Guarded Heart

by Jennifer Blake

  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 incon-trollable 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."

  Fourteen

  "So. This is where you are hiding."

  Accusation layered Sasha's voice as he pushed open the door without ceremony and walked into the long garçonnière chamber. Ariadne had caught the sound of his footsteps and thought it might be Gavin returning for some reason. Closer attention told her it was not, even before the Russian appeared; the footsteps were far too heavy.

  "Where else, since it's the evening for my lesson?" she answered, turning back to her task of replacing the foils she and her instructor had used earlier in their satin-lined case. Her voice was curt. She wished Sasha at the devil or in some other place equally distant. She was not ready for this kind of confrontation. And if it was disappointment that caused her to be so waspish, she refused to acknowledge it.

  "The Englishman failed to appear?"

  "What do you think?" She wondered briefly if Sasha had thought to find him there, if he had intended to discover some pretext for a challenge where there was no audience other than herself. Or, conversely, if he had waited, seen the sword master leave, so knew there was no chance of it.

  "I have difficulty believing he could drag himself away while you are dressed—or should I say undressed?—in such a fashion."

  She had almost forgotten her male attire in her concentration on other things. Now she glanced down
at her pantaloons before giving Sasha a straight look. "I consider the fashion practical. Men appear to find it so."

  "They may find it far too alluring on you, though I'm sure your sword master will convince you he thinks it ravishing."

  "He has seen the ensemble," she said with a crooked smile. "He pronounced it vulgar."

  Sasha looked down his nose. "A man of sense, after all. He has already gone then?"

  "He had other matters requiring his attendance."

  "I suppose it was better than admitting the need for escape."

  She frowned down at the blade she was polishing free of fingerprints with a cloth laid out for that purpose. Was that a faint slurring she heard in Sasha's voice? With his accent, it was difficult to be sure. "From my unladylike display, you mean to say?"

  "Rather from temptation." He moved closer, his gaze resting on the deep neckline of her shirt that had fallen open on one side, exposing the white curve of a breast.

  It was a possibility she had not considered. Blackford's departure had followed close on the end of their lesson. Could Sasha be correct? She would like to think so, but was not quite so sanguine.

  "The gentleman has better control," she said as she reached to close the gap in her shirt. "He would not allow his emotions to run away with him."

  "He is a man, isn't he?"

  "He is a maître d'armes above all, a different thing altogether."

  "If I did not know better, chère, I would say you admire him."

  "It's possible to admire skill and dedication without admiring the man who possesses them." She went on without pause. "You wanted something, that you sought me out here?"

  "That is a most leading question. Would you prefer the chivalrous answer, which is that I wanted to see you? Or would the truth serve me better? In view of your mode of dress, I believe I will tell you that what I desire now, and have from our first meeting, is your delectable body that is so frankly displayed."

  Anger, mixed with guilt rose inside her, making her feel hot all over. That was added to the flush brought by his too-personal gaze as it moved over her, resting on her lower body where her perspiration-damp pantaloons nestled with particular fidelity. She might have been even more incensed except she was certain now that he was the worse for drink.

  Sasha had a considerable capacity for strong liquor courtesy of the revels enjoyed by young men of his class at military academy. There were also times when it caught up with him. She could not help wondering if he had sought courage from a bottle before searching her out.

  "My mode of dress," she said evenly, "has no bearing whatever on my character or my likelihood of being flattered by your declaration. You were not meant to see it, nor was it intended for your convenience."

  "Only for your swordsman's."

  "Rather, for my aid to free movement and safety on the fencing strip."

  He gave a weak laugh that wafted alcohol fumes into her face. "You expect me to believe Blackford saw it as nothing more."

  "Sasha, for the love of heaven!" She might have been more exasperated except for the mental image of what had taken place earlier in the long chamber.

  "Tell me he didn't notice. Tell me he had no reaction, made no advances."

  She could not do that, though she had to wonder if she might have imagined the ardor that had run like a molten river beneath his instructions and actions. "He did not touch me other than the usual brief contact of fencing. I resent any implication that it might be otherwise."

  "He is a fool or a monk that he missed the opportunity. I am neither."

  Sasha took the last long step that would bring him within arm's reach. One massive hand closed on her upper arm and he swung her to face him.

  Instantly, Ariadne jerked free of his hold while whirling away, snatching the foil she had been polishing from the table. When she completed her turn, she faced him with the blade in her hand and its tip pointed at the center button of his frock coat.

  Surprise at her own action gripped her for half a second. She must have absorbed more of Gavin's instruction than she realized. She had not stopped to think, but only acted. It was an exhilarating thing to recognize, as exhilarating as the knowledge that she was now able to protect herself from unwanted advances.

  Nevertheless, she could not help contrasting her reaction to Sasha's encroachment with that of her closeness to Gavin Blackford. Her very bones had seemed to dissolve as she stood pressed against the master swordsman. The core of her body had ached with an emptiness that was beyond anything she had ever imagined. Never had she been so aware of a man or of herself as a woman with needs, desires and the potential for pleasure.

  It would not do, must not happen again.

  "You forget yourself, Alexander Novgorodcev," she said with the steel of that resolve threading her voice. "I did not give you leave to touch me."

  He licked his lips, watching her with intent, pale blue eyes in which lurked chagrin shaded with misery. "My mistake, for which I would ask forgiveness. Though I will point out that your foil is blunted."

  "That doesn't prevent it from making a nasty cut."

  "Ariadne, chérie..."

  "Don't call me that, if you please. It does nothing to redress your wrong. You may make your apologies in form another time. For the moment, all I require is your absence."

  "You must know I meant no harm. My feelings were simply too strong to..."

  "They overcame you, added to whatever you have been drinking. This is understood. I bid you good-night."

  It might have been what she said and how she said it, the foil in her hand or the recognition of the futility of arguing with an armed woman. It could have been that the bombast he depended on to carry him through most events had deserted him. Whatever the cause, he gave a wavering nod of his head that dipped into a bow, then he turned and walked with careful dignity toward the door.

  Ariadne followed him with her gaze, keeping her guard. She was still watching when he turned back.

  "Just then, ma coeur, you sounded very like the Englishman. You are spending too much time in his company, and so I warn you. I told you before that you would regret it. I tell you so again."

  She stood for long moments after the door had closed behind the Russian. He had no power or authority to order her life. There was no one to whom he could appeal who might influence her in any way. His only recourse, then, would be to apply to Gavin Blackford. Threats seemed unlikely to dissuade the sword master since they had not prevented him from taking her on in the first place. That left only one thing, the event she most feared.

  Distress rippled over her as the specter of a duel rose in her mind. Why did it have to be this way?

  Why was Sasha becoming so difficult? He had never been importunate before. After she was widowed, he had remained in the post of her faithful servitor as a matter of habit, she thought, declaring himself on occasion in heavy-handed flirtation with little expectation that she would return his devotion. She had been surprised when he followed after her to New Orleans, but thought it had more to do with his creditors in Paris than desperate affection for her. She had expected little impediment from him in achieving her design.

  That had been naive of her, she realized now. Even so, she could hardly believe this scion of a Russian noble house had serious pretensions to her hand. It appeared that, like a dog with a bone, he had become possessive because a man appeared whom he saw as a rival.

  Perhaps she was being too cynical and he truly was in love with her. She had done nothing to encourage it; she was not so heartless as to raise hopes she had no intention of fulfilling. Their acquaintance had been comfortable to this point, a mere social convention. Such things sometimes ended in affairs, as everyone knew, but she had a purpose which precluded emotional entanglements. That was even if she had desired a closer relationship, which she did not. Nor did remarrying interest her. She might one day consider it for the sake of children but could see no other reason.

  No, the change in Sasha had been trig
gered by her association with the sword master. She had never been indiscreet while married to Jean Marc, never shown any hint of extramarital yearning. Sasha could not understand her interest now, therefore it was suspect. Added to that, he had walked in on her in the fencing costume she had ordered that was something less than demure.

  She could not blame him for his suspicion, but did fault him for acting on it. She was no less who she had always been while clad in pantaloons. Until she indicated otherwise, her inclinations were the same as when she wore the concealment of her skirts.

  Or was that mere self-deception?

  She should have guessed how Sasha would react, should have dealt with him before now, she thought, lifting a hand to rub at her temple where an ache was starting to throb. No matter how she tried to get around it, whatever happened between him and Gavin Blackford would be her fault.

  How had everything gone so wrong?

  When it seemed clear Sasha had left the house, Ariadne sighed and put away the foil again then closed the lid upon it and its mate. All at once, she was deadly tired. All she wanted to do was sleep, sleep and forget.

  She hardly closed her eyes all night. Her thoughts ran in circles as she lay staring into the darkness. What would Sasha do? How would Gavin Blackford meet any threat he mounted? Did the sword master suspect who she was? How long did she have before he discovered it? What would she say if he confronted her? Was it really possible for her to gain the skill to defeat him at his own game, or to gain it in time? And even if she did that, could she strike the fatal blow?

  She had been so firm in her purpose while in Paris, so certain that rage and grief would supply the strength to carry through with her plan. That she was beset by doubts now seemed a betrayal of Francis.

  Oh, but would he approve of her dangerous quest? Or would he, tender, poetic soul that he had been, deplore it? Would he object to such a tribute and fear for her in its execution? Had she been a little deranged following his death and Jean Marc's lingering demise that she could think it might be otherwise?