Guarded Heart

by Jennifer Blake

  The lady met his eyes for a long moment, her own darkly pensive, as if she wondered at his purpose. He could hardly blame her since he was not sure himself. Testing her further might be no more than an excuse to prolong the lesson. No matter; he would do it still. Like the war it resembled, a bout with crossed blades brought out the true natures of those engaged in it. There was little he would not know about the young widow Faucher when they were done.

  She lifted her chin as if accepting the challenge she saw in his eyes. Then she took the foil from him and stepped back with the quickness of distrust. He could not but approve. She had more reason than she knew.

  Instead of picking up his own foil, Gavin reached for the buttons of his double-breasted frock coat and slipped them from their holes before shrugging off the close-fitting garment and tossing it aside. Removing his watch and chain from his waistcoat pockets, he let them slide from his hand onto the table. He could have stopped there with perfect comfort, but it did not suit him. She was watching, he knew, for he could see her set and pale features from the corner of his eyes. With leisurely movements then, he freed his swirled-glass waistcoat buttons from their holes and stripped away that layer. It was a solecism for a gentleman to appear in his shirt sleeves in front of a lady, of course, and he half expected her to turn her back, make some protest, even leave him. She did none of those things, but stood waiting with a suspended look on her face.

  His impulse, to see if he could shake her nerve, was undoubtedly base, but he would not be deflected from it by her valiance. With a rueful smile curving his lips, he reached for his cream silk cravat, pulling it loose and discarding it, then removed, in fine deliberation, the two top studs of his shirt.

  "Unconventional, I will agree," he said in answer to the curl of her lower lip as he began to fold back the cuffs of his sleeves, "but I do not, as a rule, fence in full evening dress."

  "Only when honor demands it, I do understand. You must not regard my presence."

  "Oh, I don't since this is hardly a social occasion."

  "Precisely."

  It was a reminder, if he needed one, that there was no

  basis for the two of them to meet socially. None was required. Folding back the other cuff, he took his foil in a hard grip and stepped back onto the strip.

  "This," he said, tapping the canvas under their feet with the blunted tip of his blade, "is our world for the moment. If either of us steps off it, the bout is ended and the one who transgressed is the loser. If you want to concede at any time, you have only to say a single word: stop. If I touch you with my foil, you must acknowledge the hit by the classic signal of calling out louche. I will naturally do the same. We begin with a salute, after which we assume the guard position you have been shown. When I give the order, we will raise our weapons and cross them at the tips. I will then provide the signal to begin. Your object during this first lesson will be to touch me, no more than that. All targets are to be above the waist." He paused then ended in soft promise, "And my purpose, of course, will be to touch you. But...only above the waist."

  Her eyes blazed at him, hot as the fires of hell as she absorbed the innuendo, and rich color bloomed across her cheekbones. He was satisfied. Annoyance with him would perhaps compensate for whatever self-consciousness she might feel due to lack of skill and, just possibly, remove any curb she might be inclined to put on her natural instincts.

  He had not brought the usual chest padding and masks since he had expected to have no use for them this evening. It occurred to him as he stood there that without them this initial bout, or phrase d'armes, had the feel of a duel. It made no difference. He had no intention of harming a hair on the lady's head. That she could touch him was so unlikely that he hardly considered it at all.

  "Ready?" he asked with the lift of a brow.

  Her nod was positive, the grip she took on her foil like a stranglehold.

  "Good." His foil whistled as he swept it up before his face, then out in a wide arc as he made her an ironic bow. ''Salute!"

  Eyes narrowed, she copied his action. He thought her lips trembled a little at the corners, but she compressed them and stood waiting.

  "En garde."

  He raised his blade, holding it steady. She lifted her arm, but could not quite meet his steel for the restriction of her sleeve. Obligingly, he lowered his foil tip a fraction as a concession to her problem.

  Frustration crossed her features and she reached with her free hand to pull at the tight gray sleeve. The result was plainly inadequate and she scowled as she tried two of three times to stretch higher from the shoulder.

  The current fashion seemed likely to defeat her. Gavin stepped back out of the engaged position.

  "Wait. Please," she said without quite looking at him. Curling her fingers like claws, she dug them into the cloth of her sleeve and gave a hard wrench. A dull rip sounded, and the stitches holding it at the shoulder seam gave a fraction. She pulled again to break those remaining, then peeled the tight tube of fabric down her arm and tossed it behind her. A cool smile tipped her mouth and she turned to face him again.

  Gavin stood in his tracks, his gaze on the bare skin of her arm where it emerged from the ragged armhole. He had wondered if the rest of her had the same warm-pearl bloom as her neck and bosom. Now he knew. Oh, it did indeed. And the nonchalant way she had exposed her arm to his gaze, as if it mattered not at all that he saw, stirred his blood to a slow boil. What would it be like to stand and watch while she ripped away layer after layer of clothing, emerging in naked, incandescent splendor? Would she dare him to touch her or beckon him near?

  ''En garde?"

  She was waiting for the rise of his sword arm. If he was lucky, she would not notice that condition had already been achieved by another portion of his anatomy. Removing the concealment of his coat had been a monumental error, a bit of provocation she had trumped without trying. He would do well to remember it next time he sought to disturb her composure.

  With a short nod, he lifted his foil, crossing the lady's at the tip. Her blade felt steady, as if she might have gained confidence from the small respite. That was just as well for her sake, he thought with conscious benevolence.

  "Begin," he said with an encouraging nod.

  She struck straight for his heart. Lips tight, teeth clenched, she came at him with every ounce of her strength and murder in her eyes. No tentative beating of blades or delicate forays, no exploration of his competence or the force of his objectives, just a lunging attack at his vitals that came close, too close, to succeeding.

  His guard came up before his brain kicked into motion. Slapping her point aside, he parried, defending with a scrape of blades that rained orange sparks onto the floor. There was only one thing to be done after that, and he did it with ruthless competence. Swirling his wrist in hard riposte, he caught her steel, bending, binding, lifting as he stepped into her guard.

  She cried out. The foil flew from her hand, describing a shining arch before it struck the floor with a hollow thud and went spinning away across the room.

  "God's teeth, woman, what do you think you're doing?" He slung his own blade onto the table with a hard clatter before turning back to face her.

  She was holding her wrist, rubbing it, her face pale, almost bloodless. "Fencing," she answered tightly.

  "Committing bloody murder is more like it."

  "Isn't that the point?" The words had a strained sound.

  "This isn't a duel and I'm not your enemy. You're here to learn to defend yourself. Slashing and stabbing in a wild rage won't do it." He paused, nodded toward her wrist. "Did I hurt you?"

  "It's only numb." She shook her hand then let her arms fall to her side as she raised her eyes to his. "Perhaps it will be best if we stop here."

  She was furious that he had disarmed her. He had expected no less. Still he had not thought she would give up so easily. "As you wish," he said, and began to fold down his cuffs. "Consider this evening's lesson an experiment, one without charge."


  "And tomorrow evening?"

  His fingers stilled. "You expect to continue?"

  "Of a certainty. You said I was to say stop to end our passage at arms, not to end the lessons."

  She despised him and seemed to scorn his methods. She was not, insofar as he could see, here with him this evening because she hoped for a passionate affair, nor had she a titillated inclination to make love to a man with blood on his hands as did some women he had known. He had done what he might to discourage her ambition, and thought she disliked it intensely. Yet she suggested another assignation.

  What did she want of him? That there was something, he knew very well; he could feel it with every instinct he possessed. Whatever her game, he should refuse to play.

  Oh, yes, he should refuse, but where was the pleasure in that? As alive and intrigued as he felt at this moment, it just might be that whatever she wanted from him, she could have with his blessing.

  "It is best to rest a day between lessons until the muscles become accustomed to the exercise. I will be here the day after tomorrow then, madame. And you? Will you come to me all armored with woe and anger—oh, and something less in the way of petticoats?"

  "Wait," she said without a smile. "Wait, and you shall see."

  Gavin inclined his head. It was puerile, stupid and entirely selfish under the circumstances, perhaps, but he intended to do that very thing.

  Nothing whatever could prevent him.

  Five

  "Mon cher! How early you are out and about. Have you eaten? Do you care for coffee? Solon, another cup for Monsieur Blackford."

  Gavin surveyed Maurelle with a satirical smile since it was midday. He was fully able to appreciate the rakish picture she made, however, dressed en déshabille with one of the soft Oriental turbans so fashionable this season covering her hair and an exotic blouse volante, or Mother Hubbard, flowing in copious amounts of russet and gold silk around her lush form. "I trust I am not disturbing you, chère madame," he said at his most ingratiating. "Time is a slippery beast—I thought it later as I've seen half a dozen clients already this morning."

  "Such energy and stamina, particularly on a gray morning that is perfect for lying abed." She shuddered while watching her butler place a cup for him and pour twin streams of hot coffee and hot milk into it. "And after a late evening, too. So heathen of you, cher. Have a roll to sustain you while you tell me why I am being honored with this visit."

  Gavin waved away the roll, but took the cafe au lait and sipped from it before making an indirect reply. "Madame Faucher lingers among the sheets still?"

  "That one? No, no, she is nearly as mad for morning light and rain as you. I am told she and my maid Adele are out making a round of the shops. Her own maid remained in Paris, you realize, being positive she would be menaced by wild savages should she venture across the water. I believe dear Ariadne mentioned something about an ensemble appropriate for fencing lessons, but I was half asleep at the time. You wished to see her?"

  "But yes, and at any time," he answered in the prescribed formula, "though it suits me to speak with you alone. Have you any idea why she wants to carve the guts from some poor devil and serve him up with an apple in his mouth?"

  Maurelle, apparently startled in the middle of a smiling approval of his pale yellow cravat held by a turquoise pin, lifted her eyes to meet his quizzical gaze. "What makes you think she might?"

  "Being attacked in the gentleman's stead. I don't regard sundry sword cuts in the midst of fevered play, but would prefer they be expected."

  "She didn't!"

  "No, though she tried. Perhaps you can tell me whether aiding her is a matter of mercy or folly."

  "She cannot have thought she could best you."

  "If she did, she does so no longer." He paused a moment, frowning at his inability to say with any exactness what Ariadne Faucher did or did not think. She should not have remained such a mystery after their short bout. It was annoying that he had not been able to tell what drove her or the lengths she was capable of going to achieve her aim. Sheer surprise at her ferocity had wiped all else from his mind during those few seconds of play. That riled him even more. "So, should I wear my padding back-to-fore?"

  Maurelle touched a languid hand to her temple. "Please, cher, do not be obscure so early in the morning for I'm not up to it. If you mean to ask is she mad enough to stab anyone in the back, the answer is no. No indeed. She's quite sane."

  "Only enraged past all bearing. Why?"

  "I'm sure I don't know. She presented this fencing arrangement to me as a whim or perhaps a small attempt at setting a fashion."

  He leaned back in his chair, his gaze watchful as he toyed with his cup. Maurelle was avoiding his gaze now, and he would swear she had grown pale about the mouth. "If you suspected more, you would not tell me?"

  "Now, mon cher."

  "Would you?"

  She put a hand to her turban, pushing it into a more becoming drape before reaching for a roll. "Certainly not without permission. I do try to be loyal to my friends."

  So she did, he conceded as he appraised her through his lashes. Maurelle loved gossip as she loved life, but had her own personal code in such matters, one as stringent as that governing the conduct of sword masters. "You must have known the lady for some time for her to be so near and dear."

  "A number of years, yes. We met in Paris during one of my sojourns there."

  "Her accent is not Parisian."

  "Her family is from Louisiana, somewhere upriver, I believe. She had just been married to the head of a banking family of some renown in France when we became acquainted. Her parents had returned here, leaving her behind, and she was lonely since she knew no one in the city, scarcely knew her husband."

  "An arranged marriage, then."

  "And an excellent alliance, though he was ill with consumption. Jean Marc Faucher was a distant relation of her father's, a kind and gentle man of great intelligence and understanding. He thought perhaps to sire a child to live after him, though it was not to be."

  "He hardly sounds the kind to give his wife a distaste for men."

  "Certainly not."

  "What of her father? Did he force her to accept the match?"

  Maurelle's smile had a wry edge. "What a romantic you are, cher. But I must tell you that Ariadne revered her father. It was ever an object with her to please him, and she made no objection whatever to the marriage. In all truth, she was..."

  "What?" he asked as she trailed off, a conscious expression flitting across her face before she hid it in her coffee cup.

  "She had no other attachment and was just as happy to be in France."

  "Leaving scandal behind, or did she drag it, whining, at her heels?"

  "Nothing of the sort! She had been living quietly in the country."

  "A difficult thing to imagine," he said, recalling the soignee lady he had met on that first evening.

  "I assure you it's true. If you must know, she was taken abroad because her parents thought her too subdued."

  "All pale and forlorn, possibly pining after a lost love?" He tipped his head, waiting to see if Maurelle would respond to that assessment.

  "After her brother, rather, with whom she was quite close. He had come to town for a little polish, leaving her behind at home."

  "Here to the Vieux Carre, you mean."

  She gave a brief nod. "So, there you have her history, mon ami, dull as it may be. All I can say is you must have given her the wrong idea concerning the use of the foils, or else so incensed her with your obstinate manner that her feelings overcame her."

  "Perhaps," he allowed in pensive tones.

  Maurelle raised expressive brows. "What did you do?"

  "Nothing that I recall, which means I may have to repeat what passed between us in order to discover it."

  "Monsieur Blackford!"

  "Oh, never fret, chère madame. She will be safe, if not particularly subdued, in my hands."

  She watched him while an
odd expression, half gratified, half disapproving and wholly captivated, appeared in her fine eyes. When she spoke, her voice held tones as ripe and mellow as a winter pear. "You are épris. Who would have thought it? All the ladies who have paraded themselves before you, and what piques your interest? One who cares only for swordplay—which is her appeal no doubt, other than that she has no use for you beyond your expertise. If you had but known, you might have made a fortune as a tutor of female clients."

  "Or not," he said, his voice dry. "One seems more than enough."

  "You don't deny being smitten?"

  "Of course I deny it, mon amour, for what good it may do me. Curiosity was ever my downfall, and now that I have awakened from my ennui, I discover you on my trail. I must surrender at once and take what comes to me."

  "Especially if it may be the lady, I do see," she replied with a moue of irritation for his blithe manner. "No, I won't help you there. Ariadne has had enough to overset her without adding a daring English devil to the list."

  "Other than the passing of her husband you mean?"

  Maurelle tipped her head in assent. "Her parents are no longer alive, nor her brother."

  "Oh, yes, so she told me. An epidemic of misfortune, it seems." He went on with barely a pause. "So now she is alone."

  "In a manner of speaking."

  His hostess hesitated, but shrugged whatever she might have added away as if too unimportant to mention. Gavin let it go as well. Rising to his feet, he moved to the side table where Solon had left his hat and cane. "But she has you, madame. And I shall do my poor best to see that she is not injured by whatever misbegotten specimen of manhood has earned her dislike. That will, you perceive, be my sole contribution to making her visit useful and long, a thrill everlasting."

  "Will it?" Madame Maurelle Herriot murmured, tapping her teeth with a fingernail and staring after him when he had bowed over her hand and taken himself from the breakfast room out onto the gallery overlooking the courtyard where rain still pattered down. "Will it indeed?"