A surprised look crossed the man’s face as he brought his hand up to his shoulder, then his face reddened. “A trick!” he cried, and lifted his sword again.
Anger quickened in Catherine’s gut, and her hand tightened around the haft of her rapier. “What trick?” She turned to the inn-yard crowd. “You have seen me practice—did you see me employ any sleight of hand? Did you see anything but work?”
Some of the people in the crowd jeered at her opponent, which only made the man’s face grow redder. He spat behind his back at them, and turned to Catherine. “Witch! No doubt you employed sorcerous powers to win.”
Fear sliced through her stomach, but she pressed her lips together and gathered up her courage. She would not let such an accusation stand. “It is a coward and a poor loser who would use such an excuse to defeat another fighter instead of skill and strength,” she called out. “Yet you have my leave to bring me a priest to examine me . . . but I think he would say that a fighter who prays to the Holy Mother of God for success would not use sorcery but would fight fairly.” She seized her cross and held it up, glinting in the winter sun, to the crowd.
A murmur of approval moved through the spectators, and the man snarled. “I will not lose to a woman,” he said, and leaped forward with his sword.
Catherine put up her rapier, deflecting the slash of the man’s attack, countered it with another thrust past his defense, and slashed his other sleeve. Anger made her push him back and back until he was almost pressed against the bystanders, who scattered as the fighters drew near. She stared into his eyes, discerning his intent as he shifted his gaze here and there, looking for an opening in her defense. There was fear in him, she could see it, smell it. All her senses came to the fore; she could see the gleam of sweat on his brow, the smell of his sweat, the shouted encouragement of the betting audience . . . and something, something buzzing through her fury, as if a fly came near her ear, a buzzing that became a roar—
“I said stop!” A bright flash came between them, and the man’s sword flew from his hand as a sharp shock and then brief sizzling numbness shook her arm as her rapier fell to the ground. She whirled toward the interruption, her hands curled into claws, ready to jump and attack.
“Damn the both of you!” Jack roared, and kicked away their swords. “We agreed to first blood, not a duel to the death.” He pointed to Catherine. “You! Go over there.” He swerved his finger toward a far corner of the inn yard. Catherine crossed her arms and stood where she was, gritting her teeth at Jack’s interference. “I said go, or you will know the feel of my hand, my lady,” he said, his voice lowered, but more threatening nevertheless. He gazed at her steadily, and she managed to put aside her anger enough to see there was another emotion behind his irritation. She nodded curtly, and walked as slowly and insolently as she could to the corner he had pointed to.
“And you!” Jack turned and snapped at the man. “By our Lady, you go too far! I tolerated the insult to my wife—yes, my wife—since she could well prove her honor, but now you cast aspersions on her honor to account for your own failure.” He spat on the ground. “Coward! Lose to a woman? You would lose to a goose with one leg and claim it was the Devil’s work.”
The crowd laughed, and the man growled in clear anger. He stooped to pick up his sword, but found Jack’s own sword at his throat. “Don’t, monsieur. If you think my wife has any skill at all, it is nothing compared to mine.”
Catherine gazed at Jack, her anger dropping from her. He had changed; his voice was soft, but his face had turned cold, and his eyes, chill. She thought if the man did engage in a duel with him, it would be to the death indeed, and not Jack who would fall.
The man slowly rose, and Jack lowered the point of his sword. He grinned and gave the man an apparently friendly thump on the back. “There’s a good sport. Now, distribute your money to these good folk, and be on your way,” he said heartily, as if there had been no altercation at all.
The man edged away and thrust his hand in his pocket, withdrawing a purse and tossing some coins onto the ground with the rest of the wagers. Jack’s brows rose. “You put in five livres—not six.” He gazed at the man coolly. “You agreed on six.” Catherine’s opponent muttered a curse and threw another coin to the ground, then stalked away. The crowd surged forward to collect their gains, and Jack stooped to pick up the livres the man had thrown down.
He glanced at her and jerked his head toward the inn. “I’ll see you in our room. Go.”
Rebellion and irritation at his interference rose again and she stood her ground, staring at him. “Not until I get my share,” she said. It was not what she wanted to say, but it reflected her irritation that he did not think enough of her skill to have let her continue fighting.
His gaze grew cool, though not as chill as when he had stared down her opponent. “You do not trust me, I see. Very well.” He counted out three livres and held them out to her. “Half of whatever comes in—fair enough?”
She nodded, but did not take the coins right away, only stared at them for a moment before she slowly put out her hand. He dropped the coins in her palm, and she closed her fingers around them.
The metal was warm from his touch, and she remembered the warmth this morning as they lay together in their bed, how he had draped his arm around her, and the comfort of it after her initial panic. Her irritation fell from her, and she looked at him, nodding. “Thank you,” she said. She smiled a little. “It is the very first money I have earned, I believe.”
The coolness of his expression evaporated and he grinned. “It’s a novelty that does not wear off, I assure you,” he said. “With luck, we’ll earn more.” He squinted at the sun creeping toward midheaven and motioned to the inn door. “Go now—I’ll be in shortly.”
She nodded and turned away. She could feel the grime and sweat of last night’s travel on her, combined with the dirt of today’s practice and duel, and she wanted her promised bath and the cleanliness the time in hot water offered. Jack had said she might bathe once she was done with her practice, and she had practiced, and more. Her heart swelled with joy and pride, and she grinned—she had done well, she thought, and deserved a reward. As she entered the inn, she called to a chambermaid for a bath to be brought up, then almost skipped up the steps to her room.
She had pinked the man and had won the fight. She had earned good money for it, and might even had won a duel to the death had Jack not interfered. The disgruntlement she felt at his interference was brief, however. She knew despite his insistence that he was merely interested in returning her to her family for a price, that it was a surface protest covering what she knew was kindness. Nothing said he had to agree to teach her to fight, after all, and nothing said he had to provide good clothes or bountiful food for her. She did not know if it was true that he was in love with her as Felice and Fichet had insisted; she was not certain what love was like, or if she could return it. She did know Jack was, at least, as kind as they had been to her.
He did not even have to split their winnings evenly between them; he could have rightfully claimed the whole amount as payment for what he had expended on her. But he had given half to her, and had not grudged it, and had smiled when she had told him it was the very first time she had earned money.
Two chambermaids came up with buckets of hot and cool water, and poured it into the tin bath that sat by the fireplace. Catherine sighed, anticipating the warmth and cleanliness. She could sit in a bath forever if it did not cool. She thought of Jack again, of the warmth he had given her at night and in the morning, and how he had been quite generous. She should, in truth, pay for what he had given her. Granted, he would be paid when she returned to her family. . . . A shiver went through her. The sooner she got into the bath, she thought, the warmer she would be, and waited impatiently for the maids to finish pouring the water.
No, she needed to pay Jack herself. He had been generous to her, for her sake, she was certain of it. She thought of the livres she had earned. At least
she could give him some of it. She dug into her pockets and pulled out the money. She would give him two of the livres and keep one herself. And if she were to fight in another duel, she would do this again until she had paid him back for what he had given her, including the fencing lessons.
But the thought came to her that he might refuse payment. She frowned. For all that he insisted that he kept her by his side so that he could return her to her family for money, she felt he would not like it if she offered to pay him for her tutoring or the food and shelter he had given her. If he had truly thought he should have been paid for it, he would have taken all of the wager they had won, not split it with her. She was his apprentice, and a master did not give anything to an apprentice but food, shelter, and clothing until the apprentice achieved journeyman status. She knew that, at least.
She drew in a deep breath and closed her eyes against the pressure she felt under her breastbone, as if birds fluttered frantically against her rib cage, yearning for flight and freedom. She wanted to be free, and she could not be if she owed Jack so much.
A kiss.
Catherine opened her eyes, remembering that it had been part of their original wager, before her opponent had come to challenge her. He valued kisses, and she was sure he would accept them if she offered. She remembered also the way he had looked at her when she had been in her bath—as odd as it seemed, she thought perhaps he desired her.
Carefully she weighed the thought, testing it in her mind for fear or threat. There was a little fear, but she had pledged she would conquer fear whenever she felt it. The idea came to her that perhaps she was moving away from the grace she had acquired after her confession. A rebellion rose in her at the thought, however, for she also remembered that the priest had said her stigmata was probably a blessed thing. Well, she did not want it. If kissing Jack meant she would be rid of the affliction, she would be glad.
A weight came off her heart, and she felt suddenly free. Quickly she took off her clothes, readying herself for her bath. A movement in the mirror nearby caught her gaze; it was herself, moving toward the tub. She gazed at her reflection for a moment, startled, for she had not really ever gazed at herself unclothed.
She was different, she thought, than what she had been. Not fashionably plump, but her form, she thought, was not unpleasant. She could see muscles in her shoulders, and her skin smoothly covered more of them from chest to stomach to hips. A pleased feeling came over her; she looked strong and sleek, like a cat. She liked the thought of being catlike; they were clever animals, and knew how to survive.
But she was more than that. She was her own woman, someone who could earn her own money and not be obligated to anyone. She sighed happily. Jack had given her this opportunity, and she was grateful. He had been the source of warmth and food, and yes, gentleness. She had not minded, after a while, the way he had held her without threat or trying to use her. She nodded to herself in satisfaction. When he came up, she would make sure he knew how grateful she was.
Jack watched Catherine, how she walked with more confidence now, and grinned. She had done well, but he was glad he had stopped the fight before it had gone further. He could not afford to have her injured before he returned her to her family.
He winced inwardly at his old reasoning. The truth: he wanted to the kill the man himself for insulting Catherine and for pushing the fight further than they had agreed. Though she was strong and had a great deal of endurance, no one could be expected to bear up under a death-duel after such a practice as he had imposed on her. And . . . he could not bear to see her hurt.
An impractical feeling; she would be hurt even in sword practice. An image of her strong, straight body, the way she pressed her lips together as she fought, came to him, and his lips turned up in a rueful smile. He doubted she would listen to him in the future. She was not afraid of fighting, he realized. Perhaps he should not be afraid for her.
Yet she was still very capable of being hurt. He remembered how she had touched him this morning and how she had let him kiss her—tentatively, her eyes wide and vulnerable. She had not understood when he had ordered her away; his voice had been harsh and impatient, but it came from his fear for her.
An eagerness to tell her this, to tell her that what he wanted for her seized him, and the sound of coins jingling in his pockets was the sound of optimism as he strode across the courtyard and up to the room.
He made sure to knock on the door this time, in case she needed her privacy. Despite her willingness to kiss him this morning, and that she did not seem to mind that they had slept in the same bed, she seemed somehow virginal, untouched.
And yet, when he opened the door at her call of “Entré!” she was not dressed.
Catherine looked at him as he entered, a linen towel held up to her breasts as she stood by the bath newly drawn and still steaming in the cold air. The steam curled up around her, tendrils caressing her body, and the firelight behind her painted red lights and dark shadows on her skin.
He could only stare at her. She seemed like an elfin woman, made of fire and air, half insubstantial. He shut the door. He managed to do that, at least.
She glanced away, then stepped into the bath, discreetly holding the towel high until she was submerged, then letting it drop down to the floor. “I owe you money,” she said. She frowned for a moment, as if discontented with the way she had spoken. She cleared her throat and looked at him again, and reached out her hand to the table next to the bath. A clink of coins sounded as she opened her hand to him. She cleared her throat, then looked away.
“You have clothed and fed me,” she said. “And you have given me a way of earning a living.” She glanced at him, her expression uncertain. “You did not have to do that. I am grateful, and know that I should reimburse you for your expenses.”
A brief anger flitted through him. “I don’t want your money,” he said. “I have plenty of it, I assure you.”
Her lips pressed together in clear discontent. “That does not matter,” she said. “I will not be beholden to you, M. Sir Jack.”
Irritation grew. “As far as I am concerned, you are my guest. You need not pay me. . . . Besides, I will be paid once you are returned to your family.”
She turned then and looked at him earnestly. “But there is no guarantee they will pay you, hein? And what you have done, you have done for me. I am . . . grateful. I wish to give something back to you, and all I have is the money I have earned, which I would not have earned had you not taught me to duel.”
He did not want her gratitude, he realized. She continued to stare at him in silence, as if willing her determination to pay him into his brain, then turned away and took up a sponge, dipping it into the water and washing her face. He watched as the sponge came down from her face, at how her eyes were closed in sheer pleasure when she applied it to her neck and shoulders. His loins stirred, and he made himself sit in a nearby chair and cross his legs. He looked toward the door. He should leave; she was too much of a temptation to him. But she looked at him again with her eyes so impossibly green, and he thought perhaps it would not hurt to stay a little longer.
He cleared his throat and looked away for a moment as she rose a little from the bath and moved the sponge downward. “It amused me to teach you. And you are a good student. Any teacher would find it agreeable to teach one who learns quickly.” A wide smile lit her face, and he could not help staring. He didn’t remember seeing her smile so—and she was lovely when she did.
“I’m glad you approve,” she said, then sighed. “I am done with my bath now. Will you give me the towel?”
He looked at her, suspicion rising. The towel was well within reach if she moved out of the bath—she need only tell him to turn away while she picked it up. Her gaze was wide and innocent—too innocent, he thought. His loins grew hot with sudden realization: she was trying to seduce him.
It was not right, of course; she belonged to the Marquis de Bauvin. He thought of the money she had offered him . . . well,
that was it. She wanted to repay him and, because he had refused money, offered seduction.
He lowered his eyes for a moment, hiding anger. If she thought to pay him by offering her body, he did not want it. He wanted more than that. His heart suddenly felt squeezed tightly to the point of pain, and for a moment he closed his eyes. Damme, damme, thrice dammed. He wanted all of her, body, heart, and soul. Anger at her, at himself, swelled inside of him. He should never have let himself come to this point. He should have contacted her family immediately, whatever state she had been in, and taken the money right away. Stupid, stupid of him.
He bent, then, and picked up the towel, looking down at her as he held it out to her. “I know what you are doing,” he said. She took the towel and put it between them, rising out of the water, then wrapping it securely around her. She did not look at him, and if she had not pressed her lips together in a stubborn expression, he would have thought she had not heard him. “Look at me, Catherine.” She turned and gazed at him, her face showing a wary vulnerability. He cleared his throat. “I will not take your body as payment.”
She lifted her chin and a slight blush came to her face. “I thought perhaps you might accept a kiss, and since I am not comely, I thought you might be persuaded if you saw me in my bath.” She stepped out of the tub and moved closer to him, close enough for him to smell the scent of soap she had used. She put her arms around his neck. “You have asked me to kiss you before. You cannot object now. A kiss would be payment, would it not?”
He looked down at her, at the way she stared at him in determination, at how her lips were very close to his. He did not know whether to laugh at her stubbornness or push her angrily away. “You belong to the Marquis de Bauvin,” he said instead.
Anger flared. “I belong to no one,” she whispered fiercely. “I remember nothing of my family, of the marquis, of my home. I remember nothing but the alley, the dirt, and cold hunger. Nothing but hiding from whores and their masters, from thieves and beggars. No one came for me, until you. Until you.”
Dark Enchantment Page 12
