Ariadne coughed, wheezing as she tried to clear her throat. Impotent fury shook her as she wiped her face with hard swipes of her trembling hands, brushed at the wetness on her cloak and bodice. If she had possessed a sword at that moment, she would have run him through without a second thought.
How much of the narcotic liquor had she drunk? She had no idea. Enough to make her helpless for whatever he intended? Enough to kill her? It was certainly enough to make her sleep. Already, she could feel the numbness creeping in upon her.
She put her head back on the leather seat, gazing at the black roof of the hackney. Hope of escape was gone. Even if she got away from Sasha, she could not run far. What would become of her? No one knew who she was with or where he was taking her. She would simply disappear. After a while, she would be forgotten.
What did he intend? She had not allowed herself to consider that point in detail. Would he hold her prisoner, abusing her in all the ways a man could use to coerce a woman until she agreed to marriage? She did not think he would actually do her permanent harm but there was no way to be sure of it. Then what? What kind of life would it be after they were wed? He professed to love her but it could be a lie. Even if he did, it would not make him an acceptable husband, not when she cringed at the mere thought of being at the mercy of his hands, his mouth and hard, rutting body. Once he was master of her fortune, he need not keep her alive under the prevailing laws of many European capitals. She could be disposed of in any number of convenient ways.
She might never see New Orleans again, never see Gavin Blackford. She would never be able to tell him how truly sorry she was that she had hurt him, never be able to tell him how her stupid heart had come to love him while she had planned his defeat in her mind. Or was it she who had been stupid and her heart wise?
She closed her eyes, unable to bear her thoughts. While the hackney rocked on along the rutted and muddy road, a gray swamp mist rose up around her and closed off the light.
Twenty-Eight
Ariadne woke by degrees, rousing only to drift away again. Once, her bed was hard, slimy and smelled of dead fish as it bounced beside a high wooden wall painted dark blue with a maroon line near the top. Another time she was being carried with her head hanging down and her legs held tightly at the knees while the world swung in sickening sweeps. She rallied briefly as she was lowered into a narrow, coffin-like space and covered with a scratchy blanket, but dark nothingness came down again.
Now she stared at a soft glow not far away, watching it without real curiosity until it slowly became a whale-oil lamp burning in a gimbaled support. It was a ship's lamp, for it moved with the gentle sway of a vessel at anchor.
She was on a ship, and it was impossible to imagine that it was anything other than the Leodes. In the morning, it would hoist sail and move slowly down the river to the gulf, on its way to Marseilles. That was what Sasha had said, wasn't it? Her mind was so fuzzy she could not be sure.
He was nowhere to be seen. The cabin was empty, insofar as she could tell without lifting her head from the hard pillow of the bunk where she lay. She could hear the creak and groan of the ship, but nothing more. Most of the crew was on shore leave, she suspected, as this was their last night in port. Surely they would be returning before too long. She had a sense of time having passed, perhaps several hours. Darkness had fallen, making the lamp necessary.
She had missed the Natchitoches packet, might never make that upriver journey.
She pushed up on one elbow, pausing as her head swam. After a moment, she tried again and was able to shove away the blanket of rough brown wool that covered her and sit up on the bunk's edge. It took another minute or two for her senses to clear. Gingerly then she put her feet on the floor. Her half boots had been removed but that was all, she realized as her skirts settled around her ankles. Praise heaven for small mercies.
It was possible she should be thankful as well for the laudanum that befuddled her mind. If not for its effects. she might now be completely naked and lying under the swinish Russian nobleman she had considered her friend. What had he told the captain to account for her presence? Had he said she was ill or perhaps out of her head? Had he simply called her a drunken whore? Or had it been unnecessary to call her anything at all?
Urgency gripped her. Sasha would be back shortly to check on her, she suspected. She held on to the bunk support, concentrating desperately on finding her balance and the rhythm of the ship's movement upon the river current.
Three large trunks lined the wall on the cabin's opposite side. They belonged to Sasha for she recognized his crest, and it was his coat in the military style which lay over the back of the chair drawn up to the table. He had apparently thought her incapacitated enough to leave for a time, possibly while he conferred with the captain or even enjoyed a drink in his company.
When he returned, he would expect to find her in his bed where he had left her. She required a weapon, had to have one before he reappeared.
The room was devoid of anything sharp or heavy, contained nothing that might slide or come loose in bad weather at sea so there was nothing she could use for defense. Even Sasha's dog-headed cane was missing; he must have taken it with him. The only items in the pockets of his coat were a pair of gloves, ticket stubs and a pocket watch.
Letting the coat fall back on the chair, she turned to his trunks, took a step toward them then stopped. It was one thing to go through his outer wear, but something else to delve into his more private belongings. It seemed flagrant meddling, like rifling through the drawers of a house where one was a guest.
Such scruples were all very well, but Sasha had forfeited any right to expect them from her. She had to search everything.
The trunks were locked.
Ariadne stood biting the inside of her bottom lip for a long moment, wondering if she could leave the cabin without being discovered. Could she find where she had been hauled on board? Was it possible to climb down to whatever small boat had been used to transport her from the shore?
What if she were seen? She would be worse off than now since Sasha was certain to watch her more carefully.
There was nothing for it but to pick the trunk locks. They should present no great difficulty since so many things—knife boxes, tea and spice caddies, journals and jewelry cases—had similar locks and keys were often misplaced. She dropped to her knees beside the first trunk, felt in the heavy, sliding knot of her hair to pull out a pin and set to work.
What she expected to find in the baggage, she was not sure. Another cane, perhaps, since a man often had a spare in a different wood in case his favorite did not match all his clothing. A set of dueling pistols was not impossible. A razor was almost a certainty, as was a stick pin with a sizeable shaft. Any of these would do. Anything at all.
Her fingers were shaking by the time the lock clicked open. She listened a moment to be certain no one was coming, then lifted the lid with care to prevent its hinges from squeaking.
Nothing, there was nothing in the first trunk except frock coats and trousers and nightshirts. She lifted everything out to be certain, then set back on her heels amid the piles of clothing as disappointment threatened to overcome her.
She had no time for tears and despair. Sniffing, wiping underneath her eyes, she listened again then turned to the next trunk.
This one held Sasha's soiled laundry, a large portion of it wrapped around a box of some fashion, one long and narrow of the kind used for dried fruit. Shuddering with revulsion, she pushed it away from her while she turned to the last trunk.
She set to work on the third lock in a fever of haste. It was stiff, or perhaps her fingers had grown clumsy, or the hairpin was a little bent. She couldn't manipulate the inner works. Somewhere not too far away, she heard a gust of masculine laughter. A door or hatchway slammed and footsteps sounded, approaching the cabin. She clamped her teeth together, desperately jimmying at the lock, shaking it as she tried to find the magic slot that would make it open. Or perhaps it wa
s her hands shaking.
The lock wouldn't budge, and the heavy, measured treads were coming closer. Her normal dexterity seemed to have deserted her. The laudanum that coursed through her veins was making her slow and stupid. She whispered an imprecation that became a sob deep in her throat.
The footsteps were nearly at the door. There could be no doubt to whom they belonged. She had to.. .had to...
Suddenly her brain revolved like a cast iron mechanical toy to present a magical image. Drawing breath on a sharp gasp, she whirled back to the second trunk and its soiled shirts and underdrawers. She scattered the clothing, pulled out the long box she had felt but not seen.
Not a box of dried fruit at all. It was a flat sword-case of polished walnut with laurel leaves and fleur-de-lis in gold leaf around an incised crest. Its closure, intricate but without a lock, sprang open at her touch. She flipped back the lid to reveal a set of matched dueling swords, polished sabers with cleverly wrought hilts of silver inlaid with gold.
These were the sabers Sasha had used in the duel. One of them had sliced open Gavin's back. The very sight of them brought hot tears to her eyes while her stomach roiled.
The door was opening behind her.
She drew a fast breath, grasped the hilt of one long and heavy sword and lifted it from its blood-red velvet bed. With it held in both hands, she rose, bracing her feet as she faced the doorway.
"Mon Dieu, chère. What are you doing?" Sasha stepped over the high threshold but came no further. Color mottled his face, his pale eyes narrowed to a glitter and he seemed to swell like a bull preparing to charge.
"You should not have left these with me." She flicked the saber case briefly with one toe. "Not if you didn't want me to arm myself."
He breathed audibly through flared nostrils, as if trying to control his rage. "Now that you have, what do you intend?"
"I'm leaving. You will back away from the door so I may pass."
"Suppose I refuse."
"I don't advise it."
"What will you do? Am I to believe you will slice me open like a melon? No, no, you won't do that. It isn't in you."
"I'd have said you would never stoop to abduction. That was wrong, just as you are wrong now."
"Don't be foolish. What you have there is not your light foil but a cavalry weapon, meant to slice off arms and heads and..."
"And lay open the flesh of horses and men?" she interrupted. "If you don't shrink from it, why should I?"
"You are not trained for it."
"How much training is required in order to kill? My lessons with the English maître d'armes were most thorough, I assure you." That was purest provocation, but she could not help herself.
"So I imagined," he said, the scar on his face like a streak of fire. "But you are not a man. It's too heavy for you."
"You hope so."
"No really. Come, be reasonable. You will hurt yourself."
He took a step toward her. She lifted the saber to waist height, directing the point at his midsection. "I am perfectly reasonable. Allow me to leave, and neither of us will be harmed."
"Oh, chère, you think you can be a danger to me if I choose not to allow it?" He took another step.
"I've warned you."
He was uncomfortably close in the small cabin now. Armored in condescension, he seemed to be considering how best to regain control of the situation with no thought that it might be impossible. "Don't be melodramatic," he said in hard tones. "I am not your indulgent Englishman, fascinated by the contrast between your beauty and your threats. Give me the sword."
"I don't believe so." Had Gavin been fascinated? Had he really?
Sasha's mouth tightened. It was a warning, if she needed one. Abruptly, he reached out to catch the end of the saber, jerking it toward him.
Her reaction was instant. She pulled back as she stepped away in smooth recovery.
He cursed, slinging his hand that was suddenly streaked with blood. He stared down at it then looked at her with incredulity in his face. "You cut me."
"What did you expect from such a childish trick? Back away, Sasha. Back away and let me leave."
"Don't be foolish. I love you, have loved you these many years. We will be married, resign yourself to it. All will be well once we are far from here. You care for me, I know you do. We can be happy if you cease fighting and accept it."
He feinted, as if he meant to plunge around her. She whirled to prevent it. "If you think so, you have never known me," she answered him, shaking back a loose strand of hair from her face. "I have no use for another husband."
"Unless it's the Englishman, yes? It's he who stands in my way. I should have killed him while I had the chance."
"You are mistaken." She put weary conviction into the words.
"Am I? You would have tired of widowhood and accepted my proposal if not for this fixation with him. Yes, and what about this cold Englishman? He sees your fire and your passion and seeks to warm himself with them. You dance around each other armed with foils as if to defend against the feeling that draws you together and I can do nothing to stop it. It is sickening, sickening, I tell you."
He was talking to distract her. It might be impossible to ignore what he was saying, but it was a tactic two could use. "Wrong again. Gavin Blackford is far from cold."
"Indeed." Sasha's chest swelled. Abruptly, he ducked his head and lunged for the sword case at her feet.
She had three choices; she saw that in the split second allowed for a decision. She could strike a killing blow, slashing across his neck and back as he had served Gavin. She could dart away, allowing him to gain a weapon she must face when he came up with it. Or she could use the seconds while he snatched up the weapon to escape from the room. The first was beyond her, as he had said, the second dangerous. The third had been her object all along. Before Sasha's hand touched the other saber, she was sliding from the cabin, spinning around, running down the dark and narrow corridor toward the companionway with the faint glow above it that was an open hatch.
He shouted a curse. His heavy footsteps pounded behind her. Breathless, half-blind in the dimness, she snatched her skirts from under her feet and scampered up the steep steps.
Fresh air met her at the top of the companionway, and damp, windblown night. The man on watch turned from where he stood with the light from the binnacle gleaming on his face.
"Catch her, you fool!" Sasha shouted as he emerged from below.
The sailor stared with his mouth open. He seemed to want no part in cornering a woman with a saber in her fist. Face pale under its sun-blackening, he backed away with his hands held in front of him as if to ward her off.
Ariadne had no time to worry about him. Sasha was bearing down on her with the weapon that was peculiarly his own flashing before him. Though she scanned the deck in wild hope, she could see nowhere to run, no way off the ship except the rope ladder that dangled over the side. Whirling, with the wind blowing her skirts around her like sails and unfurling her hair from its loose knot so it flew out behind her like witches' tresses, she faced him. She brought up the saber in en garde position.
Sasha skidded to a halt, eyes wide as he stared at her. Then he gave a short laugh. "So this is how you would have it."
"How else?" She watched him with care, her mind already slipping into fencing mode, judging, weighing, planning ahead. Her head seemed to have cleared, her drug-induced cloudiness of mind swept away by rage and the cool night wind.
He whipped up his saber in salute then faced off against her. "As you will."
No canvas strip, no marked limits existed for their bout. The only piste available was a stretch of deck hemmed in on one side by the ship's rail and on the other by a clutter of coiled ropes, barrels and kegs, saws and bung hammers not yet cleared away for embarkation. Yet the makeshift strip was not that different except that it rocked with the wind and the river's flow. They circled slowly in it, Ariadne keeping her distance since Sasha's sword arm was longer. She must let him
come to her, she thought; anything else would be mere stupidity. She hoped he would try to overpower her by strength and fury alone. It would give her something to counter, something to turn against him.
He allowed no delicate preliminaries, no initial moves to feel him out as in fencing with foils. One moment he was easing around her while she turned to keep him in sight, the next he lunged at her in fully extended attack.
She parried, slid into a riposte that sent him leaping back with a black scowl between his brows. He paused a long moment, then came at her with the clanging force of a workman wielding a sledgehammer.
The shock of his heavy blows against her blade shuddered through her wrist again and again until it was numb. Still, she countered every one, catching them in seconde, in quarte, in sixte, always retreating, leaving him nothing to strike except her steel.
She saw almost at once why he had chosen the saber for his meeting with Gavin. With it, he was a strong and menacing fighter, mechanically correct in his movements. He had no grace or intuition, however, and he brought little intelligence to the bout. He was using his saber as a cutting weapon with little thought to its point. Intent on beating her down with sheer, flamboyant might, his movements were high and wide, as if he expected no real response.
Guarded Heart Page 29
