The Bride Wore Scarlet (20 page)

Charlotte nodded, and turned to go.

“Still,” said Anaïs after her, “I think it might be wise if you told no one of what just happened, don't you?”

Charlotte's head swiveled slowly around. “How could I begin to describe it?” she replied. “I do not even
understand
what just happened.”

On a sudden impulse, Anaïs reached out and gave Charlotte a swift hug. “Perhaps it will make sense to me later,” she suggested. “But Geoff says I'm a bit of a ninnyhammer.”

“I don't believe that,” said Charlotte, who clearly didn't know what to believe. “But you will tell me, Anaïs, if anything comes clear to you?”

“You may count on that, too.” Anaïs seized both her hands, and gave them a reassuring squeeze. “Now go, Charlotte, and be at peace if you can. I shall see you tomorrow night. And in the meantime, I shall think on what I might do to divert Lezennes' interest—at least temporarily.”

Anaïs watched her go down the steps and dash between two passing carriages. Hands fisting at her sides, she shut the door and fell back against it, resisting the urge to pummel it.

Good God, what an idiot she was! What had begun as a lark had turned into a potential nightmare. Anaïs drew her hands down her skirts as if she might wipe away the filth of what she had just done. But she could not. She had been a fool to disrespect
i tarocchi
. To treat it as a joke. No, worse—to treat it as a means to manipulate an innocent person.

The whole afternoon left her feeling defiled. Used. And by her own hand, at that. She had done nothing save frighten the wits out of Charlotte.

Cursing beneath her breath, Anaïs came away from the door like an overtight spring, and bolted up the stairs.

Chapter 12

He who knows when he can fight, and when he cannot, will be victorious.

Sun Tzu,
The Art of War

G
eoff returned home from an afternoon of haunting the art galleries and coffeehouses of Brussels, a venture that had included a deceptively casual meeting with one of DuPont's contacts, a man who was keeping Lezennes under surveillance.

It was a difficult exercise at best, the contact had explained, for much of the vicomte's so-called diplomatic work was conducted within the walls of Brussels's palaces. The contact had witnessed, however, a passing exchange at La Monnaie, the royal opera house, the previous evening with a man believed almost certainly to be a minion of the
Ancien Régime
.

It was looking more and more as if Lezennes had Legitimist leanings—not that Geoff gave a damn about France's politics. He cared only about Giselle Moreau. When she was old enough, and emotionally strong enough, she could fall on her sword for the old Bourbon kings if she wished. Until then, however, the Guardians of the
Fraternitas
had to protect her.

Geoff just didn't yet know how he was to accomplish it. So it was with a measure of weariness that he let himself into the house in the Rue de l'Escalier and tossed his hat onto the hall table. He went at once into the parlor and poured himself three fingers of whisky, tossing it down in two swallows before going up to change for dinner.

Upstairs, however, he could hear faint thuds, as if someone was bouncing a ball in one of the upper floors. He shrugged it off and, after tossing his coats across a chair, rang the bell to order hot water for the tub. He was already yanking off his boots when his valet came in to see what was wanted.

The rhythmic thudding upstairs had become more intense.

“What the devil is that racket, Mertens?” he asked, stripping off his waistcoat.

“I believe it is Madame MacLachlan,” said the valet, picking up his coat and shaking the wrinkles from it. “She seemed in a bit of a mood, sir, if you'll pardon my saying. She went up into the attic an hour ago.”

“Into the attic?” he echoed, throwing off his shoes. “To do what? The Ghillie Callum?”

This, apparently, did not translate well from the Gaelic to Mertens's Flemish ear, for the valet just looked at him blankly.

“Never mind.” After a glance at the clock, Geoff sighed and began hitching the fall of his trousers back up.

Something had gone awry with Charlotte Moreau's tea, he was willing to bet. Perhaps the lady had not turned up again. Or perhaps she had . . .

Slipping the last button into place, he started toward the door. “Tell Mrs. Janssen not to trouble with dinner,” he said. “We'll have something cold brought up later. I'm going upstairs to discover the source of Mrs. MacLachlan's
mood
.”

After bounding up the two flights of stairs in stocking feet, Geoff pushed open the door to Monsieur Michel's gentlemen's playground and looked round the corner. To his shock, Anaïs stood in the vast, sunlit space that surrounded the boxing bag, a long, wicked rapier glinting in her hand.

Her left arm lifted elegantly behind, Anaïs stood
en garde
before the bag, which was swinging slightly on its rope. She wore nothing but a pair of snug nankeen trousers and a loose white shirt, her hair caught back in a braid tied with a white ribbon. As if she moved to a music she alone could hear, Anaïs dropped her point and lunged, driving her blade through the heart of the bag.

Indeed, it was obviously not the first time she had done so. The bag was spilling its guts through various slits and punctures, bleeding wads of cotton wool and sawdust onto the floor. Yanking out her blade, Anaïs performed a flawless double retreat, then danced back and forth across the floor, engaging with her unseen enemy, executing her steps with a deftness of footwork Geoff had rarely observed.

For some moments, he lingered there, one shoulder set to the door frame in such a way as she was not apt to see him. He wondered if she might not sense his presence, but for once the sole object of her focus was the leather bag, and she had clearly been at it for some time. She was breathing audibly yet not quite panting, the wild curls round her forehead damp with perspiration.

He knew, of course, that it was a trifle impolite to observe someone unannounced. And yet he was enjoying it too much to bring himself to step into the full light of the attic.

Back and forth she went, her slender spine in perfect alignment, attacking the bag as if bent on an elegant, methodical destruction. The rapier was a long weapon requiring patience and methodical timing. Despite her obvious temper, Anaïs appeared to possess both in abundance. He sensed an undeniable poetry in her motion, a fluidity and grace that defied the very violence of her actions.

Beneath the shirt, her round breasts swayed and shifted, clearly as unbound as her temper. The nankeen trousers molded to her hips in a way that was at once decidedly athletic and deliciously feminine.

It was also deeply, carnally erotic.

And on her next thrust, he realized something. Something even more troubling than Anaïs's barely suppressed ferocity.

He wanted her.

And he was getting tired of it.

He wanted Anaïs in his arms. Beneath him. Arching to meet him, gasping for breath.

Oh, the desire itself was nothing new; he had wanted her at first sight. But the wanting had not waned. No, quite the opposite. Living in close quarters with her these last few days had become sheer hell. Looking at her across the dinner table each evening, an exercise in physical restraint. And knowing she lay alone in bed each night just a few feet away had been torture of the worst sort.

And now this.

Why deny himself? he thought, watching her drive her sword deep into her target again. His old logic was beginning to fray. He was an honorable man for the most part, but he was not yet promised to anyone. And she—well, she was still mourning her lost lover and waiting for her prince to come, that much was plain. And whomever she turned to next—well, it wouldn't be Geoff, and that was for the best.

But she did desire him, and had invited him to her bed. She had no expectations, and was not without some experience. But even had he been unaware of that fact, the pure physicality of her movements would have told him that she was a woman in complete control of her body. And Geoff had enough confidence in his skill to know that when at last Anaïs cried out beneath him, she would have long forgotten her Tuscan Romeo—at least for a little while.

Against his thigh, he felt his cock twitch insistently. Shifting his posture, Geoff kept his eyes upon her slender form as she moved back and forth across the wood floor. Eyes flashing, her jaw set tight, at one point Anaïs bounced off the edge of the billiard table, spun about, then landed, drawing her blade mid-center across the bag in a perfectly even slash. There was an unaccountable anger in her motions, but it was a carefully contained sort of rage, for Giovanni Vittorio had taught her well.

In her next retreat, she danced backward into the edge of the billiard table, slamming hard against it as if driven back by a relentless enemy. Then she stunned him by springing up and somersaulting backward, literally rolling across the baize tabletop, rapier still in hand, and landing on her feet on the other side.

She came up panting, but perfectly steady.

He stepped from the shadow of the door, slowly clapping. “
Bravissima!
”

Her chin jerked up, her dark, expressive eyes even larger than usual. “Geoff?”

He walked slowly toward her. “Did Vittorio teach you all that?”

“Some of it.” Her gaze wary, Anaïs watched him approach. “How long have you been standing there?”

“Long enough.”

As he closed the distance between them, she jerked her head toward the wall. “I'm not done,” she said. “Find yourself a blade.”

He cocked one hip on the edge of the billiard table. “My, but you are in a mood,” he murmured, his gaze running over her. “Still, I do have a soft spot for a woman with a lethal weapon.”

Anaïs must have heard something in his tone. She dropped her point, and sashayed nearer. “You do fence, do you not?” she demanded, looking him up and down.

“What do you think?”

She lifted her chin. “Any good?”

He gave a half smile and lifted one shoulder. “I rather doubt I could tumble backward and come up with my blade still in hand,” he said. “But aye, I think I can give satisfaction.”

She shrugged. “I think you know that move was pure showmanship. In a real fight, it would likely get your throat slit.” Again, she tilted her head in the direction of the wooden rack. “So go on. Let's see what we can do.”

“Haven't had enough, eh?”

“Not quite, no.”

He came away from the table and strolled to the rack, snatching the first foil that caught his eye. She followed him, trading her blade for one that was blunted.

“Gracious of you, my dear,” he said, nodding toward it. “A wiser man might just sit you down and make you tell him what has you in such a lather.”

“Another time, perhaps.” Drawing back her left arm for balance, Anaïs jerked up her chin and her blade at once. “
En garde!
”

“I think we've had this conversation before,” Geoff murmured. But he brought up his point all the same.

They went at it like furies for some twenty minutes, Geoff giving her no quarter. He knew better. Anaïs was good enough she would know if he failed to fully press his advantage.

But his only advantage, really, was his height, his reach, and the fact that she was tiring while he was not. Her aggression, however, did not pale. Several times she lunged, and each time he deflected and beat her back. He feinted a flank cut, then went for her throat. She parried beautifully, then came at him with a swift riposte, catching his sleeve. On and on it went, Anaïs often on the defensive but giving up nothing.

And as they danced each other back and forth across the polished oak floor, feet scuffing and thumping, their blades clashing, Geoff realized the truth of one thing Rance had asserted. In this respect, at the very least, Anaïs was as qualified as any to be a Guardian. Not one man in a hundred would have survived her onslaught.

But he was that one in a hundred—or should have been.

For an instant, he dropped his guard and she came at him low, thrusting in the direction of his femoral artery. “
Fa' attenzione!
” she barked.

But their blades caught and clashed before the words were out of her mouth.

“Oh, I am,” he replied, circling her blade then pressing her backward. “Do you realize you're speaking Italian again?”

“I beg your pardon.” She smiled a little viciously and parried again. “But you understand, I see.”

“
Sì, signorina
,” he said.

Blades striking furiously, the clatter near deafening, he drove her back slowly, his moves heavy and workmanlike, but in the face of her growing fatigue, very effective. She feinted, then went for his cheek, but her timing was just less than perfect. He caught her blade and threw it off, driving her back again.

And it was in that next instant Anaïs made her mistake. She made a swift double retreat, but it carried her too near the thick boxing mat. Her heel caught on the canvas. She tumbled backward, her blade skittering and clanking across the floor. She landed on her arse, sword arm extended, hand empty.

Breathing hard, Geoff came down onto his knee between hers, his blade set across the top of her shoulder.

“
Touché
,” she said between gasps.

“
Non
,” he replied, tossing the rapier aside. “
Pas de touché.
”

“Oh, no.” Her black eyes flashed up at him with warning. “Don't you dare.”

“What?”

“Don't cede me an inch,” she ordered, rolling up onto her elbows. “Damn it, not one, Geoff, do you hear?”

“Oh, for Christ's sake!” Geoff fell onto his hip and elbow alongside her and dragged an arm across the sweat beading on his forehead. “I didn't
give
you anything, Anaïs. Sane and rested, you'd likely match me blow for blow.”

She turned her head away from him, her breath calming as she stared into the depths of the room. “Let me catch my wind then,” she finally said. “We'll start again.”

He slid one hand around her opposite cheek and turned her face back into his. She had lost her hair ribbon, he realized, and her hair was spilling across the leather mat. “Anaïs, what's wrong?”

Her eyes flashed with warning. “I just feel . . . shut up in this house,” she complained. “Thwarted. I need to do something physical.”

It was his opening, perhaps, to make her an offer he hoped she wouldn't refuse.

He let it go, choosing instead to gaze into her eyes. The air between them crackled with sensual awareness, and yet he sensed a pain beneath it all that troubled him. He meant to seduce her, yes. But not like this. Not yet.

“Anaïs,” he said again, “what happened?”

“Why must something have happened?”

She jerked as if she might rise, but he held her still, throwing one leg across hers. “My dear, we've been living cheek by jowl for days on end,” he murmured, his hand still cradling her opposite cheek. “I think I know what your unleashed fury looks like.”

“Oh, is that your Gift?” she muttered, her gaze dropping to his mouth. “The ability to poke that perfect, Anglo-Saxon nose of yours in someone else's business and leap to a conclusion?”

“Until this mission is finished, my dear, it's
our
business,” he said, lowering his head to hers. He brushed his mouth over the little swell beneath her eye.

In response, she pushed him away. “Leave me alone.”