Triumph in Arms

by Jennifer Blake

  Dark hair with the black satin gleam of a swamp panther’s pelt, deep-set dark eyes, strong features that carried a copper-bronze tint: this was the man who lived nightly in Reine’s dreams, yes, and her nightmares. It was he who had saved her and Marguerite from being mangled by carriage wheels or worse on that terrible night four months ago. For an instant, she was back in his arms again, lying against his hard length, caught to him in a hold so secure it seemed nothing could harm her, not then, not ever.

  The urge to sink into that infinite protection had been so seductive she was forced to steel herself against it. Anger at her weakness and the impossibility of ever having someone to share her blighted existence washed over her in that instant. Though it pained her to remember it now, she had screamed at this man like a harridan as she scrambled up and dragged her daughter away from him.

  The heat of a flush rose to her hairline. It was all she could do to sustain his piercing gaze. What mischance had brought him to River’s edge she could not imagine, but the sooner he was on his way, the better. “I ask again if I may direct you, monsieur.”

  “I’ve come on a matter of business with your father. That is, if he is at home.”

  “What could you possibly have to discuss with him?” The question was less than gracious, though the best Reine could manage at the moment.

  “You doubt my invitation to call?”

  A dangerous undertone shaded Christien Lenoir’s voice, she thought. It was a reminder of a similar dark peril seen in his eyes as they had faced each other in a muddy street. Fear had meshed with the anger inside her as she recognized it, but beneath both had been a strange exhilaration. They had been muddy, disheveled, bruised and shaken, but for a brief instant there flashed between them an awareness so searing she had felt branded by it. They had stood staring at each other, a heartbeat away from quarreling, until Marguerite began to cry.

  Just thinking of it now made Reine feel as if her blood had turned hot and scouring in her veins, mounting to her brain. It was difficult to recall what he had just asked.

  “I…I must confess to being surprised,” she said finally. “My father is expecting you, then?”

  “He should be,” he said in cryptic reply.

  She hesitated, then stepped back, gesturing toward the side gallery. “That way, if you please. Alonzo will take your hat and dust coat, then show you to him.”

  “You’re very kind, madame.”

  His voice was dry, the look in his eyes ironic as he came up the steps toward her. He seemed a veritable paladin, impossibly tall and wide of shoulder and with his coat flowing around his heels like a cloak. If the presence of the bloodhound troubled him, he gave no sign but only held out a hand for him to sniff. Chalmette availed himself of that privilege, gave a wag of his tail, then trailed away in the direction of the hydrangea again.

  Reine gave the dog a jaundiced look. As she glanced back at the visitor, she caught a glimpse of amusement in his eyes, as if he understood her annoyance at Chalmette’s defection. She only inclined her head in leave-taking before turning away to reenter the house.

  It was possible he paused to watch her departure. She could not be sure for she did not look back.

  The visitor’s arrival was such a distraction that it was difficult to return to her paperwork. When she had placed half a dozen sums in the wrong column, entered one set twice and added a column three times with as many different answers, she flung down her pen and left the writing table once more.

  A small mirror hung in a gilded frame above the console table between the French doors. She stepped to it, frowning at her reflection. Her hair, never particularly neat, had sprung into a mass of wild wisps around her face in the souplike summer air. Her face was flushed in a less-than-attractive fashion, and, yes, that was a smudge of India ink on her chin.

  With an exclamation of annoyance, she slipped her handkerchief from the embroidered, drawstring pocket that dangled at her waist along with her keys. She moistened it with her tongue and scrubbed hard at the stain. Not that she cared what she looked like, of course. She had never been more than passably attractive, but she preferred at least to be clean.

  What business could Monsieur Lenoir possibly have at River’s Edge? She could not think her father required instruction in the use of fencing foil or sword; he had been proficient once, though that was years ago. He owned no property on the Passage de la Bourse that might be rented out as a sword master’s atelier as far as she was aware. He was of too mild of a temper to contemplate engaging a maître d’armes to rid himself of an enemy. That was, of course, if Monsieur Lenoir could be brought to hire out his sword for such a purpose; only the least respectable of the fencing masters were so lost to honor as to stoop to such arrangements.

  The only other thing she could imagine was a debt of honor. Her father was a fine man but had one vice, an addiction to games of chance. It had been years since he allowed it to overcome his better judgment, though Reine’s mother sometimes spoke of the days before their marriage when he had won and lost several fortunes. Regardless, he came up short of funds now and again after a particularly long night of play. Yes, and there had been that evening not so long ago when he had come home only as the roosters crowed.

  Dismay seeped over Reine as she became certain she had hit upon the reason for the sword master’s visit. Her father owed a gambling debt.

  Cash to pay it off was in short supply; she knew that well enough, having spent the morning toting up the accounts. Not that such a state of affairs was unusual; most planters lived on their expectation of future profit. Harvest time usually saw their hopes rewarded, but not always. A single crop destroyed by drought, insects, disease or storms, and ruin could overtake them. That was unless friends or a benevolent banker came to their rescue.

  Her father had been fortunate in his friends and business acquaintances thus far. A convivial man, he was generous to a fault when in funds, always cheerful in company and as affable when losing as when winning at the card table. He made few enemies, which he often proclaimed to be the secret of a good life.

  Reality and her dear papa were not on close terms, however; he made a habit of ignoring unpleasant facts for as long as possible. More than that, he did not believe in burdening females with financial worries. This in spite of it being Reine who kept track of plantation profits and expenditures. Though her affection was deep and abiding, her knowledge of his faults gave her a bad feeling about this unusual visit.

  The need to know precisely how matters stood between her father and Monsieur Lenoir became more acute with every passing moment. It was a relief when Alonzo appeared to tell her that she was required on the gallery.

  The visitor and her father rose at her approach, then sank back into their seats as she took a wicker chair and folded her hands in her lap. Her father made a hearty show of recalling the identity of their guest to her memory and expressing yet again his gratitude for his good services in preventing injury to Reine and Marguerite outside the theater. With that out of the way, he fell uncharacteristically silent, glancing from her to his visitor with a worried frown between faded blue eyes. He shifted his gaze out over the gallery railing to the moving patches of sunlight under the oaks. He looked at the caller again, cleared his throat and pursed his lips.

  Her father was growing older, Reine noticed with a small clutch at her heart. Liver spots marked the backs of his hands, his features were grooved with lines and his dark hair streaked with silver. A bon vivant as a young man, he had married rather late in life so had been almost forty when she was born. Events these past few years had taken their toll, stealing the spring from his step and the sprightliness and laughter from his smile. For much of that she was to blame, as she knew far too well.

  “Yes, Papa?” she asked after a moment. “You have something you wish to tell me?”

  “Indeed. There is a matter…That is, I must relate…Oh, it’s a damnable thing, and I’m more sorry than I can say. It concerns you more than any ot
her, and it seemed best that I let you know first so you can…Ah, chère!”

  Reine’s apprehension, already strong, turned to alarm. She sat forward. “What is it? Has something happened? Tell me at once!”

  Her father opened his mouth and closed it again with a shake of his head. Reine, feeling the gaze of the sword master upon her face, swung toward him in hope of clarification.

  Thankfully, he did not disappoint her.

  “What your father is trying to tell you, Madame Pingre,” he said, his voice as steady as his black gaze, “is that he has lost title to this property. The house, its furnishings, workers and acreage has passed from him over the gaming table. His loss is my gain. I am the new owner of River’s Edge.”

  The words he spoke were clear enough, but her mind refused to accept their meaning. This was worse, so much worse, than she had feared. “What? What did you say?”

  “It’s true,” her father said in mournful concurrence as she turned back to him. “Everything is gone. The town house in the Vieux Carré, as well.”

  “I am sorry,” Lenoir said.

  Reine closed her eyes, unable to bear what was surely the spurious regret in his voice or the implacability in his features. “Gaming,” she said, the damning word no more than a whisper in her own ears.

  “Euchre.” Her father’s voice regained strength now that the news was out. “My luck was abominable. Truly, I never saw it so bad. I was sure it would turn as the night went on, but alas, it never happened.” He gave a fatalistic shrug.

  “How could you?” she demanded in shaken tones as her lashes swept up again. “Had you no concern for me or for Marguerite? As for Maman, I cannot imagine how you are to tell her.”

  Uneasiness passed over her father’s face. “Things are not so bad as they appear.”

  “How could they be worse? We will have to leave here, and where are we to go? We may be able to put up for a few days in a hotel, but if you have lost so much—” Reine stopped, closing her lips in a tight line to prevent herself from saying more. It went against the grain to expose the full extent of the disaster to their guest. On lave son linge sale en famille, the old wives said, wash your linen within the family circle only.

  Her father rubbed the back of his neck, a harassed look tightening his features. “Nothing so drastic should be required. Monsieur Lenoir and I have come to an agreement that seems workable.”

  “For more time to arrange your affairs, you mean? I’m sure that’s very accommodating of him, but hardly improves matters.” She sent the sword master a fulminating glance. The more she considered it, the more unlikely it seemed that her father had wagered everything, particularly in a game with this man. It was too coincidental, unless, of course, they had fallen into play because of the incident outside the Théâtre d’Orléans.

  “The matter is delicate, chère, but should prove satisfactory if it works out as planned.” Her father rose to his feet so quickly that his knees popped. “I should go to your mother before she decides to come down to greet our visitor. Monsieur Lenoir will be better able to put the situation to you in a way that…that must meet with favor. I’ll leave him to state his case as he put it to me.”

  Reine’s heart beat high in her throat as she watched her father depart in such haste that the tail of his frock coat flapped around him. When his footsteps had faded away inside the house, she turned to the man in the chair next to hers.

  Christien Lenoir leaned forward slightly with his elbows on the wicker arms. A rueful smile curved his mouth as he met her gaze, though it did little to change the expression in his eyes. That remained watchful, as assessing as if she were his opponent on a dueling field.

  “Well, monsieur?”

  “This may be awkward, is almost certain to be in all truth. I trust you won’t hold that against me.”

  “I can hardly promise since I have no idea what you mean.” She was distracted by the feel of her heart thumping against the wall of her chest, also by the odd magnetism of the man that made it almost impossible to look away from him.

  “No, I suppose not. The thing is, my proposal seemed perfectly rational and straightforward when it first came to mind. Discussing it with your father was a matter of business. Now it appears more problematical.”

  “That will not, I feel sure, prevent you from making it.”

  “By no means. After seeing you again, I’m more inclined than ever.”

  She searched his features one by one. His eyes, black as a moonless night, were shuttered by a thick fringe of lashes, holding all feeling in abeyance. The sun’s glow, which slanted across the strong planes of his face and glinted in the shining blackness of his hair, provided no illumination for his thoughts or intentions. His nose, between thick, expressive brows, might have been large in a less masculine face; its bladelike jut had the look of an eagle’s beak and the same commanding arrogance. The tilt of his chin was determined, almost threatening.

  Christien Lenoir was not handsome in the pale and refined fashion of the moment, yet he had a dark attraction made up of harsh planes and strong bone structure like a son of Lucifer himself. His masculine presence, the sense of steel-hard resolve under a thin layer of civilized intentions, seemed to overshadow the morning. Nothing she saw gave her reason to hope that he would relent to the point of erasing her father’s gambling debt.

  Lowering her gaze, she allowed it to rest for an instant on the cuff of his shirtsleeve, which rested on the chair arm closest to her. The linen was paper-thin and frayed at the edges. His cravat, she saw, had the reddish tint of age under its black dye. The knees of his woolen pantaloons were worn more than was acceptable, and his boots could use new heels. It was quite probable he had just as much need of River’s Edge as they did, was just as determined to hold on to it. What, then, could he want of her?

  An odd thought shifted through her mind, one that sent heat rushing along her veins. He had mentioned a proposal. What if he meant that quite literally?

  No, it could not be.

  Unclenching her teeth, she said, “I can’t begin to guess what you have in mind, unless you mean to suggest that my father lease River’s Edge from you.”

  “That would not suit me at all.”

  “I feared not, for you would have no need to involve me in such a plan. Do you mean to set up as a planter so require his expertise? Well, and perhaps my aid in arranging your household?”

  “Something along that line.”

  “You can’t expect Papa to become your overseer,” she said in dismissal. “Not because he would wish to be disobliging, you understand, but because he has not the skill. He is, always has been, a gentleman.”

  “So forbidden to earn his keep like a common laborer. I am aware of the distinction.”

  She ignored the rough note in his voice as she went on. “Still less would my mother ever consent to move into the overseer’s cottage. It just isn’t…isn’t suitable.”

  “Madame Cassard would rather become the pensioner of some relative than give up the benefit of a household with an abundance of servants to do her bidding. Perfectly understandable. But in that case, she and your father, also your young daughter, may as well become my pensioners.”

  Reine clasped her hands in her lap, clenching them as irritation surged through her. “They aren’t…that is, we aren’t dependent on your charity.”

  “Aren’t you?”

  The question was accompanied by another disturbing flash of sympathy, an infinitesimal softening of his eyes that revealed hints of gold in their darkest depths. She rejected it with only the slightest hesitation. “By no means.”

  “I’ll agree the matter is different with you, given that you have something to offer in return. You would, of course, become the mistress of River’s Edge.”

  She stared at him a long instant. “Mistress,” she said in tight incomprehension.

  “Rather than your mother, who currently holds that position, I mean to say. The responsibility would naturally fall to you as my wi
fe.”

  She held his black gaze, uncertain the words he had spoken in such soft precision could have the meaning she thought. At the same time, a peculiar flowering sensation moved over her, tightening her nipples, settling hot and heavy in her lower body. It made her feel a little dizzy, so she reached to grasp her chair arm with tight fingers.

  “Your wife,” she said faintly.

  “It’s the obvious solution, you must agree. As your husband, I would take possession here without ousting your family. Very little need change except that we will be joined by a legal tie.”

  Take possession. What a very suggestive phrase, one that curled her toes inside her slippers.

  Reine had been married. The last thing she needed was anyone to take possession of her ever again. Her vision blurred at the edges, and she gave her head a quick shake to clear it. “Impossible.”

  “Unlikely, perhaps,” the swordsman returned with no relenting in his expression, “but not at all impossible.”

  “You don’t understand. I have no desire whatever to marry again.”

  “You would see your parents and your daughter put out of their home instead?”

  “No, but I don’t…really can’t…”

  “You are revolted at the idea of being wed to a man who has made his living as a sword master.”

  “It isn’t that.” She meant it, for her ideas concerning social stigma had changed since the death of her husband. Becoming a pariah could do that to someone.

  Still, it seemed strange that she should receive a proposal from such a man. Theodore had always had a particular fear of sword masters. They had formed a special Brotherhood made up of a select few who went about exacting vengeance for the wrongs done to those weaker than themselves, especially to women and children without male protection. And they were not, so he said, too particular about their methods, showed little regard for the status and dignity of their victims.

  “I revolt you personally,” Christien Lenoir went on.

  She gave him a scathing look that encompassed the symmetry of his face, his powerful shoulders and long, hard-muscled legs outlined so faithfully by thin wool. “Don’t be absurd. My preferences don’t come into this.”