Guarded Heart (34 page)

“So it was.” He shot his cuffs, holding out his hands in an open gesture.

He was wearing the shirt she had given him. A tight, hard ache squeezed her heart and she gripped her hands together as she fought a vital need to smooth them over the silky linen and the warm muscles of his chest and shoulders which lay beneath it. “Besides,” she said, dragging air into her lungs along with the scent of new linen and clean male, “I have need of the nightgown for my journey.”

“When do you go?”

“In two days, though I will return before the end of the season.”

He lowered his arms, his eyes narrowing. “So soon?”

“I would not impose on my mother for more than a week or two on a first visit.”

“Your mother.” He hesitated, went on. “You are going upriver?”

“You thought I was returning to Paris?” She held his gaze, trying to decipher it. “But there is nothing for me there. And it was you, I think, and Madame Zoe, who convinced me of the importance of family. I was enraged with the world when I first saw my mother at the benefit. Since then, I have had time to consider many things, including her plight all those years ago. How could I bear not knowing more of her, nor meeting all my sisters?”

“You are no longer alone.”

“So it seems.” It was gratifying that he remembered what she had said, could see now what this meant to her.

He gave a slow nod, returned his gaze to the case of matched swords. His voice hard, he said, “I'm sorry. I must refuse your gift.”

It hurt. She had not expected that, had not really thought he would refuse. She was forced to clear her throat before she could speak. “Why should you?”

“Many reasons, among them their high value, my pride, and the implication.”

“Implication?”

“That you will no longer be my client. That our late-night lessons, and all that went with them, are at an end.”

He thought she was dismissing him. Her heart stuttered in its beat before settling into a quick throb that made the blood surge in her veins. Reaching out with an idle gesture, she took the hilt of one sword and lifted it from its velvet bed. “Is that of such moment?”

“Is the moon queen of the night? Does its light pour down to make men mad and women weep for what might have been?”

“You think I might weep for you?”

“No, no, only for the idea that it could have been different.”

She lifted the rapier, pressed its point to his coat front where his heart beat beneath the layers of broadcloth and linen. “And will you long madly for me?”

He met her gaze. Light, like a candle advancing from the darkness, rose to gleam in the depths of his eyes as he saw the tears she made no attempt to hide. “If I say yes, what will I use to guard against whatever you may do?”

“You refused my gift, so have forfeited mercy. You must take up the twin of this sword and face me.”

“And if I disarm you?”

“You are welcome to try.” She held the blade loosely as she waited, hearing the sincerity of her declaration echoing in her ears.

He did not disappoint her. Moving more swiftly than the eye could follow, he lifted his arm, brushed aside the sword point and swirled around the blade to take the hilt and twist it from her grasp. If she had been in earnest she could have countered, could have beat his arm aside and driven high and inside, piercing his unprotected chest.

She was not. Releasing her grasp, she let him take the weapon, saw it glint with reflected silver light as it was tossed to the settee beside her. She swayed, already moving toward him as he pulled her close.

“There is more than one kind of disarmament, my Ariadne. I have no weapon, no defense against you, have had none since the night I took you for my client. In this time, you have been the sword pointed at my heart but also my shield and my buckler, my most certain protection against self-imposed exile, a misspent life and death that comes at the end. The old gods, laughing, set us one against the other in hope of mayhem and instead we give them hope. You give them hope, for in forgiveness is glory. Still I dare more.”

“What do you dare?” she whispered, touching his face with the very tips of her fingers, trailing her thumb along the firm line of his bottom lip.

“I dare ask if the portion of a younger son can suffice for a French Creole lady or if, like Hercules, there is some further task I must perform, some test I must pass to win my place.”

“What place is that?”

“At your side, in your arms, in your heart.”

Trailing her hand down to his cravat, she slowly closed her hand upon it, using it to draw his head down. “We French Creoles are fond of our gentlemen who do not sow, reap nor toil. All that we require of them is sweet words, good lineage. Yes, and honor.”

“I would not be your pensioner.”

“Then be my buckler, my shield and my soul in turn, for I refuse to let you go. And my instinct is not yet honed to such brightness that I can always guess what you require.”

“You,” he said against her mouth. “I only require you. At my side, as my fencing partner, as my love and most beloved wife.”

His mouth was hot and demanding on hers, and the sweep of his tongue inside, against hers, set her senses aflame with such scorching heat that she clung to him in consuming need. His desire matched hers for she could feel its hard strength against her, feel the shudder that passed over him, taste the promise.

It was enough, Ariadne thought as she closed her eyes and melted against him with her own whispers of love. Neither of them wanted or needed full surrender from the other.

But they might, if they were very lucky, achieve it anyway.