Guarded Heart (12 page)

“I wonder,” she said, her expression impenetrable as she brought her chocolate cup to her lips.

Gavin did not wonder at all. The outline of a daunting peril gathered shape in his mind, the contemplation of which brought a silent but virulent curse to his lips.

Madame Zoe glanced at him and her mouth opened. Then she turned away, proving herself a woman of great good sense by remaining decently silent.

Maurelle joined them a few minutes later. Gavin summoned his usual fulsome appreciation and urbanity, at least on the surface. He said nothing of his discovery, in part because he had no idea how much the widow Herriot was in the confidence of Ariadne Faucher, but also because he was not yet certain what he meant to do about it. He was still contemplating the possibilities when a trio of musicians, among them the fabled violinist known as Old Bull, crowded into the salon. While Maurelle discussed with them the program of entertainment for what was apparently to be a musical evening, he made his excuses and escaped to the
garçonnière
wing.

She was waiting, the lovely Madame Faucher. At the opening of the door, she turned toward him in the full blaze of four-dozen candles dancing on their wicks in the draft, capering as well in their reflections in the windows on either side of the long room.

His blood paused in his veins. All coherent thought was wiped from his mind as cleanly as if someone had polished a silver server.

“You are late,” she said, her voice far more dulcet than the look in her black, black eyes.

“Detained, rather. Was it for the sake of the spectacle?”

She unfolded her arms from over her chest and pushed away from the table where she leaned, coming toward him with a lithe glide made all too obvious by the form-fitting pantaloons of tan doeskin which encased her lower limbs. Spreading her hands, the better to display the wide corsair's sash of multicolored silk that cinched her slender waist and held fast the lovingly fitted linen of her masculine shirt with its diving décolletage unfettered by cravat or scarf, she asked, “You don't object, I hope?”

“By no means, not being bred from idiot stock.” The wonder of it was that he could speak at all, given his view of hips and long, long legs that had heretofore been a petticoat-protected mystery. Had he not pictured her just so at their first meeting? It was as if she had divined and brought to life his most secret fantasy. It was gratifying beyond imagining, but also disconcerting. “Your tailor is to be congratulated,
mon vieux.
”

Her smile turned crooked as she absorbed the masculine form of address, but she did not take him up on it. “My dressmaker, rather. You agree the ensemble should make injury less likely?”

“It should indeed, being singular enough to stop any opponent in his tracks.”

“By singular, I take you to mean vulgar.”

“Oh, assuredly.”

“So you disapprove.”

She was almost urging him to say it, or so it seemed to Gavin. Closing the door behind him, he began to unfasten the big silver buttons of his redingote with their bas relief of St. Michael triumphant over the dragon. “I am not just any opponent, so endorse the change wholeheartedly. It will take more than an alteration of dress to stop me. Unless that is a secondary purpose?”

She arched a brow. “I would not think of it.”

He hesitated in the act of tossing the outer garment over a chair seat, his attention on some faint shading of provocation in her voice. An hour ago, he might have thought it sensual in nature. Now it fringed the edges of his soul with ice.

Dropping the redingote, he slipped his cuff links from their holes and rolled back his sleeves, then turned to the table where their equipment lay ready. Taking the foils from their resting place, he handed one to his client and then stood testing the other in his hands while his thoughts took a circuitous path to reach a straightforward conclusion. At last, he lifted a hard gaze to her face. “Are you quite certain you wish to continue this game, madame?”

“You mean because of our last meeting and the small hurt you could not help?”

“Because of one that I could, and should,” he answered at his most cryptic.

“I don't understand you, monsieur.”

Nor did he entirely, but he must at least make the attempt at fairness. “Duels of the kind you intend are not fought by the faint of heart. They are the province of sweaty men with bad stomachs, insufferable pride and the Herculean method of unraveling knots of honor. There is no exaltation in it—no laurels for the victor and precious little real satisfaction on either side. You may feel, like a Spartan harridan with her shield, that a breast is a small price to pay to rid the world of whoever has injured you, but that will be no consolation to a future babe in arms.”

Color mounted to her cheekbones, flames of rose-red that spread over her pale skin. “You are suggesting I abandon my vengeance?”

“Or allow me the honor of collecting it for you.”

“You…” she whispered as her eyes grew black with the expansion of her pupils.

“Appoint me your champion and I will see that your enemy pays whatever recompense will best satisfy you.”

A flicker of pain crossed her features. “Even…even death in that sweaty contest you just described?”

“If you demand it.” Gavin's breathing was light, even, barely moving his chest, as he waited for her answer.

She searched his features with care, meeting his eyes with such steady appraisal that he could see himself in her dark irises as a figure who seemed on fire from the candle's glow behind him. Then her lips opened and a single word emerged like a sigh.

“Impossible.”

It was, he was certain, the exact truth as they both now knew it. Impossible, yes, because she was who and what she was. Impossible, because of the past which lay behind them. Impossible, because he could not seek revenge against himself. Impossible, because he, Gavin Blackford, was the man who had killed her foster brother. Impossible, because, despite all his skill and strength and a thousand other advantages bred into the bone, he was still the man she meant to kill.

“
En avant, madame,
” he said with a sweeping gesture toward the fencing strip that ran down the room before them. “Let us have at one another for as long as the lessons last. And while they do, you will be well-advised to guard your person with care.”

T
he man facing her this evening was different, Ariadne thought. Watchfulness lay in the sea-dark depths of his eyes, and the corners of his mouth were firmly tucked, almost grim. His movements had lost their casual grace, becoming more purposeful. His stance, when he had moved to the strip to begin their first
phrase
, held a distinct threat, one she responded to on some primal level she had not known she possessed.

Finally, or so it seemed, he had become serious about her training. Heated excitement spread through her, beating up into her brain, flooding the lower part of her body. She tingled with it in an exquisite prickling of goose bumps, more alive than she had ever felt in her life.

He saluted her as she stepped forward to join him, a movement she copied exactly before standing at ease. Then she waited while glorying in the freedom of movement in her masculine-style pantaloons, and also the wafting of the night wind through the open windows as it glided around her hips and thighs. She was dressed as a man but could not remember when she had felt more womanly.

“Anger in a passage at arms being a liability,” Gavin said, recalling her attention, “we will attempt to avoid it this evening with an oblique approach and without padding or masks as in our last lesson. I will hold my foil unmoving and you will come to me. Lift your blade, like so.”

She complied, stepping lightly toward him and taking the stance she had practiced again and again while alone in her bedchamber. Once in place, she raised a brow in inquiry to make certain she was correctly placed.

He nodded as his gaze moved over her, a thorough appraisal that lingered here and there. The intentness of it created an odd tingling in her breasts and at the apex of her thighs. She narrowed her eyes.

“Now,” he went on after a moment. “Using only the end of your blade, you will touch mine. Gently, gently and only at the point.”

She complied, though it seemed rather tame. It was necessary to watch the spot where the two foils came together, to make certain she maintained contact.

“Slide the end of your blade a little so you feel the smoothness of the steel. Notice the temper and hardness of it. You can, if you try, feel my pulse vibrating through the length, almost count my heartbeats.”

His voice was hypnotic in its quietness. And he was right, she discovered in some amazement. The power of his hold on the sword in his hand seemed to communicate itself to her, traveling through her fingers and up her arm to lodge in her chest. A quiver, instantly suppressed, shook her wrist and elbow. To cover that small movement, she inched her foil up and down in a delicate, questing caress. His steel was silken, unyielding, poised for instant use yet severely contained, held in abeyance by his stringent will.

Could he feel the thudding of
her
heart? Was he aware of the trembling inside her? Did he realize the peculiar analogy that bloomed, irresistibly, shockingly, in her mind?

“Look at me,” he instructed, his voice dropping to a deeper note. “Watch my eyes to judge what I will do next. Allow your blade to move by instinct alone. Don't think, but only respond to that stimulation. Let go of all attempt to control the outcome and permit yourself to be guided by the simple need to survive anything I may do to you.”

She attempted to follow that last directive. It wasn't easy while his foil feathered up and down over hers with a musical hum and it seemed that she could feel the heat of him burning against the palm of her hand, even through her glove. Nerves tightened her throat, making it hard to form words, but it seemed imperative she say something to break the odd spell he had cast around them. “This…hardly seems like fighting.”

“Oh, it isn't. This is its prelude, one not unlike what comes before the physical act between lovers. For the most perfect consummation, it is necessary to first know each other in deepest intimacy—to test will, desire, fortitude and promise to their limits.”

He did know; she might have guessed. “As one such overture ends in death and the other in life, the comparison seems less than apt.”

“You think so? Yet the apogee of love is called
le petit mort,
the little death. And with the end of life, we are assured, comes the resurrection. No,” he commanded as she parted her lips to refute his claim, “You are thinking too much. Come to me now, slowly, one step at a time while keeping our contact unbroken. Come, while I retreat a step. And two. Now I will come to you. Retreat in your turn or maintain the position of your blade, even press against it, as you will. Yes, like that. And again.”

Did he understand what he was doing to her? Was there actual carnal intent behind it? She thought so, but could not be sure. The prospect left her breathless, with an aching heaviness in uncomfortable areas as they glided back and forth in incongruous harmony, never losing the touch which connected them. And from the distant salon came the sweet melody of violin, harp and cello in a rapturous sonata that acted as tempo and guide.

“Come closer now as I move into your…your area of safety. And away again. Close, yes. And away. Begin to beat your blade against mine, softly, like a heart throb. Yes, like that. Slow. Even. Steady and unceasing while we advance and retreat. Follow my lead….”

Whatever his game, he was not immune to its effect, she thought. His eyes had darkened as the black circles of his pupils expanded. A sheen of perspiration glazed his forehead in the candle's glow and the linen of his shirt caught damply on the taut muscles of his sword arm. Ariadne increased her pace, allowing her blade to cling to his as she made a small lunge with her arm straight while giving him a brilliant smile. “Do I have it, now,
mon maître?
”

“To precision, I believe,” he answered even as he swirled into a parry and riposte that captured her weapon in his control, grasping it with the leverage of his own while sliding, grating in a thrust that still did not disengage. She took that powerful response and returned it with such concentrated effort that her breath sobbed in her throat.

And their movements quickened, gaining speed and impetus while their chests heaved with their laboring lungs and their booted feet whispered over the canvas strip, back and forth, back and forth, never losing their tenuous yet frantic contact.

Ariadne's wrist and arm burned and her leg muscles quivered on the edge of cramping. A red haze rose to veil her eyes. The thrum of her blood in her ears was like a drumbeat that drove her, applauded her until she thought he must hear. And she could not look away from Gavin's eyes, so hotly blue, so stark with what seemed an incontrollable need to draw her closer—close enough to touch, to hold, to invade in single-minded possession that she could not, would not allow.

Yet all the time, the end was never in doubt. She was not his match in strength or hardiness, in experience or pounding force. She could not sustain the wild effort, could not prevent the sudden, unwilling capitulation that brought him within her guard, with her sword arm raised above her head and her body, shuddering with every gasping intake of air, pressed against his hard form from breasts to knees.

Their abrupt stillness was like a blow. The candle flames leaped, then burned higher, brighter on their wicks. Outside, the wind died away. The music from the other room had stopped. No sound penetrated from the rest of the town house, as if all within it had fallen silent to listen. The movement of Gavin's firm chest against hers as he breathed nudged Ariadne's tight nipples to aching buds while cradled against the fluttering muscles of her belly was a firmness that was unmistakable. Every inch of her body tingled, yearned, while the faint trembling of anticipation gripped her. Her heart beat with a crazed rhythm and the blood poured through her veins like a river in flood, beat with feathery pulsations in her ears. She inhaled his scent of clean linen, bay-scented shaving soap and overheated male while her gaze fastened on a small slash mark on his chin from which oozed a ruby-colored droplet of blood.

Sanity and awareness returned in a fiery wave. She closed her eyes in search of excuses or absolution but could find neither. Without looking up, she disengaged with the contraction of overtaxed muscles which threatened, for an appalling instant, to refuse her bidding.

Speaking from a safe distance, she said, “I didn't cut you…that is, please tell me it was not my blade that nicked you.”

He swung away, putting his back to her. Placing his foil on the table with both hands, he kept his shoulders hunched, his gaze on the long fingers of his hands that held it. “Be at peace. Alarm is not required, contrition not expected.” He looked up then, his gaze finding her reflection that stared back at him from one of the dark window glasses that marched down the chamber. “In this
phase
of our meetings, at least, any wound received was self-inflicted.”