by Lisa Kleypas
Even if Baujart hadn’t worn the black instructor’s costume, his flawless form would have made him immediately recognizable. Baujart was a superbly fit man of forty, an artist who had perfected his craft. Every thrust, parry, and riposte was precise.
His opponent, however, was fencing in a style unlike anything Garrett had seen before. Instead of allowing the match to settle into familiar rhythms, he attacked unexpectedly and retreated before Baujart could touch him. There was something catlike about his movements, a vicious grace that raised every hair on Garrett’s body.
Fascinated, she let herself inside and closed the door.
“Good afternoon, Doctor,” the man in white said without even looking at her. For some reason, a few of her heartbeats collided as she recognized Ethan Ransom’s voice. After parrying a lunge, he dropped low and attacked beneath Baujart’s blade.
“Arrêt,” Baujart said sharply. “That wasn’t a sanctioned hit.”
The two men disengaged.
“Good afternoon,” Garrett said cordially. “Have I arrived early for our session, Mr. Ransom?”
“No. Monsieur Baujart had reservations about allowing me to teach you until he judged my abilities for himself.”
“It’s worse than I feared,” Baujart said darkly, his masked face turning toward Garrett. “This man is unqualified, Dr. Gibson. I cannot condone your association with him—he will ruin every method you have learned here.”
“I hope so,” Ransom muttered.
Garrett pressed her lips together, struggling to hold back a grin. No one ever dared speak to Baujart with such insolence.
The sword master returned his attention to Ransom. “Allons,” he snapped. Another duel commenced, so lightning fast that the blades blurred.
Ransom twisted, parried an attack, and deliberately shoved his shoulder against Baujart to knock him off balance. After making a strike, he dropped to the floor in a roll, sprung to his feet, and jabbed Baujart a second time.
“Arrête!” Baujart shouted in fury. “Colliding with an opponent? Rolling across the floor? This is not a tavern brawl, you madman! What do you think you’re doing?”
Turning to face him with the foil lowered, Ransom said calmly, “Trying to win. Isn’t that the object?”
“The object is to fence, according to the Amateur League’s official code of rules!”
“And that’s how you’ve taught Dr. Gibson to fight,” Ransom said.
“Oui!”
“For what?” Ransom asked with blistering sarcasm. “To take part in a spontaneous fencing match that’s going to break out in some East End slum? She didn’t come here to learn how to fight gentlemen, Baujart. She needs to know how to defend herself against men like me.” Removing his mask, Ransom cleared away the locks of hair that hung in front of his eyes with a quick shake of his head, the short dark layers seeming to come alive before settling into place. He skewered the maître d’armes with a hard stare. “Dr. Gibson has no idea what to do if someone disarms her in the middle of those pretty moulinette cane twirls you’ve taught her. You’ve lived in Paris—you must know some savate. Or at least chausson. Why haven’t you shown her any of that?”
“Because it’s not correct,” Baujart retorted, ripping off his own mask to reveal a narrow, flushed face and black eyes slitted with fury.
“Correct for what?” For a moment, Ransom looked genuinely bewildered.
Monsieur Baujart gave him a scornful glance. “Only a peasant thinks the purpose of fencing is to stick someone with the pointy end of a sword. It’s a discipline. It’s visual poetry with rules.”
“God help me,” Ransom said, staring at him incredulously.
Garrett decided it was time for diplomacy. “Mr. Ransom, there’s no need to berate Monsieur Baujart. He’s instructed me to the best of his ability.”
“Have you?” Ransom asked the maître d’armes, his voice soft and savage. “Or have you given her lessons suited for a lady’s parlor exercise? Teach your other students how to be picturesque. But teach this one how to fight for her life. Because one day she might be doing just that, armed only with the skills she’s learned from you.” He gave the other man a withering glance. “I suppose when she’s lying on the street with her throat slit, at least she’ll be able to console herself that she didn’t score any illegal points.”
A long, long silence passed while Baujart’s vehement breathing slowed. His rage faded into an expression that Garrett had never seen from him before. “I understand,” he eventually said with difficulty. “I will make the necessary adjustments to her training.”
“You’ll include some savate?” Ransom pressed.
“I’ll bring in a special tutor if necessary.”
The men exchanged bows, and Garrett curtsied to her fencing master. It troubled her that Monsieur Baujart wasn’t quite able to meet her gaze. He departed with great dignity, closing the door behind him.
Left alone with Ethan Ransom, Garrett watched as he went to set the fencing foil and his other gear in the corner. “You were rather hard on poor Monsieur Baujart,” she said gently.
“Not hard enough,” Ransom said, switching to his Irish accent. “I should’ve spent fifteen minutes paintin’ hell to him.” He unstrapped the plastron and dropped it to the floor. “You’ve more of a practical need for self-defense than any student here. His arrogance—or laziness—has put you at risk.”
“I don’t know if I should feel more insulted for Monsieur Baujart’s sake or my own,” Garrett said dryly.
“I didn’t insult you.” Ransom stripped off his gloves and tossed them aside.
“You implied that I’m incompetent.”
Ransom turned to face her. “No. I’ve seen you fight. You’re an opponent to be reckoned with.”
“Thank you,” Garrett said, somewhat mollified. “For that, I’ll overlook your remark about my moulinet twirls.”
She saw the flash of an elusive grin. “A waste of motion, they are,” he murmured. “But very pleasing to the eye.”
Garrett realized this was the first time she’d ever seen him in good lighting. The stunning brightness of his eyes—blue from across the room—sparked an unfamiliar but pleasant tingling high up under her ribs, like delicately tightening knots. His features were ruggedly masculine, with that strong nose and geometric jaw . . . but the long sweeps of black lashes were a luxurious touch of softness . . . and when he’d smiled, she could have sworn there was the hint of a dimple in one cheek.
Ransom began to meander along a wall of framed illustrations of fencing positions, viewing them with feigned interest. Garrett was more than a little charmed by the hint of boyishness, as if he weren’t quite certain how to approach her.
He cut a splendid figure in the fencing uniform, a head-to-toe scheme of all white that usually did the male form no favors. The canvas jacket—buttoned on one side and closely fitted down to the high hip—tended to make the average man’s shoulders appear narrow and the waist look thick. The snug, flat-fronted trousers would highlight even the slightest tummy bulge. But on Ransom, the severely tailored garments only served to emphasize a physique of remarkable proportions. His body was lean, lithe, powerful, with no trace of softness anywhere.
Garrett’s gaze traveled from the broad shoulders down to the slim hips, and then even lower to his thickly muscled thighs. As it occurred to her that she was staring, she glanced upward, and blushed like a schoolgirl as she met his questioning gaze.
“I was just noting the unusual development of your quadriceps extensors,” she said in her professional voice.
His lips twitched. “Are you paying me a compliment, doctor?”
“Certainly not. It was merely an observation. Your physical build might lead one to assume you were a sailor, or a blacksmith.”
“I’ve done a bit of forging and pressing,” Ransom said. “But only light metalwork. Nothing so difficult as what a blacksmith does.”
“What kind of metalwork?”
He straightened one
of the frames on the wall. “Locks and keys, mostly. I apprenticed for a prison locksmith as a boy.” Without looking at her, he added, “My father was a turnkey at Clerkenwell.”
Most prisons, including Clerkenwell, were unsanitary, hazardous, and crowded, as it was believed they should have a deterrent atmosphere. In her opinion, no boy should have been allowed to work under such conditions.
“A dangerous place for a child,” she commented.
His shoulders hitched in a shrug. “It was safe enough, as long as I heeded the rules.”
“Did you have brothers or sisters?” she asked.
“No. I was an only child.”
“So was I.” Although Garrett rarely volunteered personal information, she found herself continuing, “I always wanted a sister. My mother died when I was born, and my father never remarried.”
“He was a constable in E division, aye?”
Garrett looked up at him quickly. “Yes. How did you know that?”
“I read it in the newspaper.”
“Oh. Of course.” She made a little face. “Reporters insist on portraying me as a curiosity. Rather like a talking horse.”
“You’re an unusual woman.”
“Not really. Many thousands of women have the minds and temperaments to practice medicine. However, no medical school here will admit a female, which is why I had to study and train in France. I was fortunate to become certified before the British Medical Association closed the loopholes to prevent other women from doing the same.”
“What did your father say about it?”
“At first he was against the idea. He thought it indecent for a woman to have such an occupation. Viewing unclothed people, and so forth. However, as I pointed out to him, if we’re made in God’s image, there can be nothing wrong with the study of the human body.”
“And that changed his mind?”
“Not entirely. But when he saw the opposition I faced from friends and relations, it put him on his mettle. He can’t bear anyone telling me what I can’t do, and so he decided to support me.”
Amusement tugged at Ransom’s lips as he came to stand beside her. A shadow of whisker grain was visible beneath the close-shaven skin. His complexion was clear and fair, a striking contrast to his rich dark hair.
Slowly he reached out to take the cane from her. “We won’t need this for now.”
Garrett nodded, while a pulse tapped in her wrists, throat, the backs of her knees. “Shall I remove my gloves?” she asked, trying to sound businesslike.
“If you like.” Ransom set the cane on the floor, along the wall, and turned toward her. “This will be easy for you,” he said gently. “You might even enjoy it. In a few minutes, I’ll let you throw me to the floor.”
That startled a laugh from her. “You’re twice my size. How could I do that?”
“I’ll show you. But first we’ll start with something simple.” He waited until she tossed her gloves aside. “Do you remember what I said about the most common way women are attacked?”
“They’re choked from the front.”
“Aye. Usually against a wall.” Carefully he took Garrett’s shoulders and guided her backward until she felt her shoulder blades touch the hard surface. His big hands lifted to her throat, the fingers strong enough to bend copper coins. A frisson of alarm chased down her spine, and she stiffened.
Ransom let go instantly, his brows drawing together with concern.
“No,” Garrett assured him hastily, “I . . . I’m perfectly all right. It’s just that I’ve never had someone take me by the throat before.”
His voice was soft. “You’ve nothing to fear from me. Ever.”
“Of course.” She paused before adding wryly, “Although when I mentioned you to my father, he warned that you were dangerous.”
“I can be.”
Garrett gave him a superior glance. “Every man likes to think there’s a part of his nature that remains untamed and unsubdued.”
“You know all about men, do you?” he asked with an edge of mockery.
“Mr. Ransom, the male sex has ceased to be a mystery ever since my first course in practical anatomy, which included the dissection of a cadaver.”
That should have set him in his place, but instead he laughed quietly. “I’ve no doubt you can carve up a man like a jugged hare, Doctor, but that doesn’t mean you understand the first thing about him.”
Garrett regarded him coolly. “You think me naïve?”
Ransom shook his head. “I see no fault in you,” he said, with a quiet sincerity that threw her off guard.
His fingers, dry and warm, returned to her neck with the lightest possible pressure. She felt the texture of a callus on his forefinger, like the rasp of a kitten’s tongue. The contrast between the brutal strength of his hands and the incredible gentleness of his touch caused gooseflesh to rise everywhere.
“Now then,” Ransom murmured, his thick lashes lowering as he focused on the tender front of her throat where his thumbs rested. “In this situation, you have only a few seconds to react after he takes hold.”
“Yes,” Garrett said, aware that he could feel her breath and pulse, and the movements of her swallowing. “The pressure on the trachea and carotid arteries would cause unconsciousness very quickly.” Tentatively her hands came up to grip his elbows. “If I pulled down on his arms like this . . . ?”
“Not if he was my size. You couldn’t budge him. Tuck your chin down to protect your throat, and put your palms together, as if you’re praying. Push them up through the circle of my arms . . . good, higher . . . until it forces my elbows to bend. Can you feel how that loosens my grip?”
“Yes,” she said in pleased discovery.
“Now grab my head.”
Disconcerted, Garrett gave him a blank look.
“Go on,” he encouraged.
To her embarrassed annoyance, a nervous giggle escaped her. She never giggled. Clearing her throat, she made herself reach out and shape her fingers over his skull, until the heels of her hands rested against the neat outer curves of his ears. The short-cropped locks of his hair were like coarse silk.
“Take hold closer to my face,” Ransom said, “so you can push your thumbs into the eye sockets.”
Garrett winced. “You want me to gouge a man’s eyes out?”
“Aye, show the bastard no mercy, as he’ll show none to you.”
She adjusted her grip tentatively, resting the pads of her thumbs not directly on his eyes, but at the outer corners where the skin was fine and hot. It was difficult to meet his gaze. The color of his eyes was so intense that she had the sensation of being pulled into blueness, almost drowning in it. “As you apply pressure to the eyes,” he continued, “you’ll be able to push the head back easily. Then jerk it down until the nose hits your forehead.” Before she moved, he cautioned, “Slowly. I’ve had my nose broken before, and it’s not an experience I’m after repeating.”
“How did it happen?” she asked, envisioning some life-threatening situation. “Were you quelling a riot? Stopping a robbery?”
“I tripped over a bucket,” he said wryly. “In front of two constables and a reception cell filled with a half dozen prisoners on remand, a deserter from the army, and a man in default of bail.”
“Poor lad,” Garrett said sympathetically, although she was unable to hold back a chuckle.
“It was worth it,” he said. “A fight was brewing among the prisoners, but they all started laughing so hard, they forgot about it.” Abruptly he turned businesslike. “In a real situation, pull your opponent’s head toward you with as much force as you can. Bash him as many times as it takes to make him let go.”
“Won’t I knock myself unconscious?”
“No, this is too hard for that.” Ransom paused to tap a knuckle gently against her forehead, as if knocking on a door panel. “It will hurt him far worse than you.”
His hand returned to her neck, fingers curving almost tenderly around the sides.
&nbs
p; Carefully Garrett pulled his head down until she felt his nose and mouth on her forehead. The contact lasted only an instant, but it was electrifying. The smooth touch of his lips and the warm rush of his breath drew up another rush of feeling, a warmth that seemed to radiate from her quick. She breathed in the scent of him, the scrubbed-leather pungency of a clean and healthy male.
Ransom drew back slowly. “You could follow that with a knee to the groin,” he said, “if your skirts aren’t too heavy or narrow.”
“Do you mean I should use my leg to . . .” Her gaze flickered to his crotch.
“Like this.” He demonstrated with a subtle motion of his knee.
“I think walking skirts would allow for that.”
“Then do it,” Ransom said. “It’s the most devastating target on a man. The pain shoots all through your innards.”
“I’ve no doubt it would,” Garrett mused. “There’s a nerve in the scrotum called the spermatic plexus that extends into the abdomen.” Noticing the way he averted his face, she said apologetically, “Have I made you uncomfortable? I beg your pardon.”
Ransom lifted his head to reveal eyes glinting with laughter. “Not at all. It’s just that I’ve never heard a lady talk as you do.”
“As I told you . . . I’m not a lady.”
Chapter 4
The lesson that followed could not have been more different from Garrett’s sessions with Monsieur Baujart or his prévôts, who emphasized discipline, silence, and perfect form. This, by contrast, seemed like a rough-and-tumble form of play. In fact, every minute of twisting, grappling, and shoving was so absorbing that Garrett lost all awareness of time passing. Although she wasn’t used to having a man’s hands on her, Ransom’s touch was so careful and gentle that she quickly came to trust him.
Patiently he demonstrated various moves and encouraged her to repeat them until he was satisfied that she’d learned them properly. He praised her efforts, calling her a warrior, an Amazon, and more than once he chuckled at her enthusiasm. As promised, he taught her how to throw a man to the floor by hooking a foot around his leg and using it as leverage to push him off balance. Every time he hit the ground, he rolled in a fluid motion and came to his feet again.