Triumph in Arms

by Jennifer Blake

  Paul pursed his lips, then gave a slow nod. “That’s all right, then, I guess. But you hurt Reine, and you’ll answer to me.”

  He stuck out his chin, as if he expected Christien to make light of the threat. It was a gesture he must have made before, for an inch-long scar could be clearly seen on its close-shaven underside.

  “She is fortunate in her brother,” Christien said as he put out his hand in friendship, “though I hope she won’t require you as her champion in the future. That should be my role.”

  “She may need one more than you think. More than she thinks, too.”

  “I will be there,” he answered, even as he absorbed the warning.

  “Could be you will, at that,” the boy said, his gaze narrowing as he slowly reached to accept Christien’s hand, clasping hard. “Could be it’s a good thing you’ve skill with a sword. Nighthawk.”

  Christien did not respond to the name. Nor did he make the mistake of trying to overpower his future brother-in-law in the handshake. There was more than one point being made here, he thought, as well as a bargain being sealed. He hesitated a moment before he said, “If there is something you would like to tell me, I’m willing to listen.”

  “Never mind that. Just you take care of Reine.”

  His nod of agreement was instant, since he had intended no less. Holding Paul Cassard’s gaze, he allowed the boy to decide when the pledge was done and so end it. He did that an instant later, stepping back at the same time. He began to turn away.

  “Do you fence?” Christien asked abruptly.

  The boy turned back, his features stiff with reluctant interest overlaid by pride. “Not yet. Maman felt I was too young for the salons this past season, though Papa promised I could attend next winter.”

  “I could show you the rudiments. I closed my salon this morning but need to keep in practice. A sparring partner would not come amiss.”

  Color flooded Paul’s face so the freckles stood out across the bridge of his nose like bits of brown wrapping paper. For an instant, it appeared he would agree. Then his face changed. “I think not,” he said, looking down at the toes of his boots.

  “Now, why? I am an interloper, true, but will soon be family.”

  “It’s not that.”

  “You think I’m so cow-handed I’ll ruin your style before you can develop it?”

  The boy had the grace to smile at the suggestion. “I’ve seen you in New Orleans and know your reputation.”

  “Something more serious, then. You feel I’ve taken what should be your inheritance.”

  A moody shrug was the only answer.

  “There’s not much I can do about that except to apologize. I am sorry, you know.”

  “But not enough to give it up.”

  It was such a mutter that Christien had to strain his ears to catch it. “No,” he said simply. “I have as much need of it as you, perhaps more.”

  “What I thought.”

  “Can you say you would not feel the same in my shoes?”

  Paul Cassard gave him a brief stare from under his brows before shaking his head. “That still doesn’t make it right.”

  It was too true for denial. “I will admit that much, though it changes nothing. In the meantime, are you sure I can’t entice you into a few minutes of practice with a foil? You could slash away at me all you like. Who knows, you might even get in a few touches by way of retaliation.”

  “Not likely, as I’ve never held a foil in my life. That’s if I wanted to try.”

  The words had a sullen sound, as though the boy feared Christien might think less of him for the admission. Or that he felt less of himself for it. “We are none of us born knowing the correct moves,” Christien said at once. “You will catch on quickly, I’m sure. And I’ll try not to inflict too much damage before you gain prowess.”

  “I’m not afraid,” he replied, flaring up with a scowl.

  It was the response Christen wanted and expected. “Good. Shall we meet under the oaks at the side of the house in half an hour? I must see to my belongings, but will be ready by then.”

  Young Cassard’s nod of agreement was so stiff that Christien had to control a smile. If only his sister was so easy to read, and to lead.

  A short hour later, the two of them were hard at it. Shuffling back and forth over the grass, they beat the tips of their blades together in the most elemental of fencing moves. Sweat poured down their faces, wet the hair at the back of their necks and made the sword grips slippery in their hands. The smell of crushed grass rose around them, mingling with the scent of sautéed onions from the outdoor kitchen no great distance away.

  Paul must have frequented the salons as an onlooker, Christien thought, even if his father had forbidden lessons. Or perhaps he’d seen a clandestine duel or two during his winter sojourns in New Orleans. It would not be unusual, since word always got out when notable swordsmen were to meet. At least young Cassard had some acquaintance with the form and etiquette necessary on the fencing strip, also with the more basic positions.

  Christien had brought foils from town, the equipment to keep them in good shape and a single suit of padding. The last he’d given to Paul to wear. It was unlikely the young man would be able to touch him with his blade, and though the last thing he intended was to harm Reine’s brother in any way, accidents could happen. Explaining why he’d drawn Paul’s blood was not the way he preferred to start his marriage.

  He was just demonstrating a parry in seconde when he caught a flurry of movement from the corner of his eye. It was Reine, moving swiftly from sunlight into the deeper shadows of the oaks with her skirts swirling around her feet. She came to an abrupt halt no more than an arm’s length from where their improvised piste, or fencing strip, was marked off in the grass with lines of powdered lime.

  “What in the name of heaven are you doing?”

  Paul answered her, his voice breathless with strain and excitement. “What does it look like? A duel, perhaps?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. I can see it isn’t.” Her eyes flashed with bright blue annoyance, and the lush curves of her lips were tight at the corners.

  “Monsieur Lenoir offered me a lesson.”

  “And you agreed! Are you quite mad? Stop! Stop this instant!”

  Though she spoke to her brother, her gaze flashed over Christien. He could swear he felt its sting everywhere it touched, on his hot, perspiring face, his shoulders and chest, and lower, where his exertions had caused his pantaloons to cling to his leg muscles. With an abrupt gesture, he gave the signal to disengage. He stepped back in form with his sword tip trailing on the ground.

  “It was only for exercise,” Paul protested, wiping his face with his shirtsleeve as he also relaxed his guard position. The exhilaration of the match was strong in his veins, however, for he continued in breathless enthusiasm. “No one could be hurt. Monsieur Lenoir knows to the inch where he’s striking. He beat out forty other masters to take first prize in the tournament of fencing masters this spring, you know. That makes him the best swordsman in New Orleans.”

  “It isn’t your skin I’m worried about.”

  Christien gave her a swift look, his heart leaping in his chest. She didn’t mean that the way it sounded, or did she? Reine avoided his gaze, her attention on her brother. Her features were dewy with heat and temper, her hair gilded by the dappling of sun through the tree limbs overhead. She breathed in a quick cadence that lifted the gentle curves of her breasts in an intriguing rhythm, but that was as apt to be from hurry as from concern of his hide.

  “What, then?” Paul asked, scowling. Then his face changed. “Oh. Maman.”

  “Yes, Maman. You know how she is. What if she looked out and saw you?”

  Paul flushed, glancing from his sister’s stern gaze to Christien as he spoke in explanation. “Our mother is alarmed by violence in any form, and undone by the sight of blood. I should have thought.”

  “This was mere exercise.” Christien kept his voice mild with an
effort, the better to hide his disappointment.

  “But she is unlikely to understand that,” Reine said at once. Turning back to Paul, she went on in brisk tones, “You are sweating like a pig and have the odor of one. You should go and bathe. Or have you forgotten that you have a lesson of a different sort with Father Damien?”

  “Latin and sums when I could be fencing? No, really. Could a message not be sent to—”

  “We have done enough for one day.” Christien cut across the boy’s protest as he moved to lay down his foil and pick up his frock coat. He put it on not only because it was impolite to appear in shirtsleeves before a lady, but because Paul wasn’t the only sweaty male under the oaks who might smell like livestock. “I didn’t realize you had other obligations,” he continued as he slid his left arm into the sleeve and adjusted the fit on his shoulders. “You should have told me.”

  “I am tutored three days a week by the parish priest,” Paul said without enthusiasm.

  “If he completes his studies before his eighteenth birthday, the good father will escort him on his grand tour,” Reine added, then paused, her features stiffening. “At least, that was the plan before you…before River’s Edge changed ownership.”

  “I see no reason why it should change,” Christien replied in even tones.

  “Father Damien will be pleased.”

  The comment was austere. Her brother more than made up for it, however.

  “You mean it?” he cried in strangled relief while rich color surged into his face. “I’d thought…that is, I was sure the trip would be off. I have to tell Father Damien. Yes, and Gaston and Ambrose, since they go with us.” He started off, then turned back to execute a jerky bow. “Merci, Monsieur Lenoir, thank you for everything.”

  A grand tour. It seemed the disappointment of missing it had been behind Paul’s resentment as much as for the loss of his future inheritance. Who would have guessed?

  “I must apologize for the upset,” Christien said to Reine when her brother had vanished into the house. “It wasn’t my intention to create more problems for you.”

  “I’m sure it wasn’t. You could not know how these things upset Maman.”

  “She isn’t well, I believe.”

  “She seldom leaves the house, has never been strong. Her childhood was not a happy one, she has always feared…everything, and her nerves were quite shattered by Theodore’s death. She was first on the scene where he…he died, saw Marguerite asleep next to a pool of blood, you understand. For an instant she thought her injured, even dead. Then she screamed and Marguerite woke.”

  “I quite see,” he said, trying to ignore the creeping sensation that moved over his scalp at the images she invoked. He paused for an instant before he went on. “So you don’t object to the fencing lesson, then, only to its location.”

  Her features remained stiff. “I can’t say that. My brother needs no encouragement to think himself a swordsman, courting challenges among his friends for the excitement and chance to prove his courage.”

  “He seems too sensible for such foolishness. More than that, the code I practice, the one I teach, warns against it. Fencing is a valuable tool for turning boys into men, teaching them responsibility, self-discipline, manners, endurance and a dozen other things.”

  “And you think my brother has need of these.”

  What Christien thought, gauging the concern in her eyes, before resting his gaze on the fine skin of her face and silken length of her lashes, was that Paul was lucky to have such a sister to worry over him. “Most do,” he answered, “and he seems at loose ends.”

  “He frets about things over which he has no control.”

  “It’s a failing of young men, to care beyond what might be expected, to take responsibility for things they can’t change. Learning skill with a blade will give him direction. I should also point out that it may save his life if he crosses the path of a man who has not been taught to curb his conceit or his temper.”

  “Pray God he never does,” she said with a small shake of her head. “Still, I refuse to allow that you, who met my brother only yesterday, know more of what he requires than I.”

  “But you will concede that we are both male, so must have similar impulses.”

  An intriguing shade of wild rose appeared on her cheekbones before she spoke. “I can hardly argue with that.”

  “We will move farther from the house for his lessons, if that will serve.”

  “You may do as you like. I’m sure you will, regardless.” Her voice carried a distinct edge, and she looked away as she replied, as if she could not bear the sight of him.

  Christien watched her a long moment, noting the tightness at the corners of her mouth and firm clasp of her hands in front of her. His gaze wandered to the luscious, peachlike curve of her cheek, the tender, blue-veined valley between her breasts that was exposed by the rounded neckline of her gown. He swallowed, clearing his throat and collecting his thoughts before he could frame the question in his mind.

  “Is something wrong?” he asked after a second. “Or, perhaps I should say, something more?”

  “Of course not.”

  “I’m not sure I believe that. If you’ve changed your mind…”

  “It isn’t that.”

  “But there is something. Come, out with it. I can’t fight what I can’t see.”

  The look she gave him was scathing. “Nor can you help being male or going about your so very male business at all hours.”

  “Ah,” he said, studying the accusation in the blue depths of her eyes. “You know I left the house last night.”

  “I saw you go.”

  “And you think the worst.”

  “It’s usually correct, in my experience.”

  “But you have no experience with me. If I tell you I couldn’t sleep after my long evening nap and the excitement that interrupted it, that I went into town to pack the remainder of my things and arrange my affairs in order to be more settled here, would you believe me?”

  She stared at him with doubt in her eyes, and who could blame her? His explanation might be true in part, but left out much. That it couldn’t be helped did not make it easier to stand behind the lie of omission.

  “You’re quite right,” she said abruptly, “I don’t know you at all.” Turning from him, she leaned her back against the trunk of the great oak that spread its protective umbrella overhead. “It’s wrong to judge you based on other men. I’ve been meaning to tell you…to say that I regret screaming at you like a fishwife on the night we met. You had done nothing to deserve it, and everything to earn my eternal gratitude. It’s just that I was so…so shaken and terrified for Marguerite that I hardly knew what I was saying.”

  “You were also embarrassed to be the focus of so much attention. You’ve had, I think, more of such public notice than is comfortable.” His attempt to pass it off was sincere enough; her gratitude was not what he wanted. Even as he spoke, moving after her to lean a shoulder against the tree trunk next to her, he was aware she had not said she believed his story of where he had been.

  “You can have no idea,” she said with a sigh.

  “Now it will begin again with our wedding.”

  “Yes.”

  “People will look elsewhere for entertainment once the novelty of it palls. Speaking of the wedding…”

  “Yes, I suppose we must speak of it.”

  Her reluctance was hardly flattering, but he had little right to complain. “Have you a date in mind?”

  “I expect it had better be soon,” she said, the unhappiness in her face deepening. She sent him a look that barely met his eyes before flitting away again. “Because of the gossip, I mean to say. There will be all manner of speculation and counting on fingers if you remain in the house too long before the wedding.”

  “A serious consideration,” he said, his voice at its most grave.

  “Indeed.” She sent him a brief glance. “You are laughing about it.”

  She was quick,
his future wife, and more sensitive to his moods than expected. “No, no, only thinking that a small gaffe such as our living under the same roof pales before the rest.”

  “So it does.” She lifted a hand to rub between her eyes with her fingertips, as if a headache had begun to throb there.

  “I would do nothing to cause further embarrassment for you,” he said softly as he reached to take her hand, holding it between his, “but only what may make this easier.”

  “Short of going away and never coming back, I suppose.”

  His smile took on an ironic curve. “Yes, short of that. I am grateful, you know, for your agreement to my odd proposal.” He lifted her hand to his mouth, brushing his lips across the backs of her fingers. Smooth and silken, they carried the scent of roses. And they trembled a little in his before she tugged them free. “Don’t,” she said, her voice carrying a husky note. “There’s no need to play the gallant.”

  “What if I’m not playing?” He hardly knew what he was saying, only that he must spout something to keep her with him.

  “Flirtation is also not a requirement. The arrangement between us is financial in nature, nothing more. Pretending otherwise will not help.”

  “As you wish, though your brother feels you deserve to be courted.”

  “Paul is still young enough to be a romantic.”

  “You, on the other hand, at the great age of—what, two-or three-and-twenty?—are not. It seems a shame.”

  “I should think you would prefer it under the circumstances.” Her voice, though sharp, held the barest hint of a question.

  “A politely distant marriage will not suit me. I thought I made that clear.” His parents had enjoyed a rapport that spread love and laughter to every corner of their lives. The memories of it had kept him warm at night in the years when he’d first left the swamp. He’d always assumed his would be the same. By keeping that image before him, he could at least sound like a prospective groom.