Carefully, she leaned against him and snuggled close, and for a moment thought his body stiffened before he put his arms around her. She sighed, and smiled when she felt the beat of his heart against her cheek. The beat was strong and slow, and lulled her into drowsiness again, and she felt as if he were rocking her, as if she were a child. She closed her eyes and put her hand on his chest, sighing again, and just before she fell asleep, whispered, “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” Jack said, and felt a tearing in his gut, as if he were being torn in two. He closed his eyes, holding Catherine close, rocking her, feeling her body, breast to chest, hip to hip against him. It hurt, this tearing—he wanted her, more than wanted her. He was hot and hard against her body, but held her as if he were holding a baby, and knew that all he could do for now was hold her and kiss her. It was enough; he had seen how she had looked at him, her gaze that of a wild animal fearful of pain. He hated that look. It brought back memories of leaving England, of betrayal and loss.
She sighed again, and the movement of her breasts against him became long and regular; she was falling asleep again. His heart lifted—it meant, possibly, that she trusted him, and God help him, he wanted that trust.
He wanted more than that—he wanted all of her. He had known it the day she had opened her eyes and looked at him with her impossibly deep green eyes, so full of fear. But she had lifted her chin and clearly pulled all her resolution about her, as if she were facing an army and readying herself for battle, and—he smiled ruefully at himself, for Fichet and Mme Felice were right—he had fallen in love with her.
It was not something he could tell her. She was not his; she belonged to her family, and was fiancée to the Marquis de Bauvin. He sighed and stroked her hair. It was ever thus, and the saying that “all is fair in love and war” was quite wrong: it was never fair. He had little but honor left, however, and at least he could keep to that. He would do what he could to return Catherine to her true state, and then leave her to his duty, ever his duty.
Jack rose and gently covered Catherine with the bedclothes, then pulled on his clothes that he had set near the fire. He shivered, for the heat from the fire hadn’t penetrated through his shirt and trousers, and they chilled him. He would get food—he smiled at the thought of how Catherine would welcome the sight of a meal—and prepare for their journey. With one last look at the sleeping woman, he shook his head at himself and his very tangled emotions, and left the room.
Chapter 7
CATHERINE WOKE TO FIND HERSELF alone in bed, only an indentation on the mattress beside her to show that Sir Jack had been there at all. She passed her hand over the bedsheet—there was not even any warmth left, so he must have left quite a while ago. She could not help feeling some disappointment; she would have liked to have talked to him for a little, although what she would have said to him, she did not know. His presence would have been . . . comforting, at least.
Comforting. She was not afraid of him. Her heart lightened—there, that was one less thing she feared. He was an honorable man, she thought, despite his warnings to her. Indeed, he could have taken advantage of her, but he had not. She wondered why he thought he might betray her—he had spoken nothing but the truth to her so far, after all. Had he betrayed someone in the past, then? If so, he clearly regretted it, or else he would not warn her.
She sat up and gazed around the brightly decorated room. They would eat—her stomach growled at the thought—and then they would go to her home. She would meet again this Marquis de Bauvin, and perhaps be married to him.
Rebellion rose in her; she felt very much like a cow taken to market. She did not remember the marquis, so did not know if she would like him, or if she ever had. She thought of Sir Jack again, and thought she would like to be as free as he was, to come and go as she liked and marry whom she liked. But then, there was her family, and there was duty. She did not remember who they were, only that they lived in Normandy. But if she was indeed taken from them, then it was only right that she return.
Fear again rose, but she squashed it. It must be fear of the unknown, the fear of other, less pleasant possibilities. But it would do her no good to think of what may or may not be, but to face what truly existed.
And once she did, then she could make whatever determination she wished. Surely if she did not like this marquis, she could refuse to marry him, and perhaps do something else, such as marry someone else, or enter a convent.
The thought of these two options for her future depressed her. She had seen already that she had not any skills—except for the swordfighting Sir Jack was teaching her—she could employ for money. But perhaps, perhaps it might not be an impossible thing from which to earn money.
Her stomach growled again, and she moved off the bed—then gasped in pain. Her body ached, and her legs felt as if they had been beaten with sticks. She was horribly stiff and sore from riding all night, which was most definitely not something she was used to. She sat on the bed again, and a knock sounded on the door.
“Entré!” she called out, and winced from her muscle aches as she tried to stand.
It was Sir Jack, and her mouth watered when she saw the large tray of food he brought in and set on a table. She surged forward and seized a piece of bread and stuffed it in her mouth, ignoring her protesting muscles, focusing only on the taste and texture of bread, how the crust crunched beneath her teeth and how the spongy center filled her mouth and went down her throat to a very empty stomach. She closed her eyes and groaned as she took another piece of bread between her teeth.
A chuckle sounded from across the table and she looked up at Sir Jack’s grinning face. “What is it?” she asked.
“You, ma chère. You eat as much as the biggest trencherman I have known.”
She shrugged. “It was a long ride, and I am sure I have used up a great deal of energy. Also, I am very sore, so I do not think I will wish to ride tonight.”
He lifted an eyebrow. “You will, nevertheless, or at least for the next few nights until we are sure we will not be attacked again.”
Catherine groaned, this time from the thought of traveling so hard and fast once more, but she felt a smile form on her lips nevertheless. She did not mind it, she realized. The aches would pass after a while, she was sure, just as the aches of sword practice passed after she became used to it. She sighed. “What will we do until then?”
He smiled and took a piece of dried apple. “Practice swordfighting,” he said, and popped the apple into his mouth.
This time Catherine’s groan was heartfelt. “You are a slave driver! I ache from head to foot, and now I am to work even harder.”
His grin grew wider. “But think, ma chère, afterward you will have more food. Practice well, and I swear you will have a hot bath, too.”
Catherine nearly melted at the thought of a hot bath—she had come to like them very well. She nodded, only half reluctant, then fell to the rest of her meal. She would do the best she could at practice, especially for a meal and a hot bath. Surely he would not be as stringent a taskmaster after their ride.
She was quite wrong.
Sir Jack gave her only enough time for the food in her stomach to settle, then he ordered her out into the chilly courtyard.
“No, no, no! You hold the sword like a broom. This is the way you do it.”
Jack—Catherine let herself call him that in her thoughts, for they were pretending to be man and wife, after all—roughly took her hand and curved it around the haft of the sword just under the guard. She did not mind; his touch was impersonal, instructive, and she knew now that she did not have anything to fear from him, and in fact, after sleeping in the same bed with him—
“Your mind is wandering. God’s blood, girl, keep your attention on the moment! Do you think your opponent will wait until you finish your wool-gathering?”
“Non, M. Sir Jack.” Catherine pulled her attention back to the lesson. “I will do as you say.”
“Good—and damme, stand st
raight, knees slightly flexed. I’m teaching you to fence, not curtsy.”
She grinned. “It would not be a good curtsy, either, and what can you expect after our hard ride last night?”
“As you say.” His expression remained stern, but she could see amusement in his eyes. “A more graceless scamp I have never seen. I wonder that I had seen the gentlewoman in you.”
“Perhaps you were wrong,” Catherine replied, even though she knew he was not, and however much she avoided probing the past. His demeanor did not change. Instead, he moved away and jerked his chin at her.
“Go through your exercises. I wish to see if you have remembered them.”
She obediently positioned her feet and hands in prime, then moved into the intricate pattern of defense and attack. “I am not wrong,” Jack continued. “There is no use trying to make me think you are anything else. Everything about you cries out ‘gentlewoman.’ I am surprised your sex and station were not discovered earlier.”
She turned to him. “Perhaps I am more clever than you think.”
“Your exercises, girl! Pay attention.” His voice was sharp, forcing her back into thrusting and parrying against a phantom opponent. Irritation flared, but she was glad of it—it reminded her of her purpose, and that discipline was part regular practice and part attention to the smallest detail. She imagined a shadowy figure before her, then remembered the monster she had faced before, and parried as if she were still fighting for her life. She would remember that, for as long as she lived, she was sure. It was necessary to fight so as to survive.
But her muscles screamed fatigue and ached horribly, and her breath labored. She glanced at Jack. He merely watched her and said nothing. Surely he must have noticed that she was breathing heavily by now? He said nothing, and she came to the end of her exercises, but since he still said nothing, she went through them again, for she had learned that if he did not command her to stop, she was not to stop.
Sweat poured from her brow, even though the inn’s courtyard was coated with frost. Her heated breath blew in clouds in front of her, but still Jack said nothing.
Her lungs hurt now, and her legs pained her even more. She glanced at Jack, but he seemed to be examining his fingernails rather than looking at her. Impatience grew into anger, and she glanced at the empty space in front of her, where her imagined opponent should be. She was tired, her breath came in gasps, and she had had enough.
“Ha!” she cried, and lunged forward. She leaped back, sheathed her rapier, and then turned to Jack.
He looked up from his fingernails and frowned. “Why are you still? Fight on.”
Catherine lifted her chin defiantly, then put her hands on her hips. “I cannot, monsieur. My enemy is dead.”
Jack peered at the empty space where her opponent was supposed to be. “It is merely a flesh wound; continue.”
Catherine pressed her lips together for a moment, suppressing a grin. “No, you are mistaken, M. Sir Jack. Did you not hear me say ‘Ha!’ very loudly? It signified a death thrust.”
“Was that what it was? I thought the sound was a burp, or perhaps your stomach growling again, for it’s a devilish appetite you have for food, ma chère.”
A laugh sounded from behind her, and she whirled around. A number of the inn’s guests had gathered in the courtyard, and were grinning. Her sword practice had attracted some notice, and her shoulders went up for a moment, wishing she could disappear in embarrassment. But she remembered that she would not be afraid, and that she had promised Jack she’d pay him back in some way, and if she were to fight for money, then of course she would have an audience.
She turned to Jack and shook her head. “If I have an appetite, monsieur, it is only for fighting.” She looked at the small crowd in the courtyard, smiled, and bowed.
Jack’s grin grew wider, and he waggled his eyebrows in an exaggerated leer. “Ma chère, I know you have an appetite for . . . more than that.”
The crowd laughed, and she could feel her cheeks grow warm. But she could give as good as she got, she thought. “Why, monsieur, I do not know what you mean. All you have done is teach me about swords, but I have never seen you employ yours.”
The onlookers roared with laughter. She could see Jack’s lips press firmly together as if offended, but his eyes twinkled and she knew he understood her implied insult to his manhood.
He spread his hands out and appealed to the growing audience now watching eagerly. “How can I answer that? She has insulted my honor. How am I to deal with her?”
Various lewd suggestions came forth, making Catherine’s cheeks grow even warmer, but she lifted her chin and eyed Jack with mock sternness. “You may try . . . but I will bet that you cannot.”
Jack’s expression was amused, but he turned a look of pretended horror on the courtyard’s crowd. “She is a difficult wench! Shall I teach her a lesson?” Shouts of approval came from the crowd, but Catherine held up her hand.
“But think, all of you! You have just watched me practice. Do you think I would be defeated that easily?” Some of the inn’s patrons began to look dubious. “What would you wager against me?”
The sound of a coin tinkled against the stones of the courtyard. “I would wager at least that—and a private lesson in what I can do with my sword.” Jack winked at the crowd, drawing more laughter. More coins followed as he swaggered in front of them. Catherine bit her lip to keep down her laughter—he acted for all the world as if he were a mustachioed villain in a play. He turned to her. “I see you have very little confidence in yourself; you have not put down any money to wager.”
A challenge: of course, he knew she had no money. Catherine looked at him and his gaze flickered to her lips. She remembered the night before, and how he had asked for a kiss, as if that simple act had some worth to him. Well, she could afford that, certainly.
She turned to the crowd and sighed sadly. “I am but a poor maiden, alas! The only thing I can wager is . . . a kiss.”
“A kiss!” Jack snorted in disbelief. “A paltry wager.”
“Three kisses, then,” Catherine said boldly. The crowd roared its approval, and she bowed in acknowledgment, then turned to Jack. “Your sword, monsieur! En garde!”
But then a derisive voice came out of the crowd. “I’ll not wager a settled game.” It came from a burly, coarse-looking man who bore a sword at his side. “Look you, they must be master and whore—a win for one would mean a win for the other.”
Catherine could feel her cheeks burn with insult as she watched the crowd make dubious noises and withdraw their wagers. “I am no whore, monsieur, and will prove my honor by the sword—if you dare.”
The crowd grew silent in clear anticipation. “Excellent,” Jack whispered in her ear. “Speak on, ma chère; this is better than I had hoped.”
Her heart lightened at his encouragement, and she continued. “Three livres,” she called out boldly. “Three livres that I win.” Three livres of Jack’s money, but perhaps he would not mind.
“Five livres,” he called out. “I have trained her well.” He winked lasciviously at the inn-yard crowd and they laughed.
She drew in a deep, shaky breath. Obviously he did not mind, and thought she could indeed win. She would do her best, then.
The burly man grinned and spat on the ground. “Six livres that I win.”
“Done!” said Jack. “First blood, and it’s finished.”
She looked her opponent up and down—they were of the same height and so perhaps their reach would be equal. His clothes were not of the best, but if he was willing to wager so much, either he was very sure of himself, or he had more money than he was willing to spend on his attire. She pressed her lips together grimly. The man before her was also heavier and probably stronger than she, and she had just finished a tiring practice. Her fatigue would diminish her agility, she was sure. She glanced at Jack, but he merely met her look and nodded encouragingly. She closed her eyes, for she still felt unready for her first true duel, and as she
took out her cross and kissed it, prayed for success. She took a deep breath, let it out, and stared at her opponent. Very well.
She took up her sword and placed herself in front of the man. “En garde!” she said.
She put her sword up in position, but it was soon clear the man would not attack until he had got her measure. She relaxed, and a strange calm came over her, a detachment. She let down her sword as she circled him, allowing him—she hoped—to think she was more fatigued than she was.
It worked. He lunged forward, but her sword hand came up as if it had a life of its own and deflected his thrust neatly. He grunted, clearly disappointed, but thrust again at her, which she parried easily.
The man frowned and stepped back, clearly reassessing his opinion of her. The man leaped forward and engaged, sooner than she had thought he would, and almost touched the cloth of her sleeve, but she parried in time. The man grinned, clearly encouraged, and he struck at her again. But she countered easily, and once more. She raised her brows. She had sparred only a little with Jack, but never seriously. And yet, even after her strenuous practice, this fight was less difficult than a session with Jack.
The man began to frown as he tried to pierce her guard but could not.
It began to be a game. Defense came surprisingly easy, she realized with that detached part of her mind, even as she could feel the strain of the fight. What of attack? She watched for an opening.
The man’s breath came more heavily than before, and for one moment his sword dropped. She lunged forward, shoving aside his arm as she neatly pierced his shoulder. She leaped back and put up her sword. “Touché!” she said. The crowd cheered and clapped and money began to change hands.
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