"An excellent idea, and a coffee to go with it, I think. I'm a little chilled."
It was a pleasant interlude, made even more agreeable by the stories told by the diva. She regaled Ariadne with the fraught courtships of the sword masters who were Gavin's friends, particularly that of his half brother, Nicholas, which seemed to have taken place in the midst of a horde of street boys. He and his Juliette were currently trying to entice the youngsters into the newly endowed St. Joseph's Orphanage which Nicholas helped to support or else find positions for them, such as Nathaniel's with Gavin. Their luck was spotty, since the boys were not always ready to give up the freedom of the streets. In the meantime, the sword masters seemed to have appointed themselves their guardians, keeping an eye on their movements, protecting and correcting as necessary.
The impression Ariadne gained was of a unique solidarity among the masters at arms. She had thought of Gavin Blackford as living in isolation, like an outcast. This increased perspective on the fullness of his life was disturbing.
She parted company with the opera singer, finally, at the entrance to the Herriot town house. Walking through the tunnel-like entranceway, she removed her bonnet of fine Italian straw shirred inside the brim with pink silk to match her gray and pink walking costume, then tied the bonnet strings in a bow and looped them over her arm like a basket while she began to loosen the fingertips of her pink gloves. She was almost at the end of the passage, where it emerged into the courtyard, when she heard a rhythmic beat and clang that had become all too familiar. She stopped, standing quite still, listening for long seconds before continuing with quickened steps. By the time she reached the open court, she was almost running.
What she expected to see, she could not have said— Nathaniel holding the stairs against Sasha at the sword point, perhaps, or even Gavin protecting himself at all costs. She did not expect to see Maurelle's injured guest conducting a lesson in the open air, moving gingerly back and forth over the slate-gray paving stones that were damp with the first droplets of a blowing mist while his lilting voice mingled with the whisper of the rising wind in the tattered leaves of the banana tree.
"What is the meaning of this?" she demanded, coming to an abrupt halt with alarm jangling at her nerve endings like a servant's bell. "Are you trying to kill yourself?"
Gavin spared her the briefest of glances while parrying in tierce. At his signal, then, the two men stepped from their guard positions and turned to face her with foils in hand. "Nursemaid or scold, we are undone by your concern," he said with a wry smile. "The idea was merely to limber stiff muscles and prevent dead monotony from claiming another victim."
"Told you she wouldn't like it," Nathaniel said in accusation.
"And who is supposed to stitch you back up like an unraveled seam if you go too far?" she demanded. "It isn't the kind of needlework at which I excel. Or enjoy."
His eyes turned brightly blue with amusement allied to what seemed startled acceptance. "You really are responsible for the row of silk knots down my back?"
"Since the doctor's stitches looked like shoe lacing."
"I don't mean to complain, but..."
"Then don't." Annoyance made her voice shake.
"Oh, I recognize the ingratitude, but it's a matter of sleeping, you understand. If you could see your way to making them more comfortable..."
"It's too early to remove them, as you should know if you have as much experience as you claim."
"Five full days, almost six with today. A lifetime."
"Not long enough," she insisted. At least he seemed to have caused no damage. The white bandaging which covered the stitches, faintly visible under the linen of his shirt, showed no seeping spots of blood. His face was a little flushed but that could be from exertion. His breathing, though deep enough to cause an obvious rise and fall of his chest, did not seem labored.
He appeared, in fact, to be amazingly fit as he stood there in his shirt sleeves and pantaloons, with his hair tousled into unruly strands of gold, and Turkish slippers on his feet. More handsome than he had any right to be, able to take on his portion of the known world and more, he left her breathless, shaken to the core, and incensed that he could do it with no intention of affecting her whatsoever.
Or was that strictly true? Something bright and hot in his eyes sent the blood tripping along her veins while memory blossomed inside her of his mouth upon hers, his bandage-wrapped chest under her spread fingers, and his hand, oh, his hand beneath her skirts...
The same memory was in his smile, his eyes, the sudden tightening of his grasp on the hilt of his foil. It lay between them like a thrown gauntlet, impossible to ignore, dangerous to contemplate, exhilarating to anticipate.
And she did look forward to what might come next. It was like a bout on the fencing strip, attack and parry, move and countermove, defense and riposte in a time-honored dance that moved inevitably to a single conclusion, a similar, ultimate penetration.
When?
She could not tell. She only knew that it would happen. It must. There was no other way unless she withdrew from the sensual phrase d'armes which held them. That she could never do, not and remain true to her vow.
"If you are well enough to instruct Nathaniel," she said slowly, "it may be that we can continue our lessons by tomorrow evening."
Gavin considered her with an unblinking gaze for long seconds while swift thought moved behind his carefully schooled features. Or so it seemed to Ariadne, though the impression vanished scant seconds later.
"Yes, of course, madame," he answered, inclining his head so light caught in the gold waves of his hair even in the overcast gray of the afternoon. "Or it could be tonight if you wish it."
Tonight. Did he mean...?
It was impossible to know what he meant. He was far too armored inside himself to be so easily read.
Her smile was cool, or at least she hoped that it might appear so. "I do wish it, Monsieur Blackford. I wish it very much."
"Your pleasure is ever my goal," he answered with bright audacity and a sweeping salute of his sword.
He meant that exactly as it sounded, she knew that much with absolute certainty for she had experienced the full demonstration of it. Heat surged into her face in a blinding rush, and the urge to slap him was so strong that she almost wrung her kidskin gloves from her hands. Turning with conscious grace, she moved toward the stairs, speaking over her shoulder. "Until our usual hour, then, Monsieur Blackford."
"I shall be waiting."
No doubt he would be, she fumed to herself as she mounted to the main floor. He thought she would melt into his arms as she had two nights before, would turn to him in glad surrender for the hot, sweet fervour of his kisses and incredible knowledge of feminine responses. He expected her to succumb for the unsuspected tumult of passion he could arouse in her, an upheaval such as she had never known in her marriage. He was wrong. It would not end as he intended tonight, not if she could help it.
It was later, while dressing for dinner, that it came to Ariadne what this night might portend. The advantage in this match would be hers. At the moment, while Gavin was still recovering from his injuries, she could move faster than he, was possibly just as strong. She had been looking for a weakness of personality or habit. It had not occurred to her that she would ever have a chance of physical equality.
Gavin had known. That was why he had hesitated earlier, she thought. What did that suggest? Could he suspect her purpose after all?
No, surely not. It need only mean he knew she had been angry and remembered her penchant for attacking in a temper. Why should he think anything more than that? Their foils would be blunted and bodies protected by padding, after all.
Was this finally the culmination of her plans? Could she abandon all scruples in order to best him?
Women were said to have no honor in their dealings with men, but that was because they were unequal in most encounters. They could not afford to be choosy in the measures they used to even the odds.
Even so, she was reluctant to take the way which lay open to her. That instinctive aversion was the most troubling aspect of the coming contest.
The rain began once more in earnest as night fell. Endlessly drumming on the rooftop, it poured down as if it meant never to stop. It streamed from the eaves into the courtyard in silver runnels as Ariadne left her bedchamber just before midnight and walked down the gallery toward the garçonnière chamber that had become their fencing salon. Lightning flashed, white tinted with gold, showing the courtyard paving below running ankle-deep in water that channeled in a millrace toward the entry passage and along it into the street. Windblown mist swept in upon the gallery floor so she walked close to the interior wall. Regardless, the moist freshness was welcome against her skin.
She felt on edge, already overheated in spite of the freedom of her body in her man's shirt and pantaloons. Her shirt grew damp and limp, and she felt her nipples tighten with the contrast between her warmth and the night coolness, yes, and something more that she would not name. For an instant, she had an almost overpowering urge to turn back to the quiet safety of her bedchamber, to her corset and petticoats.
Too late.
Gavin lounged in the doorway ahead of her, one shoulder propped against the frame as he watched the storm. He straightened, sketched a bow as she came closer.
"A wild night," he said. "We will be lucky if the candles stay lit."
His voice held some minor note that, like the pure sound of a violin, raised echoes inside her. It was infuriating to feel her nipples tighten still further, becoming almost painful as they pressed against the linen of her shirt.
"I'm sure we shall manage," she said in clipped tones.
"And if all else fails we can proceed in the dark," he answered, backing away a step, indicating with a brief gesture that she should enter the long room before him.
The glance she gave him was searching as she brushed past. Whatever he meant to imply was hidden behind the polite cast of his features. Still it lingered, disturbingly, in his smile.
He did not look incapacitated in any way. He appeared, in fact, remarkably hale and hearty. If she had not known about the long red line that stitched its way down his back before curving around toward his waist, she would never have guessed. Nevertheless, she did know.
"You are quite certain you are capable of this lesson?"
"Your concern unmans me," he said with a lifted brow. "We might, if you prefer, find other ways of passing the time."
She could feel the flush that mantled her throat mounting to her forehead. To conceal it, she began to don her mask and padding that lay ready. "So you hinted before. I'm not sure that would be wise."
"Wisdom being something to be desired? I had not thought it."
His mood of irony was catching, or so it seemed. "The inclination," she said with precision, "comes and goes. At the moment, it is in ascendancy."
"Spirit over flesh, I do see. You will tell me, I hope, if there is a shift."
"I'm not sure I will," she said over her shoulder. "You are far too sure of yourself already."
"A fallacy. Where you are concerned, I am not sure at all." He went on with the barest of pauses caused in part by the need to assume his own protective covering. "Will you choose your weapon?"
He had stepped to the table where the foils were laid ready, she saw as she turned to face him. "I have no preference. You choose for me."
"Trust indeed, or perhaps depend on chivalry to give you the better blade of the two."
The smile she gave him held real amusement since something of the kind had crossed her mind. "Fairness, rather."
"Oh, I am always fair."
That seemed to suggest that he was not always chivalrous. "I am forewarned."
"So you are," he murmured as he tried the blades in turn before swinging around with one in either hand. "So you are."
She caught the foil he tossed her because she was expecting it. Immediately, she turned away from him toward the long stretch of canvas that appeared a dirty gray in the uncertain glow of the fluttering ranks of candles on their stands. Her movements deliberate, she donned protective gear, as he was doing, then took her place on their makeshift piste.
How familiar it had become to face him there with the prescribed distance separating them, to salute him, then cross his blade, letting steel kiss steel in a first touch like two lovers meeting. If he was less strong than before, it was not readily apparent in the feel of his foil against hers. That contact was as powerful and as certain as ever.
In that instant, she was reminded of his lesson in control meted out not so long ago. A deep drawing sensation assailed her at the memory, and she tightened the muscles of her abdomen against it. Such things could not be allowed to matter. She forced it from her mind, forced everything away from her except the glittering tip of the blade before her and the rampant will of the man who held it. That last she must not forget, now or ever.
Was she ready? Doubt of her skill assaulted her. She was a relatively new pupil of this ancient art, when all was said and done. But if her skill was lacking, it meant nothing more dangerous than another defeat at his hands.
They began, as always, at Gavin's signal. It was like a dance, a centuries-old pavane of advance, parry and riposte in measured rhythm. Each movement called for its counter; each step matched and mated, as graceful as any set of movements between a man and woman. Their shadows moved over the floor, met and parted on the walls. The smoky air currents in the room shifted with their swift lunges, joined with the wind that swirled in the open French doors to make the candle flames sway and flatten before either dying away or leaping high again. The belllike chiming of their blades echoed against the walls, music with a marked beat that broke now and then into a passionate counterpoint, sliding down a grating scale of steel into attunement.
Abruptly a gust like a small tornado swirled into the room, shivering the candle flames burning nearest the door. They hopped, fluttering on their wicks an instant before several of them went out, leaving black tails of smoke. That left only a half-dozen to guide their movements.
Gavin raised a hand to signal a halt and stepped out of position. He said nothing about the diminished light, however.
"You're holding back," he said, the words hollow from behind the mask that concealed his features.
"No more than you." Her answer was a trifle breathless from exertion. She could barely see his eyes through the metal grid. Across from the door, a silver-branched set of six candlesticks had only two candles left burning. Their acrid smoke drifted in the air along with the scent from the courtyard of rain-drenched tea olive. She coughed briefly as it caught in her throat.
"Don't."
"Don't?" For an instant, she thought he meant her attempt to clear her breathing.
"Don't hold back." He indicated with a flick of his foil tip that they would resume the guard position.
How could she not? The question plagued her as they began again. The foils in their hands, though neither as heavy or lethal as the sabers used in the dueling field match between Sasha and Gavin, were jangling reminders in the back of her mind. That bout had ended in blood. She could not stop thinking of the moment when Sasha's sword had flashed down, slicing across Gavin's back. She had expected he would be decapitated, maimed, crippled for life. Every move he made now, every lunge, must cause him pain. How could it be otherwise?
He was no less powerful for it, that much she was forced to admit. Still he was not the same. His timing was off, lacking the effortless coordination of body and mind he had shown before. His recoveries were slower, more a matter of driving intelligence than instinct. He kept to his set position as much as possible, and he did not take the advantage he might have of her mistakes. He seldom attacked at all, letting her come to him, letting her set the pace while he defended, always defended.
She could strike. The means was at hand. They were alone and the house was quiet around them. All she had to do was surge into an attack, usi
ng the blunted end of her foil to rip through his padding. It could be done.
Gavin would retaliate in kind; she could expect no less. No matter, her greatest chance of besting him was here, tonight, and she could not be sure it would ever come again. She had suspected it before and was doubly certain of it now.
It was impossible. Something inside her rejected that devious victory. There could be no satisfaction in defeating him under such circumstances.
Defeating him?
She meant to kill him, not just to best him. Yes of course she did. Her aim had not changed.
Had it?
Where was the burning hatred that had sustained her for so long? What had become of it?
Her closeness to Gavin Blackford might have been a costly error. Before, he had been a fiend in human form in her mind. Now he had taken on the guise of a man with all the attendant possibilities for good as well as evil. He had shown himself kind and caring and eminently honorable as well as proud; he viewed the world with as much tolerant amusement as cynicism.
What was she to do? Her arm ached, and her mind was weary. This fight was going nowhere, gaining nothing, proving nothing beyond the grim endurance of the man who faced her. The shuffling of their feet and snick of their blades were slowing. They could barely see in the flickering gloom.
Another candle flame sputtered and died in a curling plume of smoke. Ariadne raised her hand, said quite clearly, "Stop."
"Madame?"
He stepped back and stood watching her through his mask, the point of his foil trailing on the floor. She wondered briefly if it was because he could no longer lift his arm. "You are not fit enough for this, I think. I should not have suggested it."
"Generous of spirit as well as valiant—though I wonder what I can have done to make you think me unfit."
Guarded Heart Page 23
