The King's Falcon (Roundheads & Cavaliers Book 3) (28 page)

‘I would ’ave if the sodding palsy ’adn’t taken my arm.
 
That were back in ’43.
 
And there weren’t much point in going nowhere after that.’

‘You could have trained the youngsters – passed on what you knew.’

Archie scowled.
 
‘Who listens to an old soldier?’

‘Young soldiers who want to live past their first battle,’ came the crisp reply. ‘Speaking for myself, I learned more from the sergeants than I ever did from the generals.
 
Every sergeant I ever met knew about keeping his powder dry and not trying to be a hero.’
 
He grinned suddenly, ‘They also knew how to light a fire on a wet night and where to get a chicken.’

‘Ah.
 
Them were the days.’
 
Archie sighed wistfully and shook his head.
 
‘But no one’s got use for a cripple.’

‘I would – if there’s ever an opportunity,’ said Ashley.
 
‘But only if you can stay sober five days out of seven.’

Something that might have been a grin touched the seamed face.

‘Only five, Captain?’

‘Six would be better – but I’ll settle for what I can get.
 
And my rank, if you wouldn’t mind, is Colonel.
 
God knows I risked my neck enough times for it.’

Archie thought about it and then nodded.
 

‘Colonel, then.’

‘Thank you.
 
And now I’m going to get changed.’
 
Untucking his wet shirt as he went, Ashley added, ‘If you see Jem, you can tell him that it’s safe to come out of hiding.’

He left the room, closing the door with one hand whilst tugging his damp shirt over his head with the other … which was how, as he blindly turned the corner, he managed to collide with a pair of small, capable hands.
 
He froze, knowing whose hands they were by the spear of pure fire that shot through his body.
 
Then, struggling free of his shirt, he found himself staring into a startled dark gaze while its owner’s light, intoxicating scent wove its way insidiously through his senses.
 
His brain promptly stopped functioning.

Athenais stared at him and then stared some more.
 
The breadth of his shoulders and the well-defined musculature of his chest and arms were spectacular; his diaphragm was flat and hard, his hips narrow; and the smooth, faintly golden skin gleamed with a faint sheen of perspiration.
 
In every respect, he was a perfect specimen of masculinity.
 
Her fingers itched to explore every beautiful naked inch of him and she wondered what it might be like to lick the sweat from his throat.
 
She felt weak and strange and, in that first moment, didn’t know why.

Time stopped.

He saw her looking at him and saw
how
she was looking.
 
Moreover, her hands were still scorching the skin of his chest, depriving him of both breath and reason and sending desire raging through every nerve and sinew.
 
His shirt dropping from his fingers, he laid his palms against the wall behind her and leaned in, his eyes brooding on her mouth.
 
Her lips parted and her breathing quickened. He wanted her so badly he ached with it.
 
Yet still, somehow, he managed to stop himself from touching her.

Athenais could see the burning hunger in his face and the pulse throbbing in his jaw. His heart was beating, fast and hard, beneath her palm.
 
Molten heat surged through her blood and formed low in her belly. Her throat closed with longing.
 
She couldn’t speak, couldn’t even think.
 
She’d never wanted a man before and hadn’t known it could be so fierce, so all-consuming.
 
If he didn’t put his arms around her soon, her knees were going to give way; and, if he kissed her, she thought she might burst into flames. Her mind was shouting
Please!
over and over, so loudly she was afraid she might actually say it.
 
For the first time, her hands moved, sliding slowly around and over his skin, mapping the line and curve of his muscles … and eliciting a low purr from deep in his throat.

Ashley’s sense of self-preservation was normally both strong and rapid.
 
It was what had kept him alive and out of trouble on numerous occasions. But, since the moment Athenais had first touched him, he’d been robbed of every instinct save one.
 
The only thing he’d managed to do so far was not to give way to it.
 
If he touched her at all, he suspected it might end with him carrying her away to the nearest flat surface.
 
So he drew a ragged breath and closed his eyes for a moment, searching for the reasons why this couldn’t happen and sufficient self-control to stop it.
 
Somewhere in the fog of his brain was the knowledge that there was no future in it … and that it was bound to end badly.

Time resumed a sluggish beat.

He opened his eyes. Then, with an effort greater than any he could remember, pushed himself away from her and stooped to retrieve his shirt, holding it in front of him and hoping her gaze hadn’t strayed below his waist.

‘My apologies.’
 
He didn’t know how he forced the words out.
 
They felt like knives in his throat.
 
‘I wasn’t thinking – otherwise I’d have been watching where I was going and not crossing your hall half-dressed.’

She stared up at him, unable to comprehend what he was doing – or why. Her hands still tingled from contact with his skin … but hurt and disappointment flooded the rest of her until she could scarcely bear the weight of it. It wasn’t fair that he could sound and look so composed when her entire body was still throbbing with something she could barely understand.

It took every scrap of strength she had to straighten her spine, lift her chin and say coolly, ‘It’s of no consequence, Colonel.
 
And I’ve seen a man’s bare chest before – quite a number of them, actually.
 
So I’m hardly likely to be either offended or – or swooning with admiration.’

‘No?’
 
He managed to inject a thread of levity into his voice. And, as he turned to move on, ‘What a shame.’

Knowing that she was probably watching, he managed to run up the stairs without either tripping or clutching at the bannister-rail.
 
His chest hurt and his mind was in turmoil.
 
He’d nearly – so very nearly – betrayed himself and begun something which, once started, would be almost impossible to walk away from.
 
But holy hell … it was so incredibly difficult.
 
Lust was controllable.
 
What he felt for Athenais de Galzain plainly wasn’t.

Even after he had vanished from sight, Athenais remained rooted to the spot, unable to remember where she’d been going or why.
 
Gradually, however, bewilderment turned to something she told herself was anger and she stamped into the parlour wishing she could afford to break something.

He’s an imbecile or demented or just downright provoking
.
 
If he wasn’t going to do anything … if he doesn’t find me attractive … why was he looking at me like that? He knew I’d have let him. God in heaven, I as good as asked him to! Well, it’s his loss.
 
And he certainly won’t get the chance to humiliate me again
.

And then she sat on the sofa and tried to swallow the lump in her throat.

*
 
*
 
*

That evening Pauline returned with the news that Manager Laroque and Monsieur Froissart wanted to see both Colonel Peverell and Lord Wroxton at noon the following day.

Francis shook his head and said, ‘Major Langley or Francis, if you please.
 
I’m finding the title rather disconcerting at present.’

Pauline nodded.
 
‘If you give your shirts to Suzon, she’ll iron them.
 
And be on time.
 
Laroque hates tardiness.’

Consequently, having done the best they could with their appearance, Ashley and Francis presented themselves at the theatre ten minutes early and were left kicking their heels in the empty auditorium.
 
Ashley, contemplating the stickiness of the floor and the assorted debris lingering in the corners, remarked that whoever cleaned the place needed a kick up the backside.
 
Ignoring him, Francis vaulted on to the stage and executed a neat step-dance, followed by an equally neat spin – at which point the door opened and Antoine Froissart walked in.

Colouring faintly, Francis dropped back off the stage and straightened his cuffs.

Without the merest flicker of an eyelid, Froissart strode towards them saying, ‘Good day, gentlemen.
 
I am the assistant-manager.
 
If you will be so good as to follow me, Monsieur Laroque will see you now.’

Laroque’s office was a lot tidier than the rest of the theatre and, to Ashley’s surprise, Pierre Regnault Petit-Jean Laroque himself looked more like a lawyer than an actor-manager.
 
He rose when they entered and inclined his head courteously as they gave their names.
 
Then he said, ‘And which of you is to choreograph the fight scenes?’

‘I am,’ replied Ashley.
 
‘But the Major will help demonstrate when necessary.’

Laroque nodded.
 
‘We will return to that matter later, I think.
 
First let us address Madame Fleury’s suggestion that you be taken on as walkers.’ He contemplated them over steepled fingers and then, glancing at Froissart, said, ‘Madame has a point.
 
Height, bearing, physical appearance – all excellent.
 
The ladies are likely to
boulevers
é
.’
 
Then, returning briskly to the business in hand, ‘Monsieur Peverell … please walk across the room and back, finishing with a bow.’

Ashley didn’t take kindly to being looked over like a piece of horse-flesh and asked if he could put foot in front of the other.
 
It was time, moreover, to remove the Manager’s misconceptions.
 
He said, ‘I’ll devise and give instruction for your fights – but I have no intention of appearing on the stage in any capacity at all.
 
Furthermore, I have no objection to being called by my given name – but, if we are to be formal, I would prefer to be addressed as Colonel.’

‘I’m sure you would.
 
But this is a theatre not the army and military titles have neither place nor meaning here.
 
As to the rest, I will attempt to conquer my disappointment.’ He looked at Francis.
 
‘And you, Monsieur?
 
Are you also averse to walking on my stage?’

‘Not in the least,’ came the cheerful reply.
 
And, setting his left hand to his sword hilt, Francis sauntered elegantly to and fro before pausing in hesitation. ‘I beg your pardon, Monsieur – but to whom am I bowing?’

Laroque and Froissart exchanged baffled glances.
 

Froissart said, ‘To anyone.
 
It is of no consequence.’

‘Forgive me – but it is of the greatest consequence,’ reproved Francis.
 
‘Do you wish me to bow as I would to a Prince of the blood – or an elderly Marquise – or a gentleman of the lesser nobility – or a --’

Ashley’s sense of humour reasserted itself.
 
He said, ‘Just do it, there’s a good fellow.
 
Bow to La Grande Mademoiselle.’

‘An excellent choice!’
 
And, sweeping the floor with the single, rather limp plume of his hat, Francis produced a perfect court obeisance.

Froissart’s ‘
Ah!
’ was one of pure appreciation.
 

Ashley had the feeling he’d have liked to applaud.
 

Laroque merely nodded and said, ‘Excellent.
 
One should have expected it.
 
And now, gentlemen … if we return to the stage, perhaps a small demonstration of your fencing skills?’

Thank God
, thought Ashley.
 
Once this is done, I can return to sanity
.

Tilting his head at Francis across the width of the stage, he murmured, ‘Basic moves and not too fast.
 
I wouldn’t want you to strain yourself.’

‘How very thoughtful,’ Francis retorted, lifting his blade in the customary salute and immediately following it up with a swift, teasing and far from basic attack.

Ashley parried, side-stepped and responded with a
doubl
é
.
 
Forced into an unexpected turn, Francis stumbled and had to work to regain his balance.

With a sardonic smile, Ashley dropped his sword-point and said in English, ‘That was fun – though not quite the effect you were looking for.
 
So if you’ve finished showing off, perhaps we can do this properly?’

‘One, two, lunge, engage … three, four, reverse?’ sighed Francis.
 
‘If we must.’