Guarded Heart (32 page)

Sasha skidded to a halt, eyes wide as he stared at her. Then he gave a short laugh. “So this is how you would have it.”

“How else?” She watched him with care, her mind already slipping into fencing mode, judging, weighing, planning ahead. Her head seemed to have cleared, her drug-induced cloudiness of mind swept away by rage and the cool night wind.

He whipped up his saber in salute then faced off against her. “As you will.”

No canvas strip, no marked limits existed for their bout. The only piste available was a stretch of deck hemmed in on one side by the ship's rail and on the other by a clutter of coiled ropes, barrels and kegs, saws and bung hammers not yet cleared away for embarkation. Yet the makeshift strip was not that different except that it rocked with the wind and the river's flow. They circled slowly in it, Ariadne keeping her distance since Sasha's sword arm was longer. She must let him come to her, she thought; anything else would be mere stupidity. She hoped he would try to overpower her by strength and fury alone. It would give her something to counter, something to turn against him.

He allowed no delicate preliminaries, no initial moves to feel him out as in fencing with foils. One moment he was easing around her while she turned to keep him in sight, the next he lunged at her in fully extended attack.

She parried, slid into a riposte that sent him leaping back with a black scowl between his brows. He paused a long moment, then came at her with the clanging force of a workman wielding a sledgehammer.

The shock of his heavy blows against her blade shuddered through her wrist again and again until it was numb. Still, she countered every one, catching them in seconde, in quarte, in sixte, always retreating, leaving him nothing to strike except her steel.

She saw almost at once why he had chosen the saber for his meeting with Gavin. With it, he was a strong and menacing fighter, mechanically correct in his movements. He had no grace or intuition, however, and he brought little intelligence to the bout. He was using his saber as a cutting weapon with little thought to its point. Intent on beating her down with sheer, flamboyant might, his movements were high and wide, as if he expected no real response.

She set her feet and performed a sudden stop cut in counterattack that sliced across the top of his sword arm. He bellowed and stumbled back. While he raised his arm to suck at the cut, she skipped away again with her skirts blowing around her and the blood singing in her veins.

How glad she was for all the exercises Gavin had made her do, the endless repetitive movements that now let her react to the man in front of her without conscious thought while her brain evaluated, planned. She saw why Gavin had stayed as much as possible beyond Sasha's reach during their passage at arms on horseback. It had been to wear him down until he could be met with something approaching finesse.

Her breath rasped in her throat. Fear and excitement, the advance and retreat, routed the last vestige of laudanum fumes from her brain so she felt as sharp and unyielding as the blade in her hand. Anger, that deep-buried rage she had brought with her from France, burned high inside her again, fueling her every movement. She felt so alive, as she had felt vividly alive during her meetings with Gavin. The difference was that this was real, with consequences that might be past bearing.

Would Sasha really hurt her? Would he kill her? He wanted to marry her, needed to marry her for her wealth and to salve his ego, but the purpose that flared in his eyes seemed so dire he might have lost sight of such things. At this moment, he wanted only her defeat, her surrender to his will and design.

She half-expected some trick, some stratagem or sudden display of skill that would bind her blade and send it flying from her hand the way Gavin had managed. It didn't come. Sasha simply advanced upon her again and again, forcing her back, making it necessary for her to watch behind her while breathlessly defending.

They had collected an audience. It was not large, the night watchcrew and a man who was almost certainly the ship's captain. She thought they were exchanging bets, was sure she heard a call or two of encouragement for her if only in jest. For all that, they would surely follow Sasha's orders to keep her on board. They thought her his woman, it seemed, and there was no time to explain their error.

Somewhere in the darkness along the shore where the levee ran, a commotion arose, shouts and cries from around a dray drawn by a mule team. A dingy was being launched, she thought. Cargo to be loaded? More passengers embarking? She had no time to look though other passengers might mean allies for her. Every iota of her attention was directed toward the whistling steel that flashed before her, striking endlessly from the wind-blown dimness lit only by the dim ship's lanterns fore and aft, the binnacle's light and star shine. Even her one brief glance allowed Sasha to plunge toward her in a low attack. Parrying in prime, she managed a riposte that ripped his coat skirts before she spun away, out of reach again.

She was tiring. The laudanum had taken more from her than she realized and she was not seasoned to this after only two short weeks. Her shoulder ached, her elbow was on fire and she could hardly feel her wrist. Still Sasha came on, a true bull of a man, charging, ever charging.

She didn't want to take his life. He was unfeeling and arrogant and a clumsy imbecile, but he had been faithful in his fashion. She had known him so long, knew his grief for his exile from his homeland, how much he missed the family he had left behind—his uncles and cousins, his little sister and his parents. She knew his tastes in music and food, what made him laugh and the way he sometimes shed a tear at tragic opera. She had seen him drunk on Russian vodka and gallant as he sipped champagne. Even if she could, she did not want to cause his death. Yet how else was she to escape him?

It was this realization that dragged at her, stealing her strength, dimming her fervor, leaving her with despair.

A murmur ran over the onlookers. They were staring somewhere behind her, to her left. She could not look, for Sasha was bearing down on her once more. She retreated like blown spume before the wind, difficult to touch, evading capture, never there for the vicious swipes he directed at her. Whatever it was that had attracted the attention of the others, Sasha had seen it, she thought, for he redoubled his efforts. Slashing, thrusting, he came at her, forcing her to leap back, to twist and turn on nimble feet, hardly daring to look where she stepped.

Her foot came down on a coil of rope. The big hemp strands rolled under her. Her balancing arm flailed, and she stumbled back. With a sharp cry tearing her throat, she began to fall.

G
avin sent Nathaniel to call out the Brotherhood, to race from one house to another requesting the aid of Nicholas and Caid, Rio and Croquère and any other sword master who might be inclined to help in the quest to find Ariadne. She might yet be discovered in the dim confines of some emporium fingering laces or purchasing chocolates, but it seemed unlikely. Maurelle was not of an excitable nature. If she was alarmed over her guest's disappearance there was reason.

His friends arrived one after the other, their faces serious, their purpose more so. Nathaniel did not return with them. Gavin noticed the absence even in his rapid-fire organization of the search effort. It was not like the boy to disappear when needed. There was no time to consider it. The first priority was to discover what Maurelle knew concerning Ariadne's movements.

It was precious little. According to her hostess, she had gone out some hours before without giving her intended direction and without a maid or other escort. Solon had seen her leave, but could only say that she wore a gray walking costume with the bonnet he had found, and that she had seemed in a hurry. She had been on foot and carried a reticule on her wrist.

“She said nothing to you of her plans?” Gavin asked with a frown.

Solon, standing beside Maurelle's chair, shook his head. Maurelle made a helpless gesture as she stared up at him with red-rimmed eyes. “She was so quiet, had very little to say this morning after breakfast. But then, she has not been particularly forthcoming since she arrived from Paris. Something has been weighing on her mind. I thought…I guessed what it might be but could not bring myself to accuse her. It seemed so impossible. Now this is what comes of it.”

“She mentioned no errand, no one she meant to visit, no fitting at her dressmaker, no sighting of a new bonnet or the arrival of an interesting shipment of dress goods?”

Maurelle gave a slow shake of her head, a movement Solon copied in his turn.

“Did she have immediate plans to leave the city?”

“She said nothing of it to me. I rather hoped she might be reunited with her mother and the rest of her family, but…oh!”

“I know of it. You haven't been indiscreet.”

“Yes, so kind of you to absolve me.” Maurelle looked away though relief drained the tension from her shoulders so she sagged a little in her chair.

“She had no communication from the Russian?” Gavin continued, his voice relentless.

“None that she spoke of, but she has been so secretive, as I said before.”

“You've seen nothing of him today?”

Maurelle shook her head again, sighing.

Solon, lifted a finger, his dignified face grave. “I saw him, monsieur. He walked past on the street while I was directing the cleaning of the banquette. I would not have noticed, perhaps, except that he stared so hard at the house. After that, I saw him twice more. I regret to say he may have been awaiting a message from someone in the house.”

“From Madame Faucher?”

“I think not, monsieur.”

Maurelle sat up straighter in her chair as she looked at the butler. “If you know something, Solon, please speak plainly.”

The elderly butler compressed his lips, staring at a spot above Gavin's head. “The young maid Adele has suddenly acquired new slippers and a knot of fresh ribbons. I regret to say she may have been keeping him informed on…on certain matters of interest.”

“Alors,”
Maurelle exclaimed in annoyance. “I will have a strong talk with her.”

Anger spread its heat along Gavin's nerves before he suppressed it. His gaze on Maurelle, he said, “You know Ariadne better than anyone. Is it possible she went to Novgorodcev, that she left the city with him of her own will?”

“Without her trunks? Without the new mourning clothes just delivered or even a brush for her hair? You cannot be in earnest.”

He allowed himself to breathe again. “No, I see what you mean. Did he take his leave of you? Did he mention, by chance, that his ship was ready to sail?”

As she shook her head, Solon cleared his throat. “Perhaps the shipping offices…”

“My thought exactly.” Gavin rose to his feet, reaching for his hat and cane. Ariadne's bonnet had been found not far from where most of these were located.

“You must find her,” Maurelle said, her face set in lines of apprehension. “She is so young really, though her seriousness makes her seem older. If anything should happen to her, if Monsieur Novgorodcev should harm her, I will never forgive myself.”

“Don't distress yourself,” Gavin said quietly. “I shall find her, and if he is with her…”

“You will take care, yes? Your wound, it can't be perfectly healed.”

Gavin made no answer. There was nothing to be said since it could not be allowed to matter.

In the event, it was Nicholas who discovered the correct shipping office for the
Leodes.
Novgorodcev's name was still on the passenger list, and the three-masted schooner would raise anchor in the morning. Its master was not known for being choosy about cargo, the crew he signed on or the passengers who occupied the cabins.

The information did not mean the Russian had anything to do with Ariadne's disappearance. Still, it suggested certain things. Gavin, receiving the news, frowned at his half brother.

“You were able to discover the ship's berth?”

Nicholas inclined his head with such conviction a light brown curl slid forward onto his forehead. “You aren't going to like it.”

“Nothing I've heard encourages me to dance for joy. Tell me.”

Nicholas did, and he was right. Gavin didn't like any part of it, from the downriver location of the
Leodes
to her mid-river anchorage. It was entirely too suggestive of a fast run for the gulf.

Still, it was left to Nathaniel to present the most telling news. While they were busy with ship's offices and other avenues, he had been canvassing the street boys who had once been his confederates.

“Monsieur Gavin,” he called out as he came at a lope toward where Gavin and Nicholas stood on the rue de la Levee. “They saw her, Wharf Rat and Cotton, not two blocks from here. A man with white hair threw her in a hack and drove off. She was kicking and fighting like she didn't wanta go.”

It sounded like Ariadne. “Why didn't they come to me at once?”

“They didn't know her until I described her to them. And they didn't know you cared.”

Gavin met the boy's level brown eyes since he was as certain as any man could be that the last comment was Nathaniel's own. “I care,” he answered in hard tones. “Which way did they go?”

“That way,” he said, waving toward the Place d'Armes and the lower reaches of the river which lay beyond. “Bastard was in a hurry.”

“How long ago?”

“Four, maybe five hours.”

Anything could have happened to her in that length of time, Gavin thought as remorse and rage filled his chest, pressing against his heart. The possibility she might have gone willingly had hovered in his mind in spite of what Maurelle had said. The news from the street boys indicated otherwise. He should have known.

Ariadne had fought. He hoped she had the will to keep on fighting. And the strength, especially the strength. She was no match for the Russian if he chose to force himself upon her.

It seemed unlikely he would not.

Gavin banished the images that rose at the thought. They would not help him, nor would they benefit Ariadne. No matter what happened to her, it would not change who or what she was, nor would it change his feelings toward her.

He required a vehicle. It might have been possible to pick up a hackney near the Hotel St. Louis, but that would mean retracing his footsteps and there was no time. Instead, he stepped into the street to flag down a dray with a four-mule team and empty wagon bed. The driver was more than happy to have his custom, especially in light of the Mexican silver dollar he caught as it was flipped in his direction with promise of more. They all piled in, Gavin, Nicholas, Caid, Kerr, Nathaniel and Croquère as they flocked from every direction. The jehu holding the reins stood up, cracked his whip over the heads of the mules, and they were off.

They lumbered along the streets, rattling over the ballast-stone paving, splattering mud from potholes, careening around other drays and more sedate carriages. Soon the Vieux Carré and its gaslit streets were left behind.

Night was falling and the dray had no side lanterns. It was a miracle the driver managed to keep the great wagon between the water-filled ditches. He did not slacken his pace, but hurtled down the road, a danger to life and limb, dogs, cats, chickens and anything else that crossed their path.

They passed a number of steamboats, a keelboat or two and a few ships tied up to the levee, rocking with the river's current. They were mere shapes in the dark with lanterns at stem and stern for visibility and little else to distinguish them. Gavin had almost decided they had missed the
Leodes
when she appeared, rising from the mist beginning to gather on the river's surface, floating on the reflected glow of her lanterns in the water.

They drew up and piled out. Caid walked to the water's edge and hailed the ship, but no sign came that he had been heard. A fight of some description was taking place on deck, or so it appeared. The meager crew formed a knot amidships. Yells and calls came across the water, sounding thin and high as they carried on the night wind.

The ship swung slightly on its anchor chain. Gavin's attention snagged on a flutter of gray and white. He narrowed his eyes, making out a pale face. As the figure moved, the flutter became a woman's skirts. The silken skein of her hair flew out around her, shining in the faint lantern light.

He needed nothing more.

He had found Ariadne.

It was then he caught the clang of blade against blade, saw the flash as lantern glow slid along a length of steel. Icy fear struck deep inside him, piercing his very soul.

To wait for a boat was impossible. Gavin shrugged from his frock coat, ripped his cravat free and threw it aside, bent to drag off his boots.

“Monsieur Gavin?”

He paid no attention to Nathaniel's worried query. With his eyes on the ship, he raced back along the levee several dozen yards, gauging how much distance he must allow for drift in the fast-moving current.

“No!” Nathaniel shouted, starting after him. “You can't…”

He gave the boy a single long look across the space which separated them. Turning away, he hit the racing waves in a shallow dive.

The chill of the water took his breath, stung the cuts down his back and on side and shoulder with a ferocious bite. He paid no heed. Pushing away pain, thought, fear, chance, doubt and all else from him, he swam for the ship. Nothing mattered except reaching it.

Waves slapped him in the face but he hardly felt them. The vessel riding at anchor was his goad and goal. He heard nothing except the rush of the river and his heartbeat. Plowing steadily through the water, stroke after stroke, he hardly dared look ahead for fear the laggard progress would sap his will. A frantic chant echoed in his head and whispered across his lips with every surging thrust of his arms that drew him nearer.

Stay out of his reach, Ariadne. Keep your distance. Stay out of his reach.

Abruptly the ship's side towered above him. Some few feet along its beam, a rope ladder dangled from a break in the railing. He caught the line that trailed from it, pulled himself toward it until he could reach the drooping rungs, then he swarmed upward with his stocking feet slipping in the river water that poured from him. Even as he climbed, he could hear the fight almost directly above him, catch the grunts of the combatants, the yells of the spectators. A moment later, he pulled even with the deck while scanning the open space for Ariadne.

She was mere yards away, retreating before the clanging fury of Sasha's advance, desperately parrying when she could not evade. She was failing, it seemed, half-blinded by her hair, hampered by trailing, flapping skirts as she met the mighty blows of the Russian's steel. How she had sustained them so long was beyond his comprehension.

In that same encompassing glance, he saw the trap that had been set for her, saw her trip, start to fall.

“To me! Ariadne, to me!” Hard on the shout, he grasped the top rails on either side of the opening and surged aboard, settling on the deck with his legs set and his toes gripping the teak planking.

She saw what he wanted, knew what was required. The knowledge sprang into her face even as she fell. She unclenched her fingers from the saber she held and sent it spinning toward him.

He caught it, fitted his hand into the grip even as he leaped to intercept Sasha's extended attack. Fiery sparks spewed from their blades as they clanged together, scraping edge to edge. Gavin plunged into Sasha's guard, meeting him
corps à corps,
body to body, as they strained for mastery. Then Gavin, summoning the power of righteous fury, threw the Russian back on his heels.