Guarded Heart

by Jennifer Blake

  What right had he to test her? She was paying him to impart his skill, not to judge her fitness. Yet he had a point, even if she didn't care for it.

  Stooping with careful fortitude, controlling the tremor in her fingers, she reached to pick up the foil then rose again to her full height. "Thank you for the object lesson," she said, her voice taut and her gaze on the blade she held. "I shall not display such weakness again."

  He did not reply for long moments. It seemed she could feel the heat of his regard as he searched her half-averted face. She was far too aware of its intensity and the intelligence which drove it. For a single instant, she felt a thrill of fear that he might penetrate her defenses, discover everything there was to know about her. Angry panic rose into her throat, threatening to choke her.

  "If you can manage that," he said finally, his voice laced with grave amusement, "then you will do better than most."

  Her relief was so great that she almost sagged with it. She was also annoyed with herself. He was surely not so perceptive as all that, could not be given his history. If he had been, she would not be here. "Then you may depend upon it."

  His brief nod indicated his satisfaction before he went on. "I should tell you, perhaps, that you have certain advantages on the fencing strip because you are a woman."

  "You surprise me."

  "Permit me to enumerate," he continued with the lift of a dark gold brow, perhaps for her ironic tone. "Because your lower limbs are in more equal proportion to your torso, compared to men with their longer legs, you will be more stable as you move up and down the strip, less likely to stumble or be forced backward against your will. Women are neater in their movements, generally speaking, also not given to wasting effort with showy moves that have no purpose. Some masters feel that women are better able to divide their attention during contests, to concentrate on what their opponent is doing while planning their next attack."

  If he was aware of the sacrilege in speaking to her of lower limbs, he seemed not to recognize it. That fact allowed her to ignore the heat in her own face. "And the disadvantages, since I'm sure you mean to point those out to me?"

  "A shorter reach in the lunge for most females, merely because their arms are not as long in proportion to their bodies. Added to that is an ingrained reluctance to attack when the opportunity presents itself or to take advantage of an opponent's weakness." His smile twisted. "The last two are traits to be encouraged in future wives and mothers, of course. You will have to overcome whatever lessons you may have learned in that direction."

  "I'll endeavor to do so. Is there more?"

  He tipped his head in assent as he turned to lift the other foil from its case. "Look at your weapon, if you please."

  "Yes?" She held it in imitation of the way he handled his, with her right hand grasping the handle and the tip balanced on the fingers of her left.

  'This is a foil, the practice weapon of fencing, lighter than an epee, more limber by far than a sword. It will become an extension of your arm, another finger on your hand."

  What followed then was careful instruction in the various parts of the fencing foil—handle and pommel, guard, crossbar, blade and blunted end—plus its care and cleaning. He then fitted the one she held to her hand, adding padding so the handle would not be too large, and showing her exactly how to hold it. She was introduced to the idea of the canvas chest padding which protected vital organs and the screen mask which prevented facial injury—these last by description only since they were not on hand this evening. When that was done, he directed her attention to the canvas fencing strip where he pointed out the exacting etiquette which applied there at all times, including the salute to an opponent and other aspects of sporting conduct.

  Ariadne listened to every word as if her life depended on it, which it might. As he spoke, her gaze rested on the face of the sword master. It was plain that he took special pleasure in the details of the profession he had embraced. His thoroughness also hinted at why he was a master of it. She could respect that, if nothing else.

  She had no wish to respect him, nor did she care to stand listening to the rhythm of his deeply mellow English voice which gave his French such a musical lilt. He was much too personable, too utterly sure of himself and his skill. The set of his shoulders and tilt of his golden head, the superb athletic control with which he moved, his manner of dress and the excellent fit of his clothing—everything about him set her teeth on edge. She could feel the magnetism of his masculine presence aligned to an effortless charisma which seemed to draw her to him. The way the light in the long room fell across his face— gilding it, picking out hollows, angles and shadows— was far too intriguing. The caverns of darkness beyond the candle's glow and the clattering rain outside the windows closed them in together in a most disturbing manner. If they did not soon get down to the business at hand, she would scream.

  "Monsieur Blackford," she said at last. "I have no desire or plan to set myself up as a female teacher of fencing. The intricacies of the art, while no doubt fascinating to its devotees such as yourself, are of little use to me. All I require is the ability to face a man with sword in hand."

  "Also to live to tell about it later, or so I assume. Or do you intend merely to sell your soul at a dear price?"

  "Whatever my purpose may be, lectures on the manners and graces of the dueling field seem unlikely to advance it."

  "The way a man dies, or lives as the case may be, is surely as important as the fact of it."

  She frowned at him even as the quiet intensity of his voice played havoc with her nerves, making her feel a little breathless while tightening the tips of her breasts. She had not expected such an idealistic attitude from him. "No doubt that's so," she said in tart rebuttal, "or it should be, in a bout between equals over a point of honor. The meeting I envision is quite otherwise."

  "A mere chastisement—swift, vicious and, if need be, underhanded."

  "I didn't say that."

  "As with a downdraft of carrion crows falling on dead meat, some things naturally follow."

  "Monsieur!" She could hardly believe that he had just compared her to a vulture. He had, hadn't he?

  He went on without pause or change of expression. "But don't think I delay for the sake of your sweet smiles. These preliminaries, tedious as they may be, are quite normal. It was only after a long month of such dull lessons and other exercises that I was first allowed to take sword in hand."

  He had received no smiles from her, sweet or not, which meant he was baiting her. That he dared did nothing to soothe her irritation. "What you may have suffered is of no concern to me since I have only one meeting for which to prepare instead of a lifetime of such things," she said as she whipped the air before him with a singing hiss of her blade. "Could we please get to the true use of these foils?"

  He moved so swiftly it was a mere blur in the candlelight. One moment he stood at ease three paces away, the next she was lodged against his hard length, pressed to him from breast to knees with her wrist in his grasp and her foil held well away from their bodies. The breath left her lungs for a stunned instant. Then she inhaled sharply, jerking against his hold.

  "Never take a swipe at a man with sword in hand unless you mean it," he said with biting precision as he glared down at her. "A swordsman's instinct is for instant, unthinking defense. His very life depends on it. If he holds a sword of his own, the attacker could be spitted before he sees whether it's friend or foe, man or woman. He might, no doubt would, cry out to heaven at the pity of piercing so soft a breast as yours, but you would be no less dead."

  She could feel the thud of his heart, the hard muscles of his arm as they pressed into her through the stays at the back of her bodice, the firm columns of his legs where he had waded into her skirts. His body heat seemed to seep into her pores, routing a chill she had not known she felt. A shiver caught her unaware, and she struggled briefly against his hold. It was stronger than any she had ever known, far more inescapable than any her hu
sband had ever employed. It seemed to sap her will, so it was all she could do to remain stiff and unyielding in his grasp instead of leaning into its steel-like support.

  "Release me," she said between her teeth.

  "On the instant, if you will tell me you take my meaning."

  "I may have been careless, but I'm not stupid. I understand perfectly."

  A short, silent laugh shook him; she felt it. "Valiant and vinegary. It must suffice. Because it does, I will speed the lessons to reach a match with foils as soon as possible. First, however, there are a few more details you should know."

  As abruptly as he had caught her to him, he let her go. She swayed a little, seeking her balance. He put out a quick hand in aid but she only glanced at it, uncomprehending.

  Being held in his arms should have been loathsome and her release a joy. That neither was true stunned her into immobility. She had been surprised by his swiftness, angered by his daring, stirred by the heated hardness of his body but not, unaccountably, repulsed. To be set away from him gave her a hollow feeling in her stomach, as if she had been rejected. It was disconcerting in the extreme and, yes, even a little frightening. What manner of woman was she that she could be affected in this way?

  She had planned so carefully. She had known Gavin Blackford was attractive to women. Why had she not taken that detail into consideration?

  The truth was, she had thought herself immune. Because she had known no man in a physical sense except her elderly husband who roused mere compassion, had met none in the salons of Paris who caused her heart to beat faster, she had discounted the possibility of a physical response. That had been an error, one to be avoided from this point onward. She truly did learn from her mistakes.

  "Madame?"

  She lifted her lashes to search his face for triumph, amusement, some sign that he recognized her dilemma. The blue depths of his eyes were clear, his firm mouth with its sensual curves and tucked corners unsmiling; a quirked brow expressed nothing more than polite inquiry.

  He had taken her foil as he stepped away, firmly removing it from her possession and placing it on the side table. It was just as well. She had greater need of a living teacher than a dead one.

  "You spoke of other details," she said, her voice strained.

  He was still for a long moment before he gave a short nod. "So I did. Let us talk of stamina and breathing, the placement of feet, chalk lines and, above all, control."

  "Control." She had taken a deep, reviving breath while he spoke and was glad to discover that her voice was now reasonably well-modulated.

  "Of both our weapons and ourselves," he answered, going on without pause, "Come, take your place here on the piste."

  He didn't touch her, but only indicated with a smooth gesture of one hand where he wanted her to stand. Lips compressed, she moved to where he directed, turned to face him. It seemed, with his talk of control, that he might have noticed her confusion after all. That would not do. The last thing she wanted was for him to think there was anything personal in her approach to him. Pride would not permit the use of feminine wiles as a trap. Neither could she see any satisfaction in it.

  "Now," he said, his features serious as he joined her on the stretch of canvas, "hold out your arms in this manner."

  She did as he illustrated, spreading her arms away from her body and as straight as the tightly fitted sleeve of her walking costume would allow. He shifted until their fingertips overlapped a few inches. Then, as she watched, he turned three-quarters toward her and dropped into a crouch with knees spread, right arm still extended and left bent at the elbow with his hand held at the level of his head.

  "Face me and take this position with your right arm extended."

  She followed the directive, though she could feel a flush burn its way from her neck to her hairline. All her life long she had been told that a lady never sat or stood with her knees apart. To deliberately spread them, and in front of this Englishman, was like abandoning all modesty. It felt suggestive, even erotic, though she recognized the stance as the typical swordsman's crouch often seen in the mock swordplay of opera and theater.

  "Lower," he said. "Bend your knees more. Lift your arms higher."

  Her skirts puddled on the floor around her as she complied with the first command, but her tight sleeves prevented elevation of her arms much above the level of her waist. She snatched at the cloth constricting her shoulders, attempting to drag it higher.

  He shook his head. "Let that go for the moment, though you will need to wear something with more ease as we progress. Now. Raise your heels until you are on your toes. Lower again. Raise and lower. Again, and yet again. Excellent. This is the movement you will do a hundred times each morning, and again each evening, in order to strengthen the leg muscles. You see?"

  "I see." What she saw was the flexing of the long muscles in his legs and the faint impression of manly parts at his crotch. That was before she dragged her gaze upward to where amusement glimmered in his eyes. He apparently understood her discomfiture but thought it misplaced, or else that she had brought it upon herself so had no right to protest. Nor would she, though she clenched her teeth until the muscles of her jaws ached.

  "Bien. Now lunge toward me—like so."

  He launched himself, hand closed as if he grasped a foil. The movement was well-oiled, from thousands upon thousands of repetitions, as natural to him as breathing. It was swift, silent and so powerful that his fist came within inches of her chest. His features were set and his eyes suddenly opaque, as if he had closed off all feeling, retreating inside himself to a place where none could reach. If there had been a sword in his hand, she knew without question that she would be dead.

  She had not flinched or moved. It was some consolation.

  Sudden anger boiled up inside her as he retreated to his former stance. She surged in his wake with her own imaginary sword gripped tight. Her aim was low, held by her sleeve and so angled downward. When she stopped, her tight fist grazed his groin.

  They stood in frozen tableau. An instant later, his lips twitched and bright hilarity leaped into his eyes. With a crack of laughter, he reeled away, his upper body racked by chuckles that had a rusty sound.

  Mortification held Ariadne immobile for long seconds. She spun then, clapping her hands to her fiery cheeks as she put her back to him.

  She knew, oh, she did know, what lay behind the smooth front of his pantaloons where her knuckles had grazed him, knew the meaning of the steel-like firmness she had touched. That she'd had the temerity, or the bad luck, to land just there was one thing, but that he could laugh at her for it was quite another. She saw nothing remotely funny about it.

  That something in the lesson thus far had aroused him left her aghast as well. Men were indiscriminate in their passions, or so she gathered from her sojourn in Parisian society, but this was most unsuitable. How was she to continue if she had to worry that he might press unwelcome attentions upon her?

  Even so, she was aware of the slow, hot shift of some half-realized feeling inside her. Part of it was gratification that a man of such dangerous reputation could see her as desirable. For the rest, she preferred not to look too closely.

  Passions of the fevered, desperate kind portrayed between doomed lovers in her favorite operas were foreign to Ariadne. She had been fond of her husband in a mild fashion, had honored him for his kindness and attention to her comfort. Allowing him to make love to her had been a duty, one never too onerous or particularly unsettling. Afterward, he had always been so grateful, so very loving that it was nearly enough. Yet sometimes when he had fallen into snoring sleep, she had lain staring into the dark while her body jerked with nerves and unsettled yearning and tears tracked slowly into her hair. And she had wondered then, as she did now, if it might not have been different with another man.

  But not this one. No, never, ever this one.

  Four

  Her face, her face...

  Gavin choked, trying to control the unholy amus
ement that shook him. His glacially superior pupil could not have looked more appalled if she had discovered he had a jungle snake in his pantaloons. He was sure she would have preferred it.

  Regardless, her lunge had been well-executed. She had taken him by surprise as no one had in many a long day, not since he first stepped onto a fencing strip. Her form had been excellent, particularly given the handicap of petticoats, corseting and the ridiculously close-fitting sleeves which rendered a woman helpless in the current fragile and wan style. It was possible she might turn out to be a credit to her maître.

  Not that the possibility was an object with him. His purpose from the moment he entered the garçonnière had been to discourage her ambition to become a swords-woman. On second thought now, he was inclined to go forward with these visits. He could not remember when he had been so entertained. And if the truth be told, he wondered what it would take to bring the lady to touch him with willingness, perhaps even pleasure.

  No small amount of that inclination was brought on by the flash of awareness he had caught once again in her eyes, some flicker of hot emotion that roused his curiosity. He had the distinct impression that she would not have cared if she had emasculated him. It was a novel idea, given her remote attitude, one he was inclined to put to the test if the situation arose.

  Schooling his features to suitable gravity, he turned back toward his pupil. "Forgive me, Madame Faucher. My sense of the ridiculous sometimes runs away with me."

  "You are saying that I..."

  "No, no, you mistake me," he assured her. "Ferocity in the attack is a fine thing, but requires a weapon to complete it. Perhaps we should take up the foils for this session after all."

  "You mean it?"

  "I do," he answered, and stepped to where the foils lay on the table with candlelight glimmering along their blades. Choosing one at random, he presented it formally, with a bow and the hilt across his wrist.