Guarded Heart (26 page)

It was what she craved in that rebellious portion of her mind that refused to consider reason or consequences, past or future. She wanted him, needed to be held, ached to be loved with a desperation that would have been humiliating if she had thought he guessed it. But how could he when she had given no sign she could recall, had not known it herself, had even thought otherwise, until this moment?

Yes, and what harm was there in it, after all? To feel desire was a natural, even a necessary, part of life. It meant nothing beyond the moment. And if she could not seek his death just now, she might still discover a way to make him know the pain of loss she felt when she thought of Francis.

That anguish was in her kiss as he lowered his head to take her mouth; it crowded her throat with tears. Nonetheless it was comfort she sought from him as she leaned into his strength, pressing her breasts to the hard planes of his chest, feeling the hard musculature of his thighs against her own that were shockingly unprotected without her skirts.

She slid her hands to his shoulders then around the strong column of his neck, tangling her fingers in the thick gold silk of his hair where it met his spine. Applying pressure, she deepened their kiss in a swirling clash of tongues and an agony of yearning.

He splayed long aristocratic fingers over her back, clasping her flesh as if to impress the feel of it into his brain, then smoothed downward until he captured the curve of her hip, kneading the resilient softness, drawing her more firmly against his hard heat. And by slow degrees, he took her down with him, down to their knees and then lower to the canvas strip where he shoved aside masks and padding and weapons, making room, making a bed of what had been their battleground.

Yet, in its way, it was an arena of combat still, as they fought their way out of boots, shirts, pantaloons and such unmentionables as they had chosen in anticipation of the unfettered exchange of touches with a foil. Splendidly naked, they lay bathed in the flashes of lightning and fine spray of blown rain through open doors while they traced with delicate care and diligent longing the sheen of muscles, curves of breasts, glint of fine, curling hair. They did not notice, didn't feel the power of the storm as they cupped and tasted, trailed kisses over hot skin, spread their palms to gather sensation or to feel the turbulent throb of the blood that raced in their veins.

Ariadne was on fire. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears. Like a child learning forbidden secrets, she felt wicked yet enthralled, daring and damned. Beneath it, she was aware of how magnificently made was the man who lay with her, his broad shoulders, taut waist wrapped with muscle, flat belly, lean flanks, hard thighs and restrained power. It thrilled her, left her drugged with longing.

His touch was magic, as if he understood without word or gesture the exact place to kiss, to touch with tongue or clever, clever fingers. His features reflected wonder, his unhurried movements suggested that he intended sybaritic gratification of every pleasure. Gently searching, he removed the pins from her hair, spread the long tresses around her, over her like a dark net through which he sought the tightly knotted peak of her breast. The heat of his mouth, the hot flick of his tongue followed by tugging, insistent suction, took her breath, made her tremble, made her arch her back for more. He stifled her low moan with his mouth, a sign of tender concern that embarrassed yet incited her. Half mad, she clung to him, sliding her hands over his arms, his chest, avoiding his bandaging but seeking the sword-like projection of his body that in its scorching silk over steel promised surcease.

Finally, when they were both shaking, thighs quivering and breath rasping in their chest, they fitted their bodies together, pulsing firmness into moist, welcoming softness. Moving in a parody of advance and retreat, parry and riposte, they strove together as if only one of them could be the victor.

Ariadne took him inside her, absorbing his power as he strained with bunched muscles and fierce, thudding, hot-eyed effort. She took him until her being shattered, coalescing around him in rhythmic pulsations. She cried his name, arching against him with muscles so locked in violent joy that she could not move, would not allow him to stir—until he kissed her hard, fast and deep, then dragged free, rolling away as his own shuddering completion overtook him.

He had been less lost in his paroxysm of pleasure than had she. He had thought to withdraw, preserving her from the consequences of their joining, from the possibility of a child that might have trapped him, trapped them both.

That thought had not crossed her mind from start to finish, perhaps because it had never been a factor in her marriage. It was a stunning realization.

Lying there on that gritty canvas fencing strip, unclothed, replete, her hair spread in a tangled mass around her, thighs open, bereft, she was no long certain who had taken whom in the moments just past. And she was afraid, deathly afraid of what she might feel, after all, when morning came.

T
he note was brought to her in bed with her café au lait. Tucked under the small silver pot of hot milk by Adele, it had no doubt been put there in return for a handsome
pourboire
. Ariadne thought for an instant that it might be from Gavin, an apology for the night before, another assignation, even a declaration of how he might feel toward her. Her fingers were not quite steady as she broke the seal, unfolded the stiff paper.

It was from Sasha.

He had a matter of grave importance he wished to discuss with her. If she should chance to be walking in Cabildo's arcade this morning, it would be his great pleasure to stroll a few minutes in her company. The situation being what it was, it would be best if her only companion was the usual maid carrying a shopping basket for her purchases. He was her devoted etc…etc….

It was a rendezvous he suggested, no more and no less. Why he could not simply call upon her, Ariadne could not see. Maurelle might not be in complete charity with him after his conduct on the dueling field, but she was too indolent to refuse him admittance or be actively spiteful once he sat in her salon. The likelihood of his being forced to confront the man he had injured in such a discreditable manner was slight. Gavin had, in the main, kept to himself; certainly he had not run free about the town house.

The places he
had
appeared rose up in Ariadne's mind in brilliant remembrance but she forced them down again. She would not think about the night before, of making love on the canvas-cushioned floor of the dark
garçonnière
chamber like some common
putain
without modesty or discretion. She would not, no matter how it made her stomach muscles flutter or how overheated she became. Fiercely, she concentrated on the note once more.

A matter of grave importance.

What did Sasha mean by that? If the issue was really all that dire, surely he would have come to her. It was unreasonable to expect her to go to him.

She had gone to Gavin the night before—and see where it had gotten her. Lifting a hand, she rubbed at the ache between her eyes.

The two of them had donned their clothes again and left the practice chamber, separating at the door of her bedchamber since she had a pressing need to put herself back to rights, to brush her hair, remove her men's garments and bathe before bed. But she wasn't going to think of that, or of the kiss he had placed upon her brow, his smile, his bow, his whimsical voice quoting some fragment of a poem as he backed away a few steps before walking down the gallery to his own chamber.

Sweetest love, I do not go,

For weariness of thee.

Nor in hope the world can show,

A fitter love for me;

But since that I

Must die at last, 'tis best,

To use my self in jest

Thus by feign'd deaths to die.

It was, she thought, from the indefatigable scribbler, Donne. But what on earth had he meant by it? Why give her a poem with its reminders, its echoes of pain due to her foster brother's interest in meter and rhyme? Why declaim a fragment that spoke of death unless it was because it also spoke of leaving a lover.

She could not untangle the mystery, certainly could not accept that he felt himself to be a lover in truth. The intimate moments they had shared had nothing to do with love. They did not, even if she could go only a few moments without reliving them.

She wasn't going to do it again. No, not now.

Nor would she go to meet Sasha. To encourage him was pointless and perhaps even a little cruel. Whatever ostracism he might be suffering while waiting for his ship to post its sailing orders had been brought on by himself. The dastardly slash at Gavin's mount, clearly against the set rules of their engagement with sabers, had been his decision, his betrayal. She sympathized with his isolation but could not condone the action that led to it. If he still hoped she might change her mind and leave the city with him, then he must be disappointed. She was out of all sympathy with him.

Oh, but did she really want Sasha to come here, where he might come face to face with Gavin? What if a meeting led to another confrontation?

It might be as well if she saw him, after all. The small outing would get her away from the town house for a short while. If she left at once, she could stop on the way to see if the dressmaker was finished with her gowns. She would also have a little more time to compose herself and decide what she would say, how she would act, when she saw Gavin again.

She would dress then, and go. Now, at once. And all the rest of it could wait until she returned.

Sasha was standing ramrod straight, hands behind his back, when Ariadne caught sight of him. His attention was on the legion that tramped up and down the parade ground of the Place d'Armes before the Cabildo. The wonder was that he had not found an excuse to join those who drilled there. He would not, she was almost certain, be the only gentleman of foreign birth to offer his services.

“The military still appeals, I see,” she said as she drew near. “Perhaps you should embrace it again.”

He turned and a smile shifted the cast of his features from coldness to warmth as he swept off his tall hat and executed a bow with a sharp crack of his heels. “Perhaps I shall, if I am ever allowed to return to my country. Though I would prefer to embrace you. You are looking especially well this morning, like a rose in bloom.”

The somewhat shopworn compliment was, she thought, on account of her walking costume of dark rose velvet trimmed in black; still something in his face made her acutely self-conscious. It was ridiculous, for he could not know how matters had changed between her and Gavin. “You are too kind,” she said, even as heat swept up her neck to her face.

He glanced around her. “You came without a maid?”

“The girl Maurelle assigned to me has been a little too interested in my comings and goings, I think. I sent her back to the town house with a gown completed by Madame Pluche. But never mind that. I trust all is well with you, and this grave matter you wish to discuss is not too drastic?”

His smile faded, leaving his pale blue eyes watchful. “No, kind madame, I am well. The time has been set for my departure from this accursed city, which pleases me mightily you may be sure. My ship sails in less than two days so this is good-bye. Yet I cannot leave without…that is, I have such concern for you. This is why I inquired after your maid.”

“I don't understand.”

“You must guard your good name, and your person. You must be warned.”

“Warned? About what?” She searched his face but could see nothing there beyond his usual pride and overbearing interference.

“All is not as it seems with this Englishman. He takes advantage of the good nature of Madame Herriot, and of you, madame.”

There it was again, that oblique reference to matters that were intensely private. Or was she being far too sensitive? “Please. I closed his wound with my own hands. I know how it was.”

“But you are not used to such things, cannot be aware of degrees of severity. Truly, it was no great thing to such a one as this swordsman. He would have been up and about the next morning if left to himself.”

“It's of no importance since he has now risen from his bed,” she said. “No doubt he will be leaving us soon.”

“Then now is the time of your greatest danger. I plead with you to take care, my Ariadne. He is a demon of the most diabolical sort, bent on deceiving you. He means to have you, no matter what he must do to achieve it.”

“Really, Sasha.” In spite of the protest, she put a hand to her throat where her high collar, fastened by a large cameo, suddenly seemed too tight.

“I assure you it is true. He was heard to say it in conversation with his brother, this Pasquale who is also a sword master. He thinks you are using these lessons between you as a ruse to injure him, even to kill him, in retaliation for the death of your loved one.”

Her heart leaped in her chest, beating frantically against her ribs under the compression of her corset. “How do you know? Who told you this thing? Surely you could not have overheard them yourself?”

“I must confess to having an emissary in Madame Herriot's household. The young maid you spoke of, Adele, has been reporting to me whatever she might see or hear that concerned you.”

“You…you paid her to inform on me?”

He stepped forward to take her gloved hand and hold it to his chest. “Forgive me, I beg of you. You must know how important your welfare is to me. I could not understand this business of fencing lessons with the Englishman. You had changed so since Paris, you were not yourself. I thought grief had made you deranged in the way that sometimes happens with widows left alone in the world. I had to know what was happening with you. I had to protect you, don't you see? Everything has been to protect you.”

He believed what he was saying, she thought, he really did. That did nothing to soothe her outrage. She was appalled, even sickened as she wondered if what had passed between her and Gavin the night before had been reported to him.

“My welfare is not your concern, Alexander Novgorodcev!” She snatched her hand from his grasp and balled it into a fist so tight it endangered her glove seams. “You had no right to set a spy upon me. You say I am not myself, but what of you? You have behaved as no gentleman should—having me watched, attempting murder under the guise of an affair of honor, hacking at an unarmed man. How could you do these things?”

His features contorted as if with anguish. “For you, my Ariadne, always for you. You were slipping away from me, I could feel it. I would do anything to keep you for my own.”

“
Mon Dieu!
This is not the way.”

“You prefer the tactics of your swordsman? This one who worms his way into the house where you stay, enticing you into his bedchamber so he might be alone with you in the dark, putting his hands…”

“Stop!” she exclaimed, her voice shaking with anger like none she had ever known before. “What you have done is beyond vile. Since you have confessed it to me in your own words, you will not be surprised when I tell you I never want to see you again. Take your ship and go. And if ever we are in Paris again at the same time, you will keep your distance. You will stay far away from me or, I swear by all the saints, I will come after you with my sword!”

Sasha stared at her with his features drawn and anger and grief clashing in his eyes. Then he drew himself up. “As you wish, madame. Go back to your precious Englishman. Be his doxy or whatever he wills. It may be all you deserve.”

Swinging around on his boot heel, he strode away from her with the wide skirt of his coat flapping about his ankles. She watched him go while sickness roiled inside her.

Gavin knew.

She had thought he might suspect, but no more than that. It had not seemed possible he could have discovered her purpose when she had told no one. How had he known? And for how long?

It must have begun on the day she had seen her sister and stepfather taken from the steamboat. Her shock and horror had been so great she could not hide it, though she had tried, she had tried.

He knew, and had set out deliberately to deflect her vengeance. He had seduced her, had used her softer emotions to possess her in what had seemed passionate accord while he felt only triumph. She had been a challenge for him, no doubt. How it must have amused him to turn away her hatred, transforming it to desire.

He had almost succeeded. She had almost let her violent intentions toward him slip away. She had come close, so close to forgetting what he had done, in her concentration on how he made her feel.

Yes, yes, she had thought of seduction in her turn, had used his apparent attraction to her for her own ends. Maybe this was no less than she deserved, as Sasha had said. No matter, it still hurt. It hurt more than she had dreamed possible.

How very strange that was when she felt nothing for the English sword master beyond the ardor he had so carefully awakened inside her and, perhaps, some small gratitude for revealing to her the sensual union possible between a man and a woman. He was an attractive man and she appreciated his intelligence, but that was all.

Surely that was all.

She could not be in love with him. She refused to consider it. She despised him, and with excellent reason. He had killed Francis, plunged his sword into his chest and stopped his heart. And he had come close to taking her heart as well, along with her body and her claim to the chaste faithfulness of a widow who had known duty and affection but never passion.

She would have retribution. This terrible anguish that took her breath, squeezed her heart and blinded her with acid tears demanded it. She would kill him for what he had done. If that did not ease the pain of his treachery, it would at least restore her self-respect.

Oh, but could she do it? Could she really kill him?