by Kruger, Mary
“‘Tis not something that happens often,” Simon retorted, bending to retrieve his sword. “Not with most women.”
“Have you fenced with women before, then?” Blythe asked.
“I’m known as a swordsman.” Simon grinned at her and had the satisfaction of seeing her frown uncertainly. She had no idea of his real meaning. “Have you fenced with men?”
“Often,” she said seriously, leaning on the sword. “Would you like me to help with this scene?”
“Go ahead, missy.” Giles dropped down onto the floor, grinning. “Woodley can use the exercise.”
“But he won’t be in the play.”
“I’ll learn watching you.” Giles waved his hand as Blythe stared at him. Her skirts were still tucked up; strands of hair were coming loose from under her cap, pale, shining honey. “Go on.”
Blythe paused, and then, shrugging, turned back to Simon. “If you don’t mind?”
He bowed. “Lay on, MacDuff.”
“Not good, to quote the Scottish play,” Giles called.
“But appropriate. It refers to a sword fight,” Simon explained to Blythe. “Shall we lay on, then?”
Blythe frowned, as if she suspected that he was teasing her, and raised her sword in salute. “Very well. We start, so, knees bent, head high.”
“I know that much.”
“Now.” She frowned and glanced over at Giles. “Is anyone supposed to be hurt?”
“Aye.” Giles grinned, obviously enjoying himself hugely. “I die at the end. And a great scene it is.”
“I’m sure,” she murmured, quite seriously. “It will work better if you appear to be well matched. That is, the hero shouldn’t win too easily.”
“I’d not let him.”
“So. The villain—what is his name?”
“Sir Adrian.”
“Sir Adrian would make the first move, of course.”
“Why?” Simon asked, at once intrigued by her manner, composed and brisk, and annoyed at being ignored.
“Because he’s the villain, of course.”
“But the hero—name?” he barked at Giles.
“Lucien.”
“Good God. Very well. Lucien is fighting for the honor of his one true love. Why wouldn’t he attack first?”
“Heroes don’t start fights.”
“No, but they finish them,” he said, lunging forward. His sword should have caught her on the shoulder. Instead she bent her arm in a move so subtle it was barely noticeable, and the two swords scraped together, some of the paint flaking off Simon’s. Before he could quite recover, she had disengaged, and, whirling about, struck him lightly on the arm.
“There. First blood.” Her smile was smug. “Mind your feet, Simon.”
“To hell with my feet,” he growled, lunging again.
“Oh, well,” she murmured, and again whirled away. Caught off-balance, Simon stumbled forward, managing only by luck not to fall. “Balance is important,” she went on, sounding like a teacher, while Simon straightened, studying her thoughtfully. Careful, now. He could lose his temper at being bested by a mere woman; could strike out again and overwhelm her with sheer force. Anger, however, had got him into more than one predicament in the past. There were other ways. “One must be quick on one’s feet.”
Simon made another ironic bow, conceding the opening moves of the encounter to her. “One must, with blades,” he agreed. “And with other things, as well.”
Giles snorted; Blythe merely frowned. “I am nearly out of patience with you, Simon. Shall we do this, or not?”
He studied her, his earlier double entendres suddenly a sword raised against him. “I believe we shall,” he said, finally, and as he did so felt a shroud of darkness lift from him, a burden he hadn’t known he carried. Blythe was light and life; his future was clouded, but he needed her. He hated to admit it, but he needed her.
“Well, then.” Blythe’s tone was brisk; of course she was unaware of the great revelation that had just visited him. “Shall we begin?”
He nodded, serious now, all thoughts of teasing gone. For this was more than mere swordplay, theatrical or otherwise. Not that he would admit it to anyone else. “En garde,” he said quietly, raising his sword in salute, though the real duel between them had begun long ago.
Blythe raised her sword, nodding. “A good touch. A civilized villain is much more dangerous.”
Simon lunged. “You’re not familiar with the theater, princess, so how would you know that?”
Blythe danced away yet again. “I read. That’s not bad for a first attack. And—”
“And if you’re the hero, you aren’t going to stand back and let me take the offensive. Not if you’re fighting for your woman.”
“Let Blythe be the villain,” Giles said unexpectedly.
Simon dropped his sword, and bent to retrieve it. “Why?”
Giles grinned. “So I can use what she does, of course. I like being a civilized villain.”
“Of course,” Simon muttered.
“Then I attack first,” Blythe said, springing forward with a lunge that Simon barely parried with his sword.
“And I press a counterattack.” Simon’s face was serious as he lunged in return, moving the stick in a great thrust that Blythe knocked away with her own weapon. Wood clacked against wood and then slid apart, leaving them both just a bit breathless.
Blythe danced back and then settled, feet planted, sword held up defensively. “But I am not going to let you in,” she said, and pressed forward, the stick weaving in a series of feints and lunges that Simon was hard-pressed to counter. Step by step he lost ground, using the sword for defense only, easing back, biding his time. For the hero was destined to win this fight, no matter how well-trained his adversary might be. He was fighting for his lady.
Blythe’s sword suddenly slid across his upper arm, rasping against the homespun. “She’s pinked you,” Giles said, quietly. “We’ll have to watch that.”
Blythe paused, holding up her hand. “Do you use real swords on stage?”
“Have to. The audience’ll spot fakes. We can paint wood silver, you see, but we can’t make it sound like metal. Or look like it, neither.”
“The tips are blunted, of course,” Simon added.
“Regardless.” Blythe frowned. “Someone could get hurt.”
“Which is why we rehearse the scenes carefully.” Giles waved his hand. “Carry on.”
“‘Tis only a play,” Simon said, and suddenly pressed forward. Blythe parried, but with effort; he was fighting for something, and that lent intensity to his efforts. It mattered. The hero had to win this battle.
But the enemy would not, of course, yield easily. Blythe took advantage of a brief opening in his attack to slide her sword forward, catching him on his other arm. “Number two,” she gasped, her breath rough from exertion, “and I’ll press my advantage.”
Simon gave way again, using his sword defensively. “You mean the villain will.”
“Yes. Now, if you hold your sword at a bit of an angle, like this, it should look realistic but not hurt anyone.”
“But I will win,” Simon said softly. Thrust and pull back; thrust and pull back. His size and strength were beginning to tell, in spite of his long confinement. Blythe was obviously tiring. No longer did she attack, but instead parried each blow, and stepping back, back. The hero had to win, or all was lost, Simon thought, and with one mighty effort thrust forward. Wood cracked against wood; Blythe’s arm gave way and then, unexpectedly, held firm. With an odd screeching sound the two swords clashed, sliding upwards and joining Simon and Blythe in an odd embrace, upraised blades intertwined, wrists and forearms pressed together, the skirts of her frock brushing against his legs, and her breasts just resting against his chest.
For a long, long moment neither one moved. Blythe’s face, upturned, close, so close, was flushed from the exercise, her breath coming fast and her chest rising and falling quickly. Simon’s heart had speeded up, and he was aw
are of dampness on his forehead and sweat trickling down his back. There was also a sensation that had nothing to do with his recent activity, and everything to do with his rampaging thoughts. His groin was throbbing.
“Bravo,” Giles said, breaking the silence, and throughout the barn there was scattered applause. Simon glanced about; for just a moment he had forgotten his audience. “And brava.” Giles put his arm around Blythe’s shoulders, pulling her away, and Simon was forced at last to withdraw. “Though I fear that in performance I shall have to let myself be killed, alas.”
“Yes.” Blythe sounded dazed as she looked back at Simon, her eyes huge. “Yes, I—I forgot this was for the play.”
“Seemed real,” Giles agreed. “Just the effect we want.”
It was real, Simon thought, more real than Giles could know. He raised his sword in salute. “A worthy adversary,” he said, bowing low. “I would duel with you at any time.”
“Thank you, sir,” Blythe dropped into a brief curtsy, apparently taking his words at face value. Though what he had meant, even he wasn’t certain. “But now—oh! I promised I would help Mrs. Staples with costumes this morning. Pray excuse me,” she said, and slipped from Giles’s loose embrace, dropping the sword and scurrying across the barn. Though more than one player stopped her with compliments and praise, Blythe barely slowed, until at last she reached the door and disappeared outside. With her gone, Simon could suddenly breathe again, was again aware of the clatter and confusion of rehearsal, and of Giles regarding him curiously. With her gone, it seemed somehow darker in the barn, and very empty.
“She’s good,” Giles said, standing by Simon’s side with fists resting on his hips. “Wonder if she knows it.”
Simon rounded on him. “You’re not to put her on stage. ‘Twas a foolish enough risk before. Do it now, and she’ll be recognized.”
“And lead the authorities to you, is that it?” Giles frowned at him. “I thought better of you,” he said, and turning, strode toward one of the small groups rehearsing.
Simon started to call him back, and then shook his head. Let Giles think it was his own neck he was concerned with. Let everyone think that. Better that, than that the truth be known.
Firming his lips, he bent to pick up the discarded swords. Swordplay, indeed. He wouldn’t mind engaging in it with her again. Circumstances being what they were, that was the problem. He was not free to pursue her, or any other woman, not with the threat of hanging ever present. Not when she thought he had committed the crime. Before he could move on with his life he would have to clear his name. The damnable thing was, he was beginning to doubt he ever would.
Mrs. Staples, the costume mistress, did indeed need Blythe’s help. In most cases the actors wore contemporary dress on stage, and their clothing was their own. Still, someone had to see to it. Blythe’s nose wrinkled as she took up a shirt that was not only thin at the elbows, but also stained with sweat. The conditions under which the troupe lived were primitive at best. She should wish to leave, to return to her own world. Odd, though, how that thought hurt.
She was sitting on a fallen beam against the wall of the barn, just about to take the first darning stitch in the elbow, when a shadow fell across the shirt, making her look up. Simon stood before her. “Should you be out?” she asked, before she could stop herself.
“Probably not.” Simon sank cross-legged to the ground beside her. Behind her bulked the old barn, where now she wished she had stayed. Anything, but to be so close to him.
“Well.” She frowned over the shirt, concentrating on taking a precise stitch. “If you are not afraid of being caught, then why should I be?”
He cupped his chin in his hand. “If I am caught, you are, too,” he pointed out.
“Oh? And do you really think they have any interest in me beyond you?”
“Yes. Like it or not, Blythe, you have broken the law—”
“And whose fault is that?”
“—and I suspect that our mysterious friend may be as interested in you as in me.”
She frowned. “Why?”
“You’ve thwarted him.”
“Is that how you would react in the same situation?” she asked, raising her head.
“No, though I don’t like being bested.”
“And bested, you were.” She grinned. “Admit it. You could not defeat me in our duel.”
“Mayhaps. But mayhaps if we engaged in swordplay again, the outcome would be different.”
She flushed. That insinuating tone was in his voice again, implying meanings she could only guess at, but that made her uncomfortable. And curious. And confused. “Mayhaps. More likely not.”
That made him laugh, a full-throated sound. She found herself staring at the strong column of his neck, lightly dusted with fine golden hair. The sun suddenly seemed very warm; her mouth, very dry. “A worthy adversary, indeed,” he said, his eyes brimming with amusement. “And here you hide as a plain companion.”
She frowned as she took up the shirt again, unreasonably annoyed. He thought her plain? “Of necessity.”
“You knew it, then?”
She looked up. “Knew what?”
“That you were playing a role?”
Then he didn’t think her plain? Oh, what did it matter? “I know,” she said, admitting it to him, and to herself, for the first time.
“I thought as much.” He tilted his head to the side, studying her. “Who are you, Blythe Marden?”
“What do you mean?”
“You came with me.”
“Not by choice, I might remind you.”
“I’d let you go.”
She paused, because that was an undeniable fact. When given the choice between staying with him in discomfort and fear or returning to her safe, suffocating, stultifying life, she had chosen to stay. Even now she wasn’t sure why. “So you did,” she said finally, her gaze on the shirt.
“And you haven’t left yet.”
“Because I am as much a fugitive as you are, in case you’ve forgotten.”
“Don’t fire up at me, princess,” he said, and had the nerve to grin. “There’s naught I can do about that.”
She cast him a look from under her brows. “Naught,” she muttered. “Hmph. And why are you staring at me so?”
“Your cap is askew.”
“Oh, bother it,” she said, and pulled off her mobcap. Instantly her hair tumbled to her shoulders, thick and unruly. Why she had let him goad her into doing such a thing she did not know, except that suddenly the cap had felt as confining as her old life. “I do not know why you make me do such things. A lady should keep her head covered.”
“I suppose you learned that at your mother’s knee.”
Blythe paused, and then took up her stitching again. “Something like that, yes. Though it was my foster mother and her birch rod.”
Simon straightened. “She beat you?”
“I sometimes needed it,” Blythe said, keeping her gaze on her work.
“Where was your real mother?”
“Dead.” She set the shirt down, looking at him at last. “My parents were young when they married, young and foolish, many said. Father had only a small plot of land and Mama, no portion at all. But they were happy.” Her voice softened. “‘Twas why they called me Blythe.”
“What happened?” he prompted, his voice almost gentle.
“A fever took them. There, that’s done.” She knotted the thread and bit the end off. “A neat piece of work, if I do say so myself, but then my mother—my foster mother—would have no less.”
“How old were you?”
“Barely two. I’ve much mending to do, sir, so if you don’t mind—”
“Not at all. I’ll keep you company while you work.”
She glared at him. “That was not what I meant.”
“No offense taken. So you were orphaned young.” Hand still resting on chin, he regarded her. “We’ve that in common, at least.”
That made her look at him. “Yo
u, too?”
“Aye. Except that in my case, ‘twas just my mother I lost.” He looked away, his eyes curiously opaque. “No one knew who my father was.”
Blythe’s breath drew in sharply. “I am sorry.”
“‘Tis long ago.” He waved his hand in dismissal. “My Uncle Harry and Aunt Bess took me in, bless ‘em, gave me as good a home as they could, and a family, besides.”
“I’ve always missed that.”
“What?”
“Family.”
“Yet you had foster parents.”
She nodded, frowning down at the shirt. “The fever took many people, but I was the only one left without family. Parents, grandparents, all gone. I’ve relatives elsewhere, but they never came to claim me. So the village doctor took me in.” She took a very careful, very precise stitch. “I’m sure he thought he was doing the right thing. And he was, of course. I needed a home.”
“But?”
“But?” She shrugged. “His wife had other thoughts. They had a son, but they were older and could have no more children.”
“Then I’d think she’d be happy with you.”
“Mayhaps if I’d been her idea of what a proper daughter should be, but I wasn’t,” she said, flatly. “I couldn’t seem to do anything right. I tried, but I kept getting into mischief. And when John—my brother—was tutored, so was I.”
“Hence the fencing lessons.”
“Yes, and Latin, and mathematics, and a great deal of other things that my mother thought a girl didn’t need to know. And I think she resented me for that, as well.”
“More than likely,” Simon agreed. “Yet you changed.”
“Well, I had to, didn’t I?” Once again she knotted and bit off the thread, aware of Simon watching her with peculiar interest. “I had to try to be what she wanted. And I was.”
“On the outside.”
Blythe busied herself with folding the shirt. “Yes,” she said finally, and jumped to her feet. “There! That’s done. I believe I’ll return this to Mrs. Staples and see what else she has for me.”
Simon remained sitting. “Blythe.”
She looked down, caught by his serious tone. “What?”