‘Give me your helmet and your rapier.’ Haviland’s tones were stern, leaving no opportunity for argument. He didn’t want her to feel there was a chance to contest his decision.
She backed up, shaking her head. She risked low, fast words. ‘You will not die for me.’
‘I don’t mean to die. I am safer out there. Julian means to murder you. He’ll recognise me, but no one else will. Perhaps he’ll swap out his rapier or perhaps he won’t even try if it’s not his intended target,’ Haviland reasoned. ‘Who will protect Antoine if you fall? Who will protect the salle d’armes? Julian will have everything he wants with you gone.’ He did not give voice to the rest of that argument. If Julian did succeed in harming him, it would accomplish nothing, move none of Julian’s avaricious goals closer to achievement.
‘Haviland, you have a family, people counting on you,’ she argued. ‘You simply can’t throw yourself away.’
‘Neither can you. I will beat him,’ Haviland answered swiftly. They were running out of time. He could hear officials taking their places, the rustle of papers and the murmur of conferring voices. He ran his hand down the side of her mask as if it were her cheek. ‘And when I get back, I mean to marry you if you’ll have me.’ He hadn’t meant to do it quite that way. He’d meant for there to be champagne, roses and candles. But the words tumbled out, a promise that he had not been daunted by her brother’s disclosures, nor his family’s expectations, nor would he be daunted by Julian’s poison. After all, Julian’s rapier would never pierce his padding. Julian would have to go for a very specific mark on his arms or legs.
Haviland smiled, his world shrunk, the crowd noise faded. Thoughts of Julian and poison receded. There was only the two of them in their tiny curtained alcove. ‘Do you want to marry me? There’s no reason you can’t any more. You don’t have to protect Antoine from me. It’s just up to you. Can I be enough for you?’ It might have been the bravest question he’d ever asked.
‘What about Lady Christina? Your family? Wanting and being able to are different things.’
Haviland pressed a finger to her lips. ‘Your decision is not about them. What about you? What about us? You are my priority. It doesn’t have to be us or them, but that will be their choice to make. I’ve already made mine.’
‘My brother...’ she began.
‘I have a plan for him, too,’ he breathed, his mouth close to hers, close enough to silence her with a kiss, long and full. Barely a day had passed since they were together, but it felt an eternity. His body was hungry. He wanted to touch her, taste her, hear her little sighs as they took pleasure in each other. ‘Don’t worry so much.’ He pushed back her hair, his hand cradling her head. ‘I love you, Alyssandra. That’s the best reason I can think of for getting married. That and the fact that it makes it official: you are not alone any more.’ He pressed his forehead to hers. ‘I am learning that sometimes being brave is about trusting others to do right by me. Perhaps you need to learn that lesson, too.’
Outside the curtain, the announcer began his speech. He went through the standard rules; the bout would be fought with weapons from the salle itself, making the rapiers identical so there would be no technological advantage for either side. Haviland didn’t listen further. He was too intent on the woman before him. One more victory and he could focus on what was truly important.
He took her face in both hands and kissed her one last time. She reached up and put the mask over his head. She bit her lip and then it all came in a rush. ‘Watch out for Julian’s—’
‘Right-side attacks,’ he finished speaking for her and they laughed together. ‘I know.’ She needed something to do, something to take her mind off the bout. ‘I need you to change your clothes and go up into the stands. Find my friend, Archer Crawford, have him go for the inspector. Then tell your brother. I want you with him. I need to know you are safe.’
It was time to go. The announcer was making introductions. The crowd’s momentum was starting to build. He heard Alyssandra behind him. ‘Keep your shoulder up.’ He smiled to himself and climbed the steps to the stage, hearing the words that went unspoken in that four-word phrase. Alyssandra loved him. A man waited with a poisoned blade, but all was right in the world.
* * *
The world slowed. Alyssandra pressed her eyes to the peepholes in the viewing room. She’d done all Haviland had asked of her. There was nothing left to do but watch. She’d rather watch from the stands, but she’d been conspicuous enough when she’d gone up to find Archer. This was not a venue open to female attendance and she’d promised Haviland she’d stay with Antoine in case...in case the unthinkable happened.
Beside her, Antoine was still as stone, shocked to his core at Julian’s betrayal. Even now, she thought he didn’t quite believe it. But he believed her. Julian had been wrong about that. She sucked in her breath as Haviland avoided a graze of Julian’s blade on his sleeve. Julian had recognised immediately his opponent wasn’t her, but it had not deterred him as Haviland had hoped.
Haviland retaliated with an aggressive move that brought their blades close together, crossed and tangled. But Julian was strong and he pushed back. Both blades spun out of their competitors’ hands, landing on the floor. ‘No!’ she cried out, grasping for Antoine’s hand. She felt anew the panic of having a front seat to a man’s murder. The man she loved. He was going to marry her. If he survived this. Had she sent him to his doom?
On the floor, there was a scramble for the blades. Then it hit her. The blades were identical! How would they know? It would be a relief if Haviland came up with it, but a horror, too. Would Haviland kill Julian? Would he have a choice? She’d not sent him to be a murderer any more than she wanted him murdered. The scene on the floor had turned violent. Ignoring the officials’ call for a break while rapiers were reclaimed, Julian tackled Haviland. The two went down and the piste became a brawl; punching, kicking, rolling as they grappled with each other awkwardly through the thick padding of their vests and masks. Julian was trying to rip the mask off Haviland’s face.
‘No!’ Alyssandra exhaled as they rolled dangerously close to one of the blades. Exposure wasn’t the only risk Haviland ran out there. It would be too easy to be accidentally pricked. But the brawl couldn’t last long—already she could see the officials moving in to separate them, but not fast enough. The two had scrambled to their feet, coming up with rapiers, although it was impossible to tell who had which. One look at Julian’s ashen face suggested, however, that he knew.
‘Haviland has the blade,’ Alyssandra whispered. It should have relieved her to know the blade was out of Julian’s hand, but it had just the opposite effect. Haviland had to fight carefully, had to consider every strike.
‘He should use the passata sotto.’ Antoine scowled when an opportunity to score passed. ‘He could come up under Julian’s blade and strike at Julian’s flank.’
‘And risk killing Julian?’ Alyssandra responded. ‘All it will take is a nick of the blade.’ Haviland was in an impossible situation. Then Julian made a sudden move, a startling turn in an attempt to disarm Haviland. She saw it all in slow motion. Haviland threw up his arm to ward off the unorthodox move, his blade catching Julian’s sword arm, slicing into the sleeve of his shirt. Julian went to his knees, rapier clattering away, his other hand gripping the sliced arm, red showing on the fabric of his shirt.
Alyssandra fought back a scream and raced from the room. She did not care who saw her. She knew only that she had to get to Haviland. He would need her. Haviland’s mask was off when she reached them and he was kneeling beside Julian, gripping the man’s shoulders. She fell to her knees beside Haviland on the floor. But there was little she could do.
Julian was dying, writhing and cursing on the floor, and it was a horrible sight. Julian was the enemy, he’d threatened her, but it was not in her nature to enjoy death. ‘We have to do something!’
‘I need a knife!’ Haviland shouted. ‘I need someone to hold him.’ A knife materialised an
d Haviland ripped apart Julian’s sleeve, careful to avoid contact with the blood.
Julian screamed at the sight of the knife against his flesh. ‘You don’t need to kill me any quicker, the poison will do it soon enough.’
Alyssandra fought to hold his shoulders, watching in fascination as Haviland scored an ‘x’ over the tiny scratch with the knife and pressed his mouth against the wound. He sucked and spat, sucked and spat again. Over and over until the crowd had gone silent, the mass panic ebbing. Nolan and Archer made their way to Haviland’s side with the inspector while officials began to usher spectators out.
‘I need a bandage,’ Haviland said, hoarse from his labours. Alyssandra grabbed up a piece of ruined shirt and handed it to him. He tied it around the wound site. ‘I think you’ll live, Anjou.’
He’d saved Julian, his enemy. Alyssandra stared at him with admiration, her heart filling with love all over again as if she didn’t have reason enough to love him. Not many men would make the effort on behalf of a man who would have willingly killed them. She went to him, letting him wrap a warm, strong arm about her. Archer and Nolan helped Julian to his feet. But they weren’t out of the woods yet. There would be explanations—why hadn’t Antoine Leodegrance been under the mask? Why had the blade been poisoned? The whole situation was starting to unravel. It would only take a few words from Julian to expose everything in a very public fashion.
* * *
‘You should have let me die.’ Julian shook off their hands and snarled at Haviland with such vitriol that Alyssandra nearly recoiled.
Haviland met his hatred coolly. ‘You owe me a life and I want Antoine Leodegrance’s. That is a fair trade for what I’ve given you today.’ He was asking for a confession and for protection of Antoine’s identity.
Alyssandra watched the last bit of honour stir in Julian’s eyes. ‘You shall have it.’
The inspector stepped forward, and Nolan made introductions. ‘Inspector Bouchard, this is Alyssandra Leodegrance, the vicomte’s sister.’ Nolan gave her a cheeky grin. ‘Miss Leodegrance, this is Inspector Bouchard. He and I play cards on occasion.’
Alyssandra smiled back. Everything was going to be all right.
* * *
And it was. Especially later that night as she lay in Haviland’s arms, candlelight dancing about the room, her body and mind sated from desire fulfilled. As soon as they were able, they’d come here and retreated from the world, making love in a celebration of life both past and future. She’d almost lost him today to the slightest prick of a rapier, proving how dear and precious each moment was and how small the obstacles one raised to their own happiness could be when weighed against what one had to gain.
She stirred in his arms, turning to face him. ‘I love you.’ She’d missed the opportunity to say it today and it had almost been her last chance.
‘I know,’ he murmured drowsily.
‘You don’t know,’ she argued playfully. ‘I didn’t say it until now.’
He nuzzled her neck. ‘Yes, you did, when you told me not to drop my shoulder. That’s how the great fencer, Alyssandra Leodegrance, says “I love you”.’
She laughed. He had understood after all. ‘Out of curiosity how does Haviland North say “I love you”?’
He rolled her beneath him, and she gasped. ‘Don’t you know? With his mouth, with his eyes, with his hands. Perhaps it would be better if I showed you.’ And he did, beginning with a trail of hot kisses that ran all the way to the damp curls between her thighs and ending with their bodies joined in a star-splitting climax that left them exhausted...until the next time.
Epilogue
When Haviland North, fourth Viscount Amersham, imagined his wedding it had always been in a big church filled with hothouse roses and hothouse people, a useless white runner on the aisle for the bride to walk upon once before it was thrown out, and an icy, beautiful but remote woman he hardly knew floating towards him in another useless piece of expensive frippery while he stood straight and immaculate at the front, showing not a single emotion. But now, when he pictured his wedding, what lay before him was not that. It was better. Much better.
The little church in Fontainebleau was turned out with simple vases full of late spring flowers, looking its best even though the wedding was attended by only seven people counting the reverend and his wife, Nolan, Brennan, the bride and groom and the bride’s brother. The wooden floor was bare of any decorative runner and the woman walking towards him drew every emotion he possessed to the fore of his mind. He was certain they were written on his face for all to see. The only item this wedding shared with his original vision was that the bride was beautiful. But that was where all similarities ended. Alyssandra was radiant in a gown of buttercup yellow that made her skin glow and her caramel hair shine. She vibrated with life as she looked at him, love in her eyes. She was his—his partner in all things.
And there were a lot of things to partner. In the time before the wedding, he’d encouraged Antoine not to sell the salle d’armes, but to keep it in the family by turning it over to him. Antoine would be able to live in the country while he and Alyssandra divided their time between Fontainebleau and Paris. Alyssandra would pioneer fencing classes for women in the private instruction rooms of the salle. But all that would be after their honeymoon in Italy.
The only sad note for Haviland today was that Archer had left the previous week, going ahead to Italy to prepare for the annual horse race in Siena, the Palio. But they had said their farewells with promises to catch up with him there as part of the honeymoon. Antoine met Alyssandra at the end of the aisle and placed her hand in Haviland’s, the aisle not being wide enough to accommodate both of them and his chair. Country life agreed with him, Haviland was pleased to note. Or perhaps it was the housekeeper they’d hired to open the house. Haviland thought she’d rather taken a fancy to the vicomte. Either way, Alyssandra need not worry about leaving Antoine for their wedding trip.
In the month since the tournament much had been settled. Julian had been sentenced to house parole in Lyons so that he would not be a constant reminder in their lives. But Haviland’s parents had not been one of the things settled. His father had written a vituperative letter deriding his decision to marry elsewhere and to stay there. He had expected that. However, there had been a surprise. His mother had enclosed a private note wishing him happiness. There was hope in that direction, then. And he was optimistic that, given time and eventually grandchildren, his parents would relent. He didn’t hate them, he just loved his freedom more, loved Alyssandra more than even that.
The reverend began the service—where Nolan had found a Church of England man in France he didn’t know. He didn’t bother to question it. The reverend intoned the words, ‘with my body I thee worship’, and Alyssandra beamed up at him, mischief sparkling in those dark eyes. ‘I’m already thinking about tonight,’ she whispered naughtily.
Haviland raised an eyebrow. ‘Really? Tonight? Is that the best you can do because I’m already thinking how I will worship you this afternoon.’
She blushed, and the reverend coughed. Haviland didn’t mind. He was alive, he could feel it in his bones. He’d set out on this journey with all his hopes pinned on Paris, and Paris, the city of love, had not disappointed.
* * * * *
Keep reading for an excerpt from A MISTRESS FOR MAJOR BARTLETT by Annie Burrows.
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Chapter One
Sunday, 18th June—1815
‘Limber up, fast as you can!’ Colonel Randall rode up to Major Bartlett and pointed to a spot to the rear. ‘We are heading to the ridge up yonder. You will recall we came in that way yesterday, past a place—what was it called?—Hougoumont. The French are massing their heavy cavalry between the château and the Charleroi road. Take up your position between the two infantry squares up there. And be quick about it!’
Major Bartlett kept his face impassive as he saluted. Quick? That was going to be a relative term given the sodden state of the ground.
‘Right, lads,’ he said, turning to his men. ‘You heard the Colonel. At the double!’
The speed at which they turned the gun carriages and started ploughing their way across the field had much more to do with the shells exploding all around them, spraying them with mud, than willingness to obey their commanding officer. The sooner they got to higher ground, the sooner they could start inflicting some damage on the Frenchmen currently trying to blow them to kingdom come. Not that Major Bartlett had any complaints. He had a rather elastic attitude to obeying orders himself. In any other unit his tendency to interpret orders to suit himself would have got him up on a charge—indeed, had done so on several occasions. Only Colonel Randall had appreciated that his ability to think on his feet, rather than dumbly obeying orders, could be an advantage, taking him into his unit and giving him promotion.
Still, when he glanced across the ridge, and saw that his team had beaten Major Flint’s to reach their designated position, he felt a twinge of pride in his men. They’d worked with a swiftness and efficiency he’d drilled into them, even if, at this moment, they’d worked the way they had because their hides depended on it.
Rake Most Likely to Rebel (Rakes On Tour Book 1) Page 21
