Flinging her thick brown plait over her shoulder, Nicola
picked up her rapier and turned to face her opponent with
a disarming smile. "Ready?" she said, sweetly. The young
man had put himself on the line by telling her she knew
nothing about the Italian style of fencing, not thinking
that she could produce a pair of rapiers she'd been using
for years. He should have known better.
"What do I do with it?" she asked, innocently.
The young man smiled. "Your best, my lady,'he said. "Shall
we take these silly guards off the points, then?" The
smile disappeared. "It's not usual, in practice." 'Oh,
then let's be unusual, for a change." 'Are you sure, my
lady?" 'Quite sure. There, that's better. Now, on guard.
Is that what they say?" He had been a nuisance for weeks,
this young man: it was time to get rid of him. He could
not be more than her own twenty-four years.
Fencing with an unprotected point obviously concerned him,
for he was defensive, extremely wary and immediately
rattled by her obvious familiarity with the weapon. Only
aristocrats took this kind of fencing seriously, and most
of them had learned in either France, Germany or Italy;
very few in England. But women, never.
Nicola, however, had fenced with her four brothers since
she was old enough to stand; she was naturally nimble,
graceful, quick-thinking and, most of all, had learned
from an early age to hold her own against men. In a house
full of them, there had been no place for a faint-hearted
woman.
Clearly taken by surprise at her sudden swift attack, his
defence came a split second too late and his rapier went
flying through the air to slide across the stone-flagged
floor of the hall well before he'd had time to settle into
a rhythm. It was a very undignified beginning.
"Oh, dear," said Nicola. "D'ye want to try again?" 'You've
had some practice," he said, accusingly, picking up his
rapier. "You might have said."
"I did say, last evening. You didn't believe me. On guard."
He started the next bout with more determination, but with
a heavy chip on his shoulder, wondering how this lovely
woman, whom men held only in their fantasies, could have
learned how to best him at a man's game. His lack of
concentration did him no favours, and almost immediately
he was being forced backwards again under a charge that
for sheer speed left him no time to recover.
Then, for a second time, his rapier took wings, clattering
across the almost deserted hall to settle at the feet of a
tall man whose powerful shoulders propped up the door-
frame and whose expression was less than sympathetic. He
looked at the swordsman pityingly and placed a high-booted
foot upon the long narrow blade, shaking his head.
Without a word, the young man aimed a snappy bow in
Nicola's direction and stalked off to the end of the hall,
banging the great door behind him.
The point of Nicola's rapier had touched the floor in slow
decline before it dawned on her that this intruder was not
exactly a stranger and that his slow arrogant scrutiny of
her from head to toe and back again was exactly what she
remembered of their first meeting when she had been a mere
eleven-year-old and he an uppity sixteen who had made no
effort to endear himself to her then, either. On the
contrary, she could still recall his frightening
incivility, despite the protection of her brothers.
He pushed himself away from the open doorway, un-buttoning
his velvet jerkin and sloughing it from his arms like a
discarded skin, then dropping it to the floor. Picking up
the rapier, he came to stand in a puddle of light from the
large bay window, his eyes remaining on Nicola, but giving
away nothing of his surprise at the change in her. "Try
me," he said quietly, describing circles with the
point. "I don't use a guard either. Not even in practice."
In the intervening years his voice had changed from that
of a wobbling Scots-accented baritone to a rich bass,
though he made the invitation sound more like a command,
which, Nicola remembered, had always been his style. No
matter that her family could boast an ancestry to rival
any in England, this man's family had exceeding wealth,
which, he had been led to believe, gave him the edge. She
would show him how wrong he could be.
Her reply was to put up her rapier at arm's length and to
touch the point of his with hers, locking her deep brown
stare with his hard grey one, but knowing in her vitals
that this would be no push-over like the last. This man
was five years older than her, for a start. She was tall
for a woman, but Sir Fergus Melrose was taller, with the
physique of an athlete and the healthy tan of one who had
caught the sea breeze and seen the world. She was slender,
too, but her opponent's wrists were twice as thick as
hers, and his lithe, tautly muscled body was better
practiced in the arts of warfare, even the less usual ones.
She had dressed in men's doeskin breeches, a shirt and
short padded jerkin in order to do justice to the young
man's challenge issued last night at supper, and though
she had given no thought to the indisputable fact that she
was just as fascinating in this garb as in her finest
gown, neither did she realise that now there was an
androgynous element about her that any man would find
unsettling. As had been proved. Her abundant dark hair was
still contained within one plait, but no one would have
been fooled into mistaking her body for that of a lad when
her unbelted jerkin swung open at each move and the
roundness of her hips filled the breeches as no man's ever
could.
The sleeves of Sir Fergus's linen shirt were rolled up to
reveal his wrists, and now he pulled at the cord of his
neck to open the front, a trick her brothers had tried in
the past to deflect her attention. She was not caught off
guard as he had intended, and although she made no headway
at all in the first few moments, nor did she allow him
through her defence.
As she had done, he held back, hoping to lure her into a
false confidence, though she knew this to be a ploy too,
and would not be drawn. But soon she began to tire as the
bout continued and, as his pressure became more intense,
perspiration began to run into her eyes and stick her soft
linen shirt to her chest. She found his style
intimidating, his skill with a sword far superior to hers,
his energy phenomenal, for he was not even perspiring, and
instead of anticipating his next move as she should have
been doing, she could not help but wonder how much longer
she could continue before her rapier would go the same way
as her previous opponent's.
After a vigorous exchange, she allowed her point to lower
and saw to her surprise that he was changing his rapier
over to his left hand, tapping the point of it under hers
to make her lift it again, goading her, telling her that
he could beat her left-handed. It was a disconcerting
move, and the end came well before she could score a hit
or even remove the patronising smile from his face.
Panting, and aching with fatigue, she made a mistake at
last and felt the fierce sting of his point catch beneath
her jerkin and slash like a razor through the thin stuff
of her shirt. She leapt backwards, dropping her rapier and
holding her breast with one hand, fending him off with the
other as he closed in too quickly for her to evade him.
Backing her against the panelled wall, he held her there
with his body, his face so close that she could see the
steel-grey fearlessness through his eyes which, as a
child, she had both admired and found intimidating.
"Well," he said, watching the torrent of dark brown hair
fall across her face, "some things have changed for the
better, but not the temper, it seems. You'll have to deal
with that, my lady, if you want to play men's games."
Her eyes blazed fiercely into his while she chafed at the
shameful closeness of him and at her own stupid
helplessness, her voice betraying her agitation. "What
right have you to walk unannounced and uninvited into my
house? And how would you know what's changed?" she panted
through a curtain of silky hair. "My temper is none of
your business either. Get off me!" She heaved at him, but
he was as solid as a wall and, instead of moving, he
prised the hand away from her breast, turning her palm
over to reveal a sticky patch of blood upon it.
He moved back quickly to inspect the vertical slash on her
shirt and the red stain that oozed through the fabric, and
it was clear to her then that he had not known of this,
not perhaps intended it. It had been the same when she was
younger, getting hurt while trying to keep up with her
brothers and him not caring of her damage, nor of the
silence she had kept about her injuries, particularly to
her pride.
Their fathers, close friends for years, had promised the
two of them as future man and wife, but who could expect
an eleven-year-old tomboy to understand or accept the
implications of that? And what brash sixteen-year-old
would not be more interested in the child's brothers than
in her? Fergus had felt no need to pretend, having more
pressing things on his mind than parents' promises.
Clutching at herself, Nicola tried to turn away, but
already her legs had begun to shake with fatigue, making
her stumble as he caught her quickly under her knees,
tilting her body into his arms. She saw the bright window
swing away over her head, then felt the sudden sting of
her wound and another rush of anger that forced a strength
into her arms. "Put me down! Let me go, you great clod! I
can manage without you. My steward will..."
But his hands and arms tightened and there was nothing she
could do but suffer him to carry her, writhing and fuming
with humiliation and her undone plait hanging over his
arm, down the length of the hall, up a narrow staircase
and through two doors. Finally, he lowered her on to her
own tester bed with his arms on each side of her to
prevent her from rolling away, ignoring her protests that
she could manage well enough without him after all these
years.
His face was at first in shadow, so she was only able to
guess at the degree of concern in his eyes, or otherwise.
But there was little doubt in her mind about his
intentions when he caught both her wrists and,
transferring them to one large strong hand, held them
easily above her head and pressed them down into the soft
brocade coverlet. His grip held her tight, and her breast
had begun to sting like a burn.
This was as bad as anything she had suffered as a
child. "No!" she gasped, almost voiceless with
fear. "Please...no!"