Haviland’s hand closed around the grip of his foil, letting the feel of his weapon centre him. He had to empty his mind. A full mind was what Julian wanted. Julian would like to turn him against Alyssandra. What was he going to put his trust in? Julian’s viperous tongue or Alyssandra’s passion? He took an experimental swipe with his foil, exhaling a breath, purifying his thoughts with the exhalation. He closed his eyes. Words could lie, but the body couldn’t. For now, he would simply believe in her.
* * *
‘I don’t believe Julian’s presence in the prize round is a foregone conclusion this year.’ Antoine pressed his eyes to the peepholes. He could only see the match from one end since the stands erected for the occasion obscured viewing the matches from the sidelines. ‘What do you think, Alyssandra? North or Anjou? This might be the highlight of the tournament. The crowd is excited. Listen to them.’
Alyssandra joined him in the locked room, glad to see he was in better spirits. ‘Haviland will beat him,’ she said tersely. He had to. The alternative was too disastrous to think of. She had gone too far with Julian the night before. She thought of the note she’d received after her match, tucked into Pieter’s gear. Julian had made his intentions clear. She was frightened of what he might do to Pieter Gruber on the piste if she gave him the chance. He would not care if he was ejected from the tournament. No one would even pay attention to his infraction if it revealed Pieter Gruber was a woman and Antoine’s sister besides.
‘Haviland? Is that how it is these days?’ Antoine looked away from the match to study her. ‘That’s a long way from Viscount Amersham or Mr North. When he first came, he was merely the Englishman to you.’
She met her brother’s eyes, unwilling to hide any longer. Too much had been hidden for too long. ‘Don’t worry. It’s a temporary affaire, nothing more. It will end shortly.’ When she beat him and prevented him from winning the tournament and he realised his dreams weren’t worth his future.
‘Why would it end? Does he not care for you?’ Antoine asked carefully.
‘He’s not in a position to offer for me, if that’s what you’re thinking.’ Alyssandra busied herself with looking through the eyeholes, but that only put Haviland firmly in her view, most particularly his backside in her view.
Antoine was silent for a moment. ‘What position would that be?’
‘He’s on a Grand Tour with his friends. He plans to go on to Italy and study there.’ It was the safe answer. She couldn’t bring herself to say the rest—that there was a woman expecting to marry him back home in England. Never mind that he didn’t love her, or that she didn’t love him. And certainly never mind that Haviland had declared his plans to be otherwise. He wanted to stay in Paris, wanted to stay with her. Haviland would do his duty because his honour demanded it and in a fight between his honour and his freedom, honour would win. Alyssandra would see to it even though it hurt. The woman she would be sending him back to would never know him, never know how he looked when passion took him, or how he danced on bridges in the moonlight. He would never do those things with that woman. Those memories belonged to her alone.
‘Perhaps he needs a reason to stay,’ Antoine mused. ‘If you gave him a reason, he might be persuaded. I know I told you to be careful with him, but since you weren’t...?’
Alyssandra scolded softly, ‘He already questions why a man with scars would need his sister so much. I think Haviland staying is the last thing we need.’
‘But the first thing you need,’ Antoine countered. ‘You care for him.’
‘I care for you more.’ She looked away in order to end the argument, her attention going back to the match. It was as close as she’d ever come to admitting out loud just how deep her feelings for Haviland went. ‘Watch, Antoine. They’re about to begin.’ She sent up a prayer that Haviland be safe. Julian would stop at nothing, but surely Haviland knew that and would be on his guard.
Antoine wasn’t ready to let it go. His voice was quiet beside her. ‘But if you could have him, would you want him?’
Yes and always, her heart answered silently. But it was an impossibility. If he knew what she’d done, Haviland would never forgive her deception. He would never accept a relationship that had been begun with the intent to conceal secrets.
Chapter Twenty-Two
‘I think I’ll start with your heart. Oh, I forgot, I already have,’ Julian sneered and parried. But Haviland knew the words were an attempt to regain ground. He was giving Julian no quarter and it showed. He meant to end this bout as quickly as possible. The sooner this was over, the sooner he could get to Alyssandra. Until he saw her, Julian’s words could have no power.
Haviland made a hard thrust, catching Julian’s blade. It should have turned Julian’s foil aside, but instead he felt a tremor run up the length of his own blade. It caught him off guard, giving Julian an opening to advance. Julian brought his foil across Haviland’s in a strong sweep. Haviland was ready for him, but his weapon wasn’t. His blade quivered, undeniable proof something was wrong. Haviland parried, blocking the move, but Julian could see the blade was in distress. He struck again and again with the same sweeping thrust, hammering on the weakening foil. Each blow taxed the strength of Haviland’s arm in his attempts to keep the foil steady and recover fast enough to meet the next onslaught.
Reality sank in. At this rate, the blade would break and soon. Julian had seen it weakening and was shamelessly exploiting that fact. He was going to lose. Haviland moved to launch one last offensive, but his blade hadn’t the strength. On the next thrust, it met Julian’s foil and snapped five inches from the hilt in the place Julian had been relentlessly catching. He could hear the crowd give a collective moan of disappointment, a few gasps of disbelief. For the fraction of a second he, too, was caught up in the disbelief staring at the broken foil. But Julian wasn’t done yet.
Julian didn’t stop for the broken blade. Even though the officials had immediately stepped forward to call the match, Julian carried on his attack, driving for Haviland’s shoulder. Out of instinct, Haviland blocked with his foil, but a broken weapon was no match for Julian’s speed and wrath. The buttoned tip of Julian’s foil pierced the padding at his shoulder in a legal touch. ‘Now I’ve won on points. No one can claim otherwise,’ Julian hissed under his breath as the officials had them separate and return to their own ends of the piste. The officials conferred together briefly. One official stepped forward and proclaimed the outcome of the match to the crowd.
‘Victory in the second semi-final round goes to Julian Anjou on the grounds that his opponent is unable to continue. The final touch to the shoulder will not be counted.’
Down the length of the piste, Haviland watched Julian’s face mottle. That was not the decision he was looking for. He’d wanted a decisive victory, one that nobody could question. He didn’t want anyone to think that, but for the broken blade, the outcome might have been different.
The crowd applauded, but the applause lacked some of its earlier excitement. For them, the outcome of the much-anticipated match up had been anticlimactic and in some ways inconclusive. There was a small commotion at the officials’ table where the matches were set and another announcement was made. Pieter Gruber had forfeited his place in the final. The tournament would move straight to the prize round—the chance to directly face the tournament’s renowned host, Antoine Leodegrance. The match would be held in an hour, giving the victor time to recover and it would be fought with rapiers, Antoine Leodegrance’s famed weapon of choice. Julian tossed Haviland an ‘I told you so’ look while the crowd murmured its surprise and disappointment in rising volumes.
Haviland felt his gut clench. The forfeit seemed to confirm all that Julian had hatefully intimated. Alyssandra was playing a dangerous masquerade. And now Julian had what he wanted: a chance to prove himself in public once again as the great instructor, a man who might dare call himself Leodegrance’s equal. But if that was no longer enough, he had a chance to expose Alyssandra. Of course, he’d
have to choose. Julian couldn’t have them both. Perhaps Julian’s own ego would keep Alyssandra safe in the end.
Haviland stepped from the arena. He looked down at the snapped blade still in his hand, his fingers running over the rough break. His fingers suddenly stalled and he brought the blade up for closer inspection. Blades did snap due to rust and misuse, but he took impeccable care of his. He examined the exposed cross-section and swore under his breath. This blade had been tampered with. There was a notch where Julian had hammered away until the blade had given. There had been only one time when the blade had been out of his sight and that was when it had been taken for inspection before the semi-final. Since the semi-final was fought with personal blades, they were always examined. If Julian was willing to go to such lengths to ensure victory and reach the final it was further proof Julian meant to do the Leodegrances harm. What Julian had done was tantamount to a declaration of war.
Julian had made his choices. He had his own choices to make as well. To go and bow to duty or to stay and pursue his freedom here? That would depend on Alyssandra. Had she used him for pleasure alone? Was there truly nothing between them to build a future on? Maybe in the end, this hadn’t been any different than his other affairs. He’d just wanted to be so much more than a temporary bedfellow with a title, a phallus with a fortune.
It was hard to think of their time together that way. Perhaps that’s why he’d been so eager to set aside seeking those answers from Alyssandra. He’d had excuses aplenty to wait. The affair was short term, the affair was physical only, there was the tournament to concentrate on. But now, those items did not apply. There was no longer a reason to wait. The tournament was over. He had lost.
* * *
Dear God, Haviland had lost! Alyssandra set back from the viewing holes with a sigh of disbelief that mirrored the crowd’s. She’d had not been prepared for that. The depths of her disappointment, her incredulity, revealed to her just how much she’d counted on Haviland’s victory, how much she’d come to rely on him.
‘It’s hardly his fault,’ Antoine said, sounding as disheartened by the result as she. ‘Foils snap. It happens. It is rather unfortunate. If it’s any consolation, Julian looks displeased, too. The officials are announcing the decision.’
Julian wouldn’t like winning on a technicality, but he would take it gladly. He’d been losing up until the point Haviland’s blade had weakened. Under the circumstances, he couldn’t have wished for better if he’d arranged it. That thought made her sit up a little straighter. Had he? Could he have had Haviland’s weapon tampered with? A man who hired thugs in alleyways would not shy away from notching a blade. ‘Antoine, you don’t think Julian had anything to do with the blade breaking, do you?’ She said the words carefully. It was a bold accusation to make.
Antoine looked aggrieved by the suggestion that one of the men in his salle d’armes would be capable of such treachery. ‘Blades break,’ he said firmly. It was easier for him to believe that statement than she. He didn’t know what she knew. Julian had done violence to Haviland on two occasions.
She was about to delicately push the subject matter when a loud call in the corridor pierced the shelter of their little room. Someone was calling her. Not someone, Haviland was calling her. And he was calling her by name.
Alyssandra shot a worried glance at her brother. Haviland was in the hall, shouting. She could only hope there was no one nearby to hear. What was he thinking? If he had known how much she needed to preserve her identity, he wouldn’t be outside shouting her name. Or maybe he didn’t care, came the niggling thought. Maybe he knew and was beyond discretion. ‘He’s come for his reckoning.’ Alyssandra stood and swallowed hard. Haviland had every right to be angry. Her secrets were a betrayal of all they’d shared. It would be better this way, to let him leave her in anger. But it wouldn’t be easier.
Antoine furrowed his brow, cocking his head to listen. ‘That doesn’t sound like an angry man.’
Alyssandra disagreed. It sounded like a man who’d come for answers, and she couldn’t quarrel with that. In her heart, she knew she’d treated him abominably, sharing with him only the intimacy of her body when he had shared his mind with her, opened himself up to her. You didn’t have a choice. You had a brother to protect, came the old argument. But it did little to soothe her.
Haviland was pounding on the doors now. They could hear the heavy thump of his fist on the panels as he came closer. ‘I will go out and meet him. I will try to protect you,’ Alyssandra promised. There was no way out of this viewing room except through the door. ‘If Haviland gets through the door, there’s nothing left to hide.’ She drew a deep breath. She was so tired of secrets, but it was almost over. She had to face Julian on the piste and then it would be done. She and Antoine could go to the country and put this chapter of their lives behind them. One more match, one more victory. She had to stay strong now when they were so near the end.
She stepped into the corridor, Haviland spying her immediately. He stopped. His features collected themselves into aristocratic coolness. He looked as he did when she’d first met him: calm, unflappable, untouchable, as if the world did not dare to bother him with its petty troubles. Almost. He’d not stopped to change after his match. He was dishevelled, dressed only in breeches and shirt showing signs of sweat. His dark hair fell forward over his brow. He’d come straight to her. It was either a sign of how deep his anger went or something else she dared not name. Naming it would make it all that much harder to let him go.
‘Are you Pieter Gruber?’ he asked in even tones, his eyes locked on hers, waiting, watching for the truth unflinchingly. Perhaps it was good he wasn’t yelling wild accusations and calling her every slanderous name known to womankind. If he was, it would make it easier to sell a lie because she wouldn’t care about his reaction.
‘Is that what Julian told you?’ She could be cool, too, even though she was hot with worry, hot with desire, beneath the surface. Just looking at him here in the dim corridor made her want him, made her want to die from the knowledge she might never have him again, never lie beside him again. Once he figured it all out, and she was sure he would now that he was so close, he wouldn’t want any part of her. He might even for a while hate himself for being duped. She’d never wanted that, never meant for that to happen. ‘I saw the two of you talking before the match. Is that the sort of poison he was pouring in your ear like the snake he is?’
‘He was talking.’ Blue eyes flashed at the insinuation he and Julian had somehow made up.
‘You were listening. Apparently.’ Maybe if they could fight over something, she wouldn’t have to answer the question.
‘I’m sorry that you think I’m a man who would be served his opinions by a man who has little credibility to recommend him,’ Haviland parried, arms crossed, eyes darkening dangerously. Her attack had been thwarted and now it was time for him to go on the offensive. ‘I had already made up my mind. Once I saw Pieter Gruber use his wrist I knew it was you. I know how your body moves, all grace and glide. I know what your body looks like, what it feels like. Did you think I could be in bed with you, or run my hands over your naked body, and not know you?’
His words were a rough caress. She did not miss the scold in them for underestimating him. But they were not meant only to punish. He was teasing her with pleasure, too, using words to conjure hot images, to kindle the heat in her belly. To what end? To lure out her last secrets? Could she trust him not just for herself, but for her brother? It wasn’t always for herself that she held back. She would find a way to live with the repercussions, but she could not assume that Antoine would. And what would trust result in? Would it be worth it? Or would he leave anyway, disgusted with her for one reason or another?
‘Yes, I was Pieter Gruber and, yes, it was selfish and risky. But I deserve a chance to prove myself and I did. There was no man my equal,’ she said defiantly. Perhaps this truth would distract him from the larger one.
He raised a brow as if he
doubted her confession. ‘Is that truly why you did it?’ He started circling her, and she started to move clockwise, refusing to let him stalk her.
‘You think it isn’t?’ she challenged. She was more comfortable quarrelling than disclosing. This was more familiar territory. She’d been quarrelling with Julian for years. She knew how to protect herself here.
‘No, I don’t.’ Haviland was cool. ‘If it was, you wouldn’t have forfeited the final. You would have enjoyed besting Julian, you would have been thrilled to be taking the stage in the finale against your brother. What better way to make your point than to face the great Leodegrance and perhaps even best him? And yet, when the moment came to prove yourself against truly great talent, you bowed out. That makes little sense. Only a coward would falter at the last, afraid to seize greatness for themselves.’ He paused. ‘I did not take you for a coward, Alyssandra.’
Those clipped, crisp English tones, so superior, so all knowing, provoked the tiger in her. She had to tread carefully here and not give that rash tiger free rein or she’d be saying too much. There was nothing to say so she fell back on her strategy of questioning to distract. ‘What exactly do you think explains it, then?’ They’d started circling one another again, crossing foot over foot as they stalked.
‘I think Pieter Gruber and Antoine Leodegrance are the same person, making it impossible for them to face each other in the finale.’
‘A woman masquerading as her brother? Do you hear how absurd that sounds?’ She wanted him to reject the proposition for himself before she had to affirm it. ‘Now, consider this: the brother is regarded as the finest swordsman on the Continent.’
Haviland was not daunted. ‘Consider this: his sister is his twin and was trained beside him by their father.’ He paused and cocked his head. ‘It seems less far-fetched now, coupled with the fact that the brother suffered from an accident three years ago.’ His features softened. He broke his circling and stepped across to her, his hand going to her cheek. ‘Did he die?’
Rake Most Likely to Rebel (Rakes On Tour Book 1) Page 19
