This Man and Woman (7 page)

Her blade lowered a fraction.

“An epee, such as the one you hold, is light and flexible, meant to be a one-handed weapon. It’s sharp on every edge. It will cut, but not deeply. This is the reason for the intricate metalwork about the hilt. That part is called a cuff. It’s specially crafted to protect the hand.”

He watched her lower the sword more, flick a glance to it, and then look back at him. She didn’t alter the rest of her pose. He swallowed and continued.

“It’s not just the blade involved in fencing, however. The sport is made up of many moves and positions; parrying and thrusting, blocking and attacking. Footwork is nearly as important as the expertise behind the blade. Because it isn’t so much the power behind the blow, it’s the finesse with which it is delivered. Just so.”

He demonstrated with several slashes at the air, ending with a thrust that accompanied his feet sliding toward her. She moved out of her pose finally, standing so that her hacked skirt slid back into place, covering over and concealing some of her legs. If he still needed air, it would be easier to gain. And his hand no longer shook.

“Oh. I nearly forgot. It is the tip of the epee you must watch for,
Cherie
. It is the most dangerous. Used in stabbing. Into the heart.”

She went pale, and her eyes widened. As if he’d actually do such a thing. It was unthinkable. Atrocious. Hideous. All he wanted was her. In his arms, his bed, and his life. And this was the only way he knew to gain all of that.

“That’s why these swords have a tip guard. No killing tonight. Just touché.”

“Touché?”

 “A touch of the tip to the torso. This is a touché. It would score you a point in any fencing match.”

“What are these points worth?”

“Between us? You may ask what you will. I already know what mine shall be. For starters, I’m taking the little bracelet you wear.”

She watched as he put his right leg forward and lifted his sword, while his left hand went behind his back, palm outward.

“You ready?” he asked.

She mirrored his pose and then nodded.

“Very good. We’ll begin.”

Jean-Pierre danced toward her, controlling the downward motion of his sword so she could see it. Her blade stopped his, sending the sound of ringing steel into the room. He immediately adjusted his blade to the exact opposite angle, coming at her again. She parried it perfectly. He slid two steps to the right, flipping his sword upward at her as he did so. The next sword move was back down. She blocked both. He spun, slammed his blade against the one she hacked toward his back, and thoroughly enjoyed her gasp of surprise as he got back around to facing her.

He clicked his tongue at her before pushing at their locked blades, using more force than he intended. His groan accompanied her stumble before she caught her balance and resumed the pose.

Good. She wasn’t cowed.

This time, he slid four steps forward to meet her blade, moving his epee in a flurry of thrusting, using slow enough motions they were easily seen and defended. She demonstrated instant reflex. Perfect timing. She countered every single blow, although they backed her up slightly as she did so. Such a thing showed not only skill, but quick learning ability and talent.

This mate of his…o
h, my
. She showed strength, in both purpose and frame. Her courage and tenacity drew him. Her beauty surrounded and embraced him. The little panting breaths she took delighted him. She was like an art form of perfection. His mind hammered with words, demanding an outlet.

Ah…how easily she wields her power! Sent on swift wings of beauty. Lit by her love. Powered by her soul. Surrounding and entrapping and embracing…

The tip of his sword slipped behind hers, touching with more force than he liked at a spot beneath her left breast. The stroke ripped a hole in the material. She winced and looked up at him with what could be dismay. Jean-Pierre longed to kick himself.

He disguised it with a retreat, lifting his sword straight up as he backed, three steps, then four. She didn’t say anything, although her shoulders dipped almost imperceptibly. Drat his strength, and lack of attention!

“You know the penalty,
Cherie
. The bracelet. On the table.”

He motioned with his blade and watched as she complied, licking his lips and forcing down the surge of emotion. The woman had the finest backside he’d ever contemplated, too. It wasn’t possible to overlook as the dress caressed and displayed it for him. She’d turned and said something, and he had to concentrate to hear it.

“…happens now?”

“Do you forfeit?”

“Give up?”

“
Oui
.”

“Of course not.”

“Then come. We begin again.”

Jean-Pierre assumed the opening stance as before and waited. Her shoulders went back up, then her chin, and then she walked toward him to face him, sword up, legs separated, left hand behind her back.

“
En garde
,” he said.

This time, he started slower than before, his motions seeming to hesitate as he attacked, placing her on the defense with a continual series of thrusts. It felt like a drunkard’s pace, but it mustn’t be. She had the slightest frown of concentration marring her brows as she blocked him, blow for blow, her blade first one direction, then the other. Left. Right. Above her head. Before her torso. Again. Her feet slid more than once on the polished floor, causing him to catch his move midway. It probably made him appear more than awkward each time. He acted gangly. Uncoordinated.

He gained the advantage, watching her lips open to allow pants of breath, her arm movements slowing, her blows less effective; her steps not as crisp and clean. It wasn’t what he planned, but his mind didn’t stay on his actions. It was beset again with the wonder. The beauty. The complete sense of fulfillment. Knowing he had a mate and finding her was heady. And now here she was. With him.

Words of poetry afflicted him again, sending his spirit upward to the round ocular above, while his feet remained earthbound. Or were they? He skimmed the surface of the floor, delivering blow after blow, mindlessly. Unceasingly. Going to a blizzard of motion only another vampire could match.

She tripped, going onto her buttocks, amid a flash of leg and black lace. That move was what saved her from the tip of his epee as it rested atop her heart, cutting more material from her gown with every heave of her breast.

Mon Dieu!
He was the lowest idiot!

Jean-Pierre dropped back to the floor surface before backing, each step filled with anger at his own lack of control. His body shook at how close he’d come to losing the most precious thing he’d ever beheld. He didn’t dare look at her, so he glared at the floor. He was a fool to set up this contest. An arrogant, egotistical dunce of a fellow. Complete blackness owned his next moments, shielding her move to stand and arrange her clothing back into place. And then she brought him back to the present with words.

“Well? What do you want now?”

If only he could answer that the way he wished! Jean-Pierre lifted his head and met her gaze, immediately recognizing suppressed emotion. It appeared he might have angered her, as well. It was evident all over her, not just in the sharp way she’d spoken.

“The knife at your thigh. Leave the garter if you like.
And
the thing in your hair.”

“Two items?”

“Second loss,” he answered.

She pulled the pick, releasing the rest of her hair. Strands of ebony silk surrounded her, catching the available light. She’d probably have trouble seeing. It looked unfair of him. He wouldn’t have asked it, if that wooden spike wasn’t so dangerous. But she didn’t know that. She thought he was upping his odds. It was in the slight lift of her lip. Like a sneer. He watched with appreciation as she walked to the table, each step swaying not only her ass, but the waterfall of hair that ran to mid-back.

She put her epee on the table surface before fussing about beneath her attire. She wasn’t hiding her reluctance well. Her knuckles were white before she opened them, settling the knife next to the other items: her bracelet; his jacket; the hair pick. She then took her time working her hair into a long snake shape before shoving it down the back of her dress, picking up her sword, and finally turning back around, giving him a pleasant, albeit startling picture. Words immediately filtered through his mind, scattering his wits.

Women…the bane of existence. But no! They are the cornerstone. The foundation. The necessary frame. Encompassing joy. Light. Wonder. A woman centers a man’s existence. She is his world. His sanity. His heaven.

He licked his lips.

The inclusion of the wad of hair into her apparel tightened the fit, putting more definition where she didn’t need it. This view was bound to give him more trouble in reining back emotion and passion. And worlds more in difficulty. He lowered his chin and narrowed his eyes, watching her approach, until she stood close, just out of reach.

“Well?”

She went into the stance. Nothing on her looked beaten, or injured, or weak. Jean-Pierre smiled, stopping just before his fangs peeked out, before he mirrored her pose. Perhaps he wasn’t such a fool after all.

“
En garde
.”

The words hadn’t left his mouth before she was hammering at him, going on the attack this time, acting like she hadn’t taken two touché hits already, tired a bit, and gasped for breath. It took all his concentration and balance to meet her blows. Not because he couldn’t, but because he didn’t want to change anything. She was not only amazingly talented, but she was proving to be an extremely adept pupil, her attack causing his steps to dance backward until he decided a spin or rotation would work better. Enjoyment flooded his veins, acting as the bubbles in champagne from his memory, making him almost giddy.

The ring of steel echoed and re-echoed through the chamber, bouncing off the glass walls and rising to the ceiling. She was panting again, her lips wide this time. She didn’t notice, and it didn’t seem to affect her blows, as they rained repeatedly at him. Even Jean-Pierre’s fancy moves, catching her thrusts with defensive moves over his shoulder, behind his back, and then a spin, failed to stop her attack. So, he went on the offensive, changing the tone of battle as each of her thrusts got shoved back at her. She backed, and came charging again, got maneuvered past him, and hammered right back.

Ceaselessly. Blow following blow, while her dress clung with moisture and what skin he could see glistened with an accompanying sheen. She should be exhausted. Her stamina amazed and excited and surprised him. He’d never come across such a competitor. But then she stopped, startling him with the abruptness of it. And before he could press an advantage, she turned and ran, circuiting the room. He gave chase, narrowing her circle until there wasn’t much space left. Jean-Pierre slowed his steps as he stalked her. She slammed her back against a portion of glass wall with a thud sound, and faced him, her chest heaving for breath. Her stance just made her more alluring. Dangerous. Feral. Menacing. A wild thing cornered.

He opened his arms wide, dangling the sword from his right hand, as if begging for attack; glanced away to give her time. He watched the faint reflection she cast on the wall to his left. Waiting. All his actions making it easy for her to renew an attack.

He’d forgotten her training.

She used the glass as a launching surface, both feet nailing him right in the chest with her kick. Jean-Pierre flew backward, landing with a boom that felt like it opened a crack in the floor between his shoulder blades. If he needed air, she’d have knocked it from him. And before he could think of a correct response, she was standing over him, her sword tip atop his chest, her legs spread slightly. Aggressively.

“Touché,” she told him.

“That…was an illegal move.”

“No. That was the importance of footwork. Those were your words. Weren’t they?”

Jean-Pierre narrowed his cheeks as if considering the merits of her argument, blinked slowly, swatted her blade aside, and flipped to his feet. The rasp of her breathing was even louder. Dank locks of her hair had come loose and clung to her cheeks. Her skin was flushed and rosy-shaded. Filled with blood. Ripe. Excruciatingly tempting. He tightened everything on his frame to resist her, looking aside as his fangs lengthened and cut into his lip.

“And now, I believe I require the shirt.”

“Shirt?” He didn’t comprehend it at first.

“Yes. Your shirt. And everything beneath it. On the table. Now.”

Jean-Pierre caught the reaction before he flew above the floor with it. She was claiming victory? And she wanted his clothing? He paced himself to take slow steps to the designated structure, doing his best to portray disgust and aggravation when elation and intrigue filled every portion of him. She wanted to see him? Look over a form that, despite his efforts at education and refinement, proclaimed his lowborn status, even before he opened his mouth? It hadn’t been until the middle of last century that a man with his physical stature gained acceptance and interest. Prior to that, a muscled frame meant manual labor, and that meant low societal status. His physique had been a curse, especially as muscled and tanned as he’d made it. No matter the clothing style or the money involved, his frame was impossible to hide.

And she wanted to see him?

It wasn’t punishment. It was more a supreme wish. Why would he quibble? He could barely halt the thrill. His mind filled with images. Naked flesh. His. Matched to hers. Rosy from physical exertion and moist with desire. Astride him. He tossed the sword to the table and yanked the shirt off as though angered. The undershirt came off the same way. Then he picked up his epee, surprised at how the handle slid in his grasp. His palms were slick with sweat? Real…physical sweat?

Jean-Pierre looked at his sword hand in wonder. Never before had that happened. He hadn’t thought it possible. And if such a thing as perspiration could occur, might he also be capable of the physical joys of love? His hand wasn’t just shaking as he pondered it. The epee was swaying with it.