so much stone it sucked at sound, despite all the space around them. Takaiya ran her eyes up one of the thick pillars, viewing a groin vaulted ceiling, also constructed of stone. The floor beneath them was a dull-looking parquet design of black and white. There were long slits cut into the walls, probably meant to portray windows, but it appeared that more stone filled the openings.
“Your home is very…interesting. All sorts of styles.”
“When one has interests, time, and funds, one can indulge in all kinds of fantasies,” he replied.
A dull fleck of fear gnawed in her gut. She was in trouble, and getting deeper. She’d come with a man into the bowels of his home. A strange man owning a lot of priceless items and a lot of security measures in place to guard them. There was a maze of rooms to transverse. It was going to be difficult to get back out, even if she knew the codes. Adding to that was the odd feeling of disembodiment seemed to be weakening, giving her back the ability to think and react. The strange will-sapping fog was also dispersing, granting her more clarity with every continuing breath.
He walked through the stone edifice place and into a fully stocked armory. Every sort of weapon lined the walls – from modern guns to flintlock pistols set up in circular designs. Her eyes took in a view no museum could touch. He had masses of shields, spears, hammers, and axes, while swords of every kind and description fanned out on the walls, their arrangement possibly designating era or purpose. In the alcoves separating the displays, stood full sets of body armor – plated for a knight, chainmail such as that depicted in the Bayeux tapestry for a Norman. And on one wall, beside a Samurai warrior ensemble, there was a conspicuously bare spot of two empty hooks.
And then she understood.
Takaiya swallowed and stifled the instant trepidation.
He left the armory, passed beneath another arch, taking her into a domed circular alcove of glass-walled beauty. Takaiya stared at the profusion of foliage beyond the walls, blooming under fake sunlight, and swaying to fake breezes.
“This room—?” She didn’t finish the question. She didn’t know what to ask.
“Is one of my fantasies. Come. I didn’t bring you here for explanations.”
He walked to the center of the room, noted by the ocular opening directly above it, and eased her onto her feet, where she swayed for a fraction of time.
“Why…did you bring me, then?” She’d curse the hesitant, almost fearful note in her voice later. But for now, it was all she had.
“You recall I spoke of what would happen should you lose our duel?”
Takaiya pulled in a large breath and held it, and watched the circular opening in the roof rotate for a bit before it settled. The realm of sensuality that had blanketed her was completely gone now. She was chilled. Bewildered. Alarmed. All she could do was keep it hidden.
“I did not lose.”
She lowered her head and sent the words to where he’d moved over to a large, thickly hewn wood table, capable of seating twenty. At either end, a tall torch holder stood, and with a click of something on the table, the torches burst into flame. Another click and the lights behind the glass dimmed, not to pitch black, but enough to cause disorientation. It was very dramatic-looking. And vaguely threatening.
She didn’t blink as he faced her, unfastening each button of his jacket, sliding them from the holes. He didn’t watch what he was doing. He was watching her. He finished, slid the garment from his shoulders, put a crease down the center, and placed it atop the table behind him, where it contrasted with a covering of ancient, fragile-looking lace. The bowtie came off next. He worked the knot loose and then pulled the ribbon from around his neck. Then he started on his cuffs, lifting first one arm and then the other, defining thick, muscled biceps as he worked the links free.
“Ah, Cherie. You are quite right. You have not lost. Yet.”
The cufflinks hit the table, making tinkling noises as they settled somewhere on the surface behind him. He started rolling each sleeve to his elbow, giving her more visual proof of his power. Strength. Ability. Prowess…
Takaiya locked her entire form against the series of tremors
afflicting her. She felt like she’d been drugged, but was now completely sober. She wasn’t a weak, compliant, easily frightened woman. She was Takaiya Silva, daughter of the feared Hisushu Clan. A woman trained in the art of Budo. Deadly. Agile. Quick.
He walked to one end of the table, never taking his eyes from her, as if she might bolt from the area. Her chin rose as she kept his gaze. Where would she go? And why should she demonstrate such cowardice?
His destination was a long, thin, polished wooden box. Silver fastenings glinted with the torch light as he slid leather straps loose and raised the lid. And then he lifted two matching rapiers, their polished steel sending specs of light to flick off the glass walls. He tossed a sword toward her, handle down. She automatically caught it, wrapping her hand about the wrought handle.
“To first blood?” she asked.
A tremor scored him, seen even through the dimness and distance. Then he loomed right before her, backing her up a step. The man could move in a blink. She’d been raised hearing it was possible, but that was nothing like physically seeing it. Disconcerting. No wonder the ninjas treasured the ability.
“I think not, this time.”
“Then…what?”
“Until one of us…cries for mercy.”
Takaiya gulped. She could only hope it wasn’t as noticeable as it felt. She nodded.
“En garde!” He announced.
CHAPTER SEVEN
“Wait!”
Jean-Pierre lowered his sword, her raised finger as well as the command halting him. He watched with narrowing eyes as she released a catch on her bracelet, flicked something to bring out a razor-sharp blade, and then started hacking at the front of her skirt with her free hand. Her antics revealed perfectly formed limbs, and something more. He got a quick glimpse of a knife strapped to one creamy thigh with a black garter, while the same color lace shielded any view up higher. It was nearly too much. His frame trembled, making the sword in his hand vibrate.
He immediately knew why she didn’t use her little knife. She was keeping it hidden for use later, letting him think the bracelet her lone protection. He was more concerned over the wooden pick still sticking above an ear. That had potential for incapacitation. Anything else was an annoyance, at best.
She finished the alteration of her gown, refastened her jewelry, and then worked at settling the dress back into place, molding it again all along her frame, highlighting curves he’d already felt against him, while the uneven hem, now just above the knees, revealed well-formed legs and ankles, ending in little, heelless, black shoes.
Merde, but she was good!
With nothing more than a blade, she fractured his concentration and bit into his stability. Incredible. And disquieting.
Steady, Jean-Pierre. Steady.
He’d already counseled himself to take great care with this duel. Any aggression on his part was bound to kill or permanently scar. That’s why he’d purposely kept the tip on his rapier. He’d rather go to his grave than cause one bit of damage to her perfect woman body.
“Now…what is it you say? En garde?”
She may be ready. He might never be. He watched as she bent her knees slightly, putting the hacked piece of material between her thighs, before leaning back, lifting her sword before her. Her stance put even more of her on display, and in a more alarming position. His hand shook too much to raise the blade. So, to disguise it, he started talking, using words of instruction - not to teach, but to temper and calm.
“You ever fence with an epee before?” he asked.
“I’m no beginner,” she replied, slashing at the air in the same movements she’d use if she held her Samurai sword.
“It’s not the same as your katana.”
“It’s a sword. It’s capable of killing. What else is there?”
“A Samurai sword has a distinctive curve to it, created during the quenching process. They have the sharpest edge known to mankind. Made of polished, high-carbon steel, it’s extremely dangerous…on one side. Capable of slicing right through any number of things with one stroke. Such a stroke is delivered with a hacking, slashing motion, usually downward, requiring both hands.” He demonstrated with his rapier, doing his best to move slowly. Otherwise it would be a blur.
Her blade lowered a fraction.
“An epee, such as the one you hold, is light and flexible, meant to be a one-handed weapon. It’s sharp on every edge. It will cut, but not deeply. This is the reason for the intricate metalwork about the hilt. That part is called a cuff. It’s specially crafted to protect the hand.”
He watched her lower the sword more, flick a glance to it, and then look back at him. She didn’t alter the rest of her pose. He swallowed and continued.
“It’s not just the blade involved in fencing, however. The sport is made up of many moves and positions; parrying and thrusting, blocking and attacking. Footwork is nearly as important as the expertise behind the blade. Because it isn’t so much the power behind the blow, it’s the finesse with which it is delivered. Just so.”
He demonstrated with several slashes at the air, ending with a thrust that accompanied his feet sliding toward her. She moved out of her pose finally, standing so that her hacked skirt slid back into place, covering over and concealing some of her legs. If he still needed air, it would be easier to gain. And his hand no longer shook.
“Oh. I nearly forgot. It is the tip of the epee you must watch for, Cherie. It is the most dangerous. Used in stabbing. Into the heart.”
She went pale, and her eyes widened. As if he’d actually do such a thing. It was unthinkable. Atrocious. Hideous. All he wanted was her. In his arms, his bed, and his life. And this was the only way he knew to gain all of that.
“That’s why these swords have a tip guard. No killing tonight. Just touché.”
“Touché?”
“A touch of the tip to the torso. This is a touché. It would score you a point in any fencing match.”
“What are these points worth?”
“Between us? You may ask what you will. I already know what mine shall be. For starters, I’m taking the little bracelet you wear.”
She watched as he put his right leg forward and lifted his sword, while his left hand went behind his back, palm outward.
“You ready?” he asked.
She mirrored his pose and then nodded.
“Very good. We’ll begin.”
Jean-Pierre danced toward her, controlling the downward motion of his sword so she could see it. Her blade stopped his, sending the sound of ringing steel into the room. He immediately adjusted his blade to the exact opposite angle, coming at her again. She parried it perfectly. He slid two steps to the right, flipping his sword upward at her as he did so. The next sword move was back down. She blocked both. He spun, slammed his blade against the one she hacked toward his back, and thoroughly enjoyed her gasp of surprise as he got back around to facing her.
He clicked his tongue at her before pushing at their locked blades, using more force than he intended. His groan accompanied her stumble before she caught her balance and resumed the pose.
Good. She wasn’t cowed.
This time, he slid four steps forward to meet her blade, moving his epee in a flurry of thrusting, using slow enough motions they were easily seen and defended. She demonstrated instant reflex. Perfect timing. She countered every single blow, although they backed her up slightly as she did so. Such a thing showed not only skill, but quick learning ability and talent.
This mate of his…oh, my. She showed strength, in both purpose and frame. Her courage and tenacity drew him. Her beauty surrounded and embraced him. The little panting breaths she took delighted him. She was like an art form of perfection. His mind hammered with words, demanding an outlet.
Ah…how easily she wields her power! Sent on swift wings of beauty. Lit by her love. Powered by her soul. Surrounding and entrapping and embracing…
The tip of his sword slipped behind hers, touching with more force than he
liked at a spot beneath her left breast. The stroke ripped a hole in the material. She winced and looked up at him with what could be dismay. Jean-Pierre longed to kick himself.
He disguised it with a retreat, lifting his sword straight up as he backed, three steps, then four. She didn’t say anything, although her shoulders dipped almost imperceptibly. Drat his strength, and lack of attention!
“You know the penalty, Cherie. The bracelet. On the table.”
He motioned with his blade and watched as she complied, licking his lips and forcing down the surge of emotion. The woman had the finest backside he’d ever contemplated, too. It wasn’t possible to overlook as the dress caressed and displayed it for him. She’d turned and said something, and he had to concentrate to hear it.
“…happens now?”
“Do you forfeit?”
“Give up?”
“Oui.”
“Of course not.”
“Then come. We begin again.”
Jean-Pierre assumed the opening stance as before and waited. Her shoulders went back up, then her chin, and then she walked toward him to face him, sword up, legs separated, left hand behind her back.
“En garde,” he said.
This time, he started slower than before, his motions seeming to hesitate as he attacked, placing her on the defense with a continual series of thrusts. It felt like a drunkard’s pace, but it mustn’t be. She had the slightest frown of concentration marring her brows as she blocked him, blow for blow, her blade first one direction, then the other. Left. Right. Above her head. Before her torso. Again. Her feet slid more than once on the polished floor, causing him to catch his move midway. It probably made him appear more than awkward each time. He acted gangly. Uncoordinated.
He gained the advantage, watching her lips open to allow pants of breath, her arm movements slowing, her blows less effective; her steps not as crisp and clean. It wasn’t what he planned, but his mind didn’t stay on his actions. It was beset again with the wonder. The beauty. The complete sense of fulfillment. Knowing he had a mate and finding her was heady. And now here she was. With him.
