Guarded Heart Page 2

  "Wait." The request was dragged from him, graveling his voice with reluctance.

  She paused, turned slowly with brows lifted above eyes as black as a winter storm yet burning with life and, perhaps, hope. "Monsieur?"

  To agree was madness. He would regret it, without question. What drove him was not entirely his annoyance with the Russian or any doubt of her safety with him or any other sword master. The fact was that he was bored. He required stimulation, new interest, new purpose.

  His male friends in the city had settled into marital bliss in the past year or two, and though they invited him to their homes, he was far too aware of being outside their family circles to be comfortable. The Brotherhood, that loose collection of swordsmen organized some four years earlier to offer protection to women and children who received none under the shaky legal system of a city divided into three separate municipalities, had dwindled to a mere shadow of its former self. The past activities of the original trio— Rio, the Conde de Lérida, the Irishman Caid O'Neill and Gavin's half brother Nicholas Pasquale, along with himself—had met with such success that few incidents now required their intervention. It seemed the challenge posed by Madame Faucher might be an outlet for his bottled energy.

  Then there was the lingering contempt in the lady's eyes. Vanity was not, he felt sure, his most obvious sin, but he was used to at least a modicum of respect for his deadly skill if not for his breeding. To adjust her opinion seemed a worthy ambition. Above all, however, was his need to know why she was so desperate to be instructed in the art of swordplay, particularly by him.

  "I will attend you here tomorrow evening, madame. If Maurelle, Madame Herriot, can arrange a fencing strip, I will supply the remaining equipment."

  Something bright and fiercely triumphant flashed in her eyes before she lowered her lashes to conceal it. "Excellent. I will await you, monsieur."

  She turned and moved away with languid grace. Gavin watched her go while the blood sang in his veins. It was not only admiration and anticipation that crowded his chest, however. Layered with them was an inexplicable and icy trickle of dread.

  Two

  Ariadne put half the room and a large portion of Maurelle's guests between her and the English sword master before she turned her head to look back at him. He had not been at all as she expected. His manner was polished, and his person as well, creating an image of aesthetic refinement at odds with her view of his chosen profession. The fit of his blue frock coat and gray pantaloons was impeccable and his waistcoat of embroidered silk was notable without being ostentatious. His hair had the sheen of old gold coins. His brows, a shade or two darker than his hair, were thick without being heavy and his face was neatly shaven in its entirety, minus the whiskers or bits of side hair affected by most gentlemen these days. His boots had a glassy sheen, his buttons and fobs were plain yet well-polished. In short, he was burnished to such a gloss that it seemed a deliberate attempt to deflect unwanted attention or else a facade behind which he might hide his true nature.

  Then there were his eyes, as blue as the seas of the Indies, vivid with intelligence and an intimation of mockery for everything and everyone around him, yet shadowed as if by hidden shoals. He had seen too much of what she thought and felt, she feared, though how that could be she could not imagine. An instant later, his face had turned impassive, closed to human emotion while remaining as compelling to look at as that of some powerful angel sent from heaven by God's displeasure. The memory of how he scrutinized her, as if able to plumb her every secret, chilled her so a shiver ran down her spine with a prickling of goose bumps, making her knees feel almost unhinged beneath her gown.

  She had approached Gavin Blackford and emerged from the encounter with his promise for what she required. The die was cast.

  "So, ma chère, the English sword master agreed?"

  The question came in Maurelle's rather sultry voice as she rustled to a halt beside Ariadne. In an evening ensemble of pale gold taffeta with cream lace and a parure of citrines and diamonds, she wore her hair in braids placed to emphasize the prominent cheekbones that prevented her face from being entirely rounded. A full-blown camellia in style, like those of creamy white she wore in her hair, she was comfortable in her curvaceous embonpoint, and majestic with it. The lady was a widow and, as with Ariadne, comfortable with that circumstance as well.

  Ariadne gave her a wan smile. "With some persuasion."

  "Amazing. I would have wagered anything you cared to name on his refusal."

  "I thought the same for a few moments."

  "What convinced him?"

  Ariadne looked at her fan, folding it to conceal the damage she had inflicted. "I wish I knew."

  It was as well she had watched him from a distance to take his measure before asking that Maurelle present him, she was sure. Because of it, she had let him know more of her purpose than she had intended, perhaps more than was wise. Maurelle, and even Sasha, thought her whim was to play at fencing. Only she and Gavin Blackford knew her final purpose. And he did not know the whole of it.

  "I should warn you, he will call tomorrow evening," Ariadne continued after a moment.

  "To begin, you mean? So soon? Parbleu, what an impression you must have made!"

  "Meaning?"

  "Not only is he most selective in his clients, but the waiting list is long for those eager to face him on the fencing strip."

  Ariadne allowed herself a cynical smile. "Perhaps it's the novelty."

  "Or he could anticipate a novel reward," Maurelle said with an amused curl of her full lips.

  "He will be disappointed."

  "Oh, I don't know. You are a widow and he is made to a marvel, yes? The hours these swordsmen spend on fencing strips make them sublime of form, with wide shoulders and firm thighs far beyond those of other gentlemen. And I'm sure he's the soul of discretion."

  "I...have no time for games of that nature." Ariadne ignored as best she could the small, hot thrill that rippled through her at the thought of Gavin Blackford's expectations, the jangling of her nerve endings like a careless hand sweeping across harp strings. "Besides, it's you everyone will be talking about if it becomes known that he visits with any frequency."

  Maurelle tilted her head as the amusement faded from her eyes. "At first, possibly. But then a more likely explanation may occur to the gossips." She paused. "Are you quite sure you know what you're doing, chère? It's one thing to take up a Bohemian attitude, but quite another to forfeit your good name for a caprice."

  The warning was gentle yet serious. Maurelle should understand the problem as well as anyone, Ariadne knew, since she had performed the difficult balancing act of living freely for years while maintaining her good repute. Married at a young age to man much her senior, she had embraced her eventual widowhood with gratitude and a vow to cling to it. Though careful never to transgress upon the conventions too far, she entertained a wide circle of friends, many of whom, like the maîtres d'armes, were forbidden entrance to the more conventional households of aristocratic New Orleans. Some whispered that she had at least once taken a sword master as her lover, but the arrangement had apparently not been allowed to disrupt her peace or her life.

  It was in Paris that Ariadne and Maurelle had met three years before. Maurelle had been in the city on her yearly pilgrimage to visit relatives and replenish her armoire, while Ariadne had just begun to go about in society at the insistence of Jean Marc, her husband of only a year who had been ill even then with the consumption which killed him. Their paths had crossed at some soiree, and Maurelle had asked permission to call upon her.

  During that afternoon visit, she had received from Maurelle the story of the house party at Maison Blanche, her country plantation where Ariadne's foster brother, Francis Dorelle, had been killed in a duel. It had been a tearful occasion, but the beginning of their companionship. That she and Maurelle were both from Louisiana, both of independent natures and both victims, in a sense, of arranged marriages to older men, made common
ground between them. They had become fast friends, often providing necessary chaperonage for each other.

  Even after Jean Marc died and Ariadne had retired from society in the manner required by her two years of mourning, Maurelle had visited with her in Paris, keeping her current with all the tittle-tattle of New Orleans—which lady had given birth to a child that looked nothing like her husband, which was known to be traveling in Europe at her husband's command, what gentleman was keeping the latest ballerina from the Theatre d'Orleans. They decided that, when the time was right—when Jean Marc's estate was settled and the mourning period over—Ariadne would come to Maurelle for a new beginning.

  That prospect had kept Ariadne sane during her time in black bombazine. Paris had seemed dull and gray and her husband's family much the same, when they were not exuding disapproval. They were incensed that she had inherited the fortune Jean Marc had accumulated as primary stockholder in an international banking concern. She had influenced him unduly, they said, causing him to leave it away from his brothers and sisters, nieces and nephews who had more right to it. She was much too young and inexperienced to have sole management of such wealth. She should remain in Paris where she might benefit from the wise council of Jean Marc's brother, now head of the family, and, not incidentally, where they might make certain any future alliance she contemplated met with familial approval. What purpose could she have in going elsewhere? Her family in Louisiana, her parents and her brother, were no longer alive, n'est pas? She could have no call whatever to return to such a pestilential and uncivilized place.

  They had been wrong on almost every count.

  Now she said, with a wry smile, "My good name? Who is there to care? Well, other than you, my very dear Maurelle."

  "You, chère, as you will discover if it should be lost to you."

  It was good of Maurelle to be so concerned. Worry and guilt that she might be dragging her friend into something she would not like clouded Ariadne's mind. Maurelle had not wanted to present her to Gavin Blackford, knowing as she did that it had been his sword which had killed her foster brother. She had agreed only because she harbored some small hope that familiarity might lead to understanding.

  "Shall I find another place for these lessons?" Ariadne asked. "I can always remove to a hotel or other lodging if it will make you more comfortable."

  "Don't be an imbecile." Maurelle caught her close in a jasmine-scented hug. "The very idea, as if I'm not dying to see how you progress with Monsieur Blackford. Indeed, this promises to be the most exciting saison de visites in years."

  Ariadne returned her friend's embrace with gratitude, though she was not entirely satisfied. Indeed, she hoped the affair would not become more exciting than either of them could bear.

  Three

  Ariadne was consumed with impatience as she waited for the sword master to arrive on the following evening. She had envisioned this moment for such a long time. That it was almost upon her seemed not quite real.

  Everything was in readiness in this bedchamber of the Herriot town house's garçonnière wing. Whoever had planned the room must have had a large family of boys for it was long and narrow, on the order of a dormitory, with white plastered walls above a wainscoting of durable cypress wood. Its six single beds had been removed and several candelabra on floor stands brought in to line the walls between the windows; though the main reception rooms boasted gaslight, Maurelle was too frugal a housewife to extend it throughout the town house. The tall window sashes were wide open and the shutters thrown back for air, in spite of the winter coolness and incessant rain which fell into the courtyard on one side and the street on the other. Wine and water sat ready in case of need. A strip of canvas perhaps five-feet wide and fifteen paces long, and marked at the middle and on each end, had been laid down the center. This was the fencing strip, the piste upon which the lessons would take place.

  Ariadne could think of nothing more that might be required. Now she paced, the skirt of her old gray walking costume swishing around her feet and her hands squeezed together in front of her until they were numb, as if the tightness of her grip could hold her being together.

  Maurelle's other guests were in place; she could hear the distant sound of their voices and laughter and the slap of cards. Why had the maître d'armes not yet arrived? What was keeping him? Had he decided he could not be bothered to instruct her after all?

  "Monsieur Blackford, madame."

  She whirled to see Solon, Maurelle's tall and dignified majordomo of many years. With the grace of an aristocrat he dipped his graying head before stepping aside to allow the Englishman to enter. The manservant carried a sword case under his arm which he had apparently taken from Blackford along with his hat, cane and rain-damp cloak. These items he placed on a table, then bowed again, his angular features rigidly correct, as he offered refreshment. When it was declined, he presented the compliments of his mistress and asked that they ring if anything more was required. Then he departed.

  Ariadne, left alone with the sword master, stared at him for a suspended instant. He was dressed for the evening in a double-breasted coat and trousers of dark blue worsted, a waistcoat with a subtle cream plaid and white silk cravat. His sartorial choice was doubtless suitable for the gathering of Maurelle's friends that he was supposedly attending but seemed to indicate little chance for more. It could mean that he did not intend anything serious in the way of a fencing demonstration.

  Her movements stiff, she came forward, finally, to offer her hand in its short glove. "It's gratifying to see you at last, monsieur. I had begun to think you would not put in an appearance."

  "I did give you my word, Madame Faucher." He inclined his blond head over her fingertips but did not release them. Straightening, he shifted his hold to clasp her hand as he might on greeting a man. "Tighten your grip," he said, "as much as you are able."

  "Monsieur?" The warmth and intimacy of his firm grasp sent a tremor along her arm while it seemed she could feel the steel-hard ridges of his swordsman's calluses through the layers of their leather gloves. Vexation stirred inside her. Touching this man in anything more than the most civil of greetings had not been a part of her plan.

  "You cannot hurt me," he said, his smile whimsical. "Or if you do, I'll make certain you never know it."

  His eyes were so very blue seen at this close range. Quiet humor shifted in their depths like rays of sunlight striking through clear seas, giving him an unexpected attraction. The mingled scents of starched linen, spiced shaving soap and clean male skin drifted toward her like a subtle invasion, so she had an almost irresistible urge to jerk away from him. That she did not had less to do with self-control than it did with the knowledge that it might prove impossible. She had no wish to appear ineffectual, now or ever.

  "Nor," he added in quiet assurance, "will I harm you."

  He thought she was afraid of him, or at least wary of his intentions. That she could not allow.

  "No," she said with a quick lift of her chin. "I'm sure you will not." She grasped his hand then, clamping down with all her strength. He maintained his hold but did not return the pressure. If he felt anything at all of the compression she exerted, he gave no sign, just as he had promised.

  She was not quite so sanguine. The heat of his warm, hard palm nestled so close against the sensitive surface of hers was distressingly intimate in spite of their coverings. She could sense the surging power, rigidly contained, inside him. He was too close as well; it was all she could do to remain where she stood instead of stepping away a safe distance.

  "Excellent," he said after an instant of assessment. "You should have no trouble keeping a grip on your weapon."

  She gave a short nod and relaxed her grasp. He released her at once, which was something of a surprise since she had half expected him to prolong the moment, possibly even make some flirtatious remark. Most gentlemen of her acquaintance would have done so as a matter of form, because they thought it expected if for no other reason. She was glad he reco
gnized that she had no interest in such meaningless flirtation.

  "Have you any experience at all on the fencing strip?" He spoke over his shoulder as he moved to where Solon had placed the sword case.

  "None whatever."

  "Yet you have chosen a sword as the method of your retaliation. Why, if I may ask? A taste for sharp objects, or is it the pretty silver chasing that sometimes appears on the blade?"

  Annoyance for his condescension gave a bite to her voice as she answered. "Neither. It seems suitable as it's the gentleman's chosen weapon."

  "Which presupposes some skill on his part." He unfastened the catch of the rosewood case and laid back the lid. Taking a long and slender foil from it, he held it up, sighting down its length as if checking for straightness. "And you are still certain this is what you want?"

  "Quite positive."

  Abruptly, he turned and sent the foil spinning in her direction. Horror took Ariadne's breath as she saw it arching toward her, twirling—an elongated top surrounded by yellow-orange candlelight, making a swirling nimbus. To fling up her arm was purest instinct. The foil's hilt struck her gloved wrist a numbing blow. The glittering blade rolled down her skirts, clattering to the floor where it spun in a half circle before coming to a stop. She stood rigid, staring at it.

  "The idea," Gavin Blackford said in soft reproof, "was for you to catch it."

  She shuddered, pushed away the blackness that hovered at the edges of her mind. She had never handled a sword, never thought to do so until a few short months ago. For an instant, she was torn with doubt. How was she to go through with this? It seemed impossible. Yes, but how could she not when her soul's peace depended upon it?

  Reaching for anger as both goad and shield, she said, "You might have warned me of your intention, monsieur. I'm not here to play games."

  "Nor am I," he answered, his voice hard. "Fencing is a craft requiring strong nerves and instant responses as well as strength and skill. If you are going to scream and cower away from any weapon that comes toward you, then we may as well abandon the exercise now. It will save valuable time for us both."