Rake Most Likely to Rebel (Rakes On Tour Book 1) Page 2

  ‘Stay down!’ Only when the boat had moved a safe way from the docks and Brennan deemed it safe to rise did he let him up.

  ‘Good lord, Bren, what have you got yourself into now?’ Haviland rose and dusted off his trousers. Beyond Brennan’s shoulder he could see the men on the docks shaking impotent fists their direction. Whatever it was, it had been worth shooting someone over.

  Brennan stopped in the midst of tucking in his shirt tails and quirked an auburn eyebrow at him in mock chagrin. ‘Is that any way to greet the friend who just saved your life?’

  Haviland answered with a raised dark brow of his own. ‘My life, is it? I rather thought it was yours.’ He stepped forward and pulled Brennan into an embrace, pounding him on the back affectionately. ‘I thought you were going to miss the boat, you stupid fool.’ Sometimes Brennan worried him. He took too many risks, treated his life too cavalierly as if he doubted his own worth.

  Greetings exchanged, the horse being looked after in a makeshift stall by Archer who had some explaining of his own to do, the threesome took up their places at the rail. ‘So,’ Nolan drawled, tossing a sidelong glance Brennan’s direction. ‘The real question isn’t where you’ve been, but was she worth it?’

  Brennan threw back his head and laughed up to the sky as if he hadn’t a care in the world, as if he hadn’t been dangling over the side of a boat minutes ago with an angry man shooting at him. ‘Always.’

  Haviland smiled into the distance, a little spark starting to ignite deep inside of him. It was a good sign. He wasn’t dead yet, wasn’t entirely numb yet. England faded from sight. It would be a while before they’d see those shores again but in the meanwhile, it was going to be one hell of a trip.

  Chapter Two

  One month later—the viewing room of the

  Leodegrance salle d’armes

  Mon Dieu! The Englishman was exquisite. Alyssandra Leodegrance’s breath caught behind her peepholes as he executed an aggressive flèche against his opponent in the main training salon. Every movement spoke of lethal grace, his foil a natural extension of his arm as he effortlessly deflected Monsieur Anjou’s sophisticated series of ripostes.

  Alyssandra pressed her eyes more firmly to the peepholes of the salle d’armes’s private viewing chamber, hardly daring to believe what she saw: Monsieur Anjou, the salle’s most senior instructor, was labouring now with all his skill to launch a counter-offensive and yet still the Englishman would not be thwarted.

  ‘He has forced Monsieur Anjou into redoublement!’ She could hear the excitement in her own hushed voice as she tore her eyes away long enough to toss a smile at her brother, Antoine, seated beside her in his wheeled chair, his own gaze as raptly engaged as hers.

  Antoine gave a wry grin at her smug tone. ‘You’re enjoying it too, aren’t you?’

  Alyssandra shrugged her shoulders, feigning indifference, although they both knew better. There was the courtesy of professional respect between her and the senior instructor, but not much else. She put her eyes back to the holes, not wanting to miss a moment more. Redoublement was probably the last position Julian Anjou had expected to take up.

  It had been ages since she’d seen Julian beaten and it did her heart good to see the arrogant master humbled. He hadn’t been humbled since the time she’d beaten him. That had been two years ago and he would not admit to it. He preferred to call it a draw done at his expense to save her pride. Not that he wasn’t an excellent fencer. Julian Anjou’s arrogance was well deserved, but having earned it didn’t make him any more tolerable.

  The Englishman initiated an elegant balestra followed by a lunge, a traditional but fearless combination, his efforts confident and deliberate. He knew precisely what he was doing and what he hoped to accomplish. The sparring match had become a chess game. ‘Checkmate,’ she whispered under her breath as they circled one another again—Julian pressed to the extreme to keep the tight frame he was known for, the Englishman athletic and unwinded even after the long bout. A crowd of students and junior instructors had gathered at the edges of the floor.

  He must dance like a dream, all that grace contained in those broad shoulders and long legs. The errant thought caught her off guard. After years of assessing men from a purely athletic standpoint as fencers, she seldom spared a thought for the more sensual applications of the male physique. Apparently, she was sparing a thought for it now. A shiver, wicked and delicious, shot down her spine as the Englishman moved in a tight circle around Anjou just out of reach of the man’s foil. It was easy to imagine the confident press of his hand at a woman’s back, of that hand guiding her skilfully through the crowded floor of a waltz. What woman wouldn’t want to be led out on to the floor by such a partner, his body pressed ever so slightly to hers, their bodies attuned to the subtle pressures and nuances of the other?

  She had to stop. Now she was being fanciful. It had been three years since she’d had a serious suitor or even been interested in one, nor was there any time for one at the moment with the tournament looming. She gave herself a mental scold. The salle and Antoine were her life now. Until that changed, there was no room for romantic games. A sharp movement from the floor refocused her attention. She’d been so engrossed in her little tangent of a fantasy she nearly missed it—the moment when the Englishman’s blade slipped past Julian’s guard and his buttoned tip pierced the master in the chest.

  Julian swept him a bow, acknowledging the defeat, but his face was hard when he took off the mask and retreated to his corner to wipe the sweat from his brow. The Englishman did the same, pulling off the mask and tossing it aside, revealing a face a woman could study for hours and still not discover the whole of it; there was the strong, sharp length of his nose dominating the centre, the dark brows and long, defined cheekbones that likely did incredible things to his face when he smiled. Right now, he was not smiling and they lent him a slightly rugged air. And his mouth, with that thin aristocratic bow on top, and sensual, fuller lip on the bottom, was positively wicked. Suffice it to say, that mouth alone could keep a girl imagining all sorts of wicked things all night.

  ‘He was perfect today,’ Alyssandra remarked. She and Antoine moved back from the holes to talk, to plan. The Englishman would want to know if there was another master above Anjou with whom he could continue his studies.

  Her brother’s eyes held hers in all seriousness for a moment. ‘Not intimidated, are we?’

  She huffed at the idea, marking it as ridiculous with a shrug of her shoulders. ‘Appreciating him is not the same as being intimidated by him.’ Intimidated? Hardly. Excited? Definitely. Her body fired at the knowledge of it.

  No, she wasn’t intimidated. Men in general did not intimidate her. She’d faced men who’d believed they were the best, men like Julian. She revelled in the thrill of matching blades, of wearing them down and striking when their arm was weak and their pride too strong. She sensed, however, that the Englishman would be different. A true challenge, but one she would overcome, she was confident of that. She’d been watching and learning. She was ready and now so was he.

  The Englishman had been coming to the salle d’armes for three weeks. At first, she’d watched him because he’d been new and new was always intriguing. He had started with informal matches against the gentlemen who came purely to exercise. Having dispatched them, he’d moved on to those who came to study the art more seriously until there was no one left to face, no one left to coach him except Julian. It had been a testament to his skill and to his wealth that Julian had consented to take him on. Julian took on only a few select pupils with the skills and finances worthy of instruction from a great master. Now, Julian had been beaten. The Englishman had earned the privilege to face her; she, who was even more exclusive than Julian, not because of the money, but because of the secret. None of her clients ever knew they faced a woman. The mask gave her anonymity, her skill preserved it. No one would ever believe a woman could possess such a talent.

  Alyssandra reached for her mask, her swo
rd arm already feeling the grip of her hilt in her hand. ‘Shall I go out now?’

  Antoine shook his head. ‘No, sit and watch with me. Your Englishman is not quite perfect, no matter what you believe.’ He gave a crooked half smile and nodded towards the peepholes. ‘They’re about to start again.’

  She and Antoine pressed their eyes to the holes once more. She watched and waited patiently for Antoine to make his point. They had done this countless times since his accident had rendered him incapable of fencing. She was his legs now and he was her mentor. One of the benefits of being a twin was being able to read her brother’s mind after a fashion. He could read fencers, but she could read him. She knew what he was thinking quite often before he spoke. Like now. They weren’t even looking at each other and yet she sensed he saw something in the Englishman’s parry.

  ‘There!’ Antoine exclaimed in hush tones although there was no threat of being overheard. The room was soundproofed. ‘Do you see it?’

  She did see something, but what? ‘No,’ she had to admit. She was astute at assessing her opponents, but her brother was a master at detecting the subtle movements of a fencer. It was what had made him so good.

  ‘Right there, he drops his shoulder,’ Antoine said. ‘Watch closely, he’ll do it again.’

  This time she did catch it, but only someone of Antoine’s skill would have noticed without instruction. Julian certainly hadn’t or he would have taken the opportunity to drive his button into the Englishman’s briefly unprotected shoulder.

  ‘When he recovers from a parry, he drops the shoulder. It’s when he’s most vulnerable.’ Antoine winked at her. ‘We’ll help him fix that, of course, but only after you’ve established yourself with him.’

  ‘Bien sûr.’ Alyssandra laughed with him. It was an effective strategy for gaining a student’s respect to beat him a couple times before showing him why he’d lost. It proved the instructor knew what he or she was doing in theory as well as practice. But she sobered at the solemn look on her brother’s face. ‘What?’

  ‘You can beat him, right?’ he asked, worry creasing his brow. ‘If you can’t...’ He didn’t finish the sentence. They both knew the reputation of the salon was at stake, as it was any time Alyssandra faced an opponent, masquerading as Antoine Leodegrance, the famed Parisian swordsman.

  She smiled to alleviate his concern. ‘I will beat him. All will be well, as it always is. You have taught me perfectly,’ she assured him. She understood his concern. He wanted her to be safe, but he was also frustrated with his own impotence to provide for them without relying on the masquerade. It had been three years since Antoine’s accident, three years since they’d instigated this ruse in order to keep the successful salle d’armes running. No one would willingly study fencing under a woman’s guidance.

  Their ‘petite déception’ had worked splendidly up until now. There was no reason to think it would not continue to work. Only one other knew of it and that was Julian, who had as much to lose as they if the secret was exposed. Of course, they had not thought to keep the ruse in place for so long. They’d hoped Antoine would recover the use of his limbs and return to his rightful place as the salle’s master at arms. It was only a matter of time, the physicians had said confidently at the beginning.

  After three years, though, she had to wonder how much more time could be allowed to pass before they had to admit Antoine’s recovery was an improbability? And if he didn’t recover? What did that mean for the two of them? Antoine was all the family she had, but they could not sustain the masquerade for ever, for many reasons, not the least being her hopes for a family of her own. The longer she kept up the ruse, the longer she put off her chances to make a worthy match. It might be too late already. Etienne DeFarge had married another last spring, unwilling to wait any longer. Any hopes she’d entertained in that direction were gone now.

  But those were thoughts for another time, for a far-off future if it ever came. They had no bearing on tomorrow or the next day. What did matter was the Englishman. Alyssandra turned back to the peephole, intent now on her quarry, all dark thoughts of the future thrust aside along with more seductive visions of a dancing Englishman complete with long legs, broad shoulders and a very kissable mouth. Tomorrow, she thought silently, you, sir, shall meet your match.

  Chapter Three

  ‘En garde!’ Julian Anjou called out, stepping back from the two fencers in the private salle. Haviland assumed the position and faced his opponent, the masked and silent Antoine Leodegrance. Leodegrance had bowed to him respectfully, but other than that, all communication had taken place through Anjou acting as an intermediary. Masked and silent, Leodegrance had an almost surreal presence.

  By pre-determined agreement, Leodegrance made the first ‘attaque’. Haviland understood this encounter was more an exercise than a bout. There would be no score kept. Leodegrance would want to see the variety and depth of his skills first-hand. And, frankly, Haviland wanted to see Leodegrance’s. It wasn’t everyone who had the privilege of viewing the selective Parisian’s skill up close.

  Parry and thrust, balestra and lunge, battement and liement. Haviland met the drills with ease, his eyes making a study of the great Leodegrance. The man had slim, graceful movements, elegance personified in even the smallest of motions. His parry from the sixte position was flawlessly delivered, his blade up, his wrist supinated. It was the subtlety of these motions that gave the man his edge, the litheness of his movements. Haviland dodged, barely avoiding the tip of Leodegrance’s foil.

  By Jove, the man was quick on his feet! With the slightest of efforts, the merest flick of his wrist, Leodegrance had nearly pricked him. There was a certain style to the flick of his wrist that was patently his own and Haviland made quick note of it. It seemed to give him an extra ounce of flexibility in wielding the foil—something easier to note without the Italian preference for a basket over the hilt. With the French blade, one’s grip was exposed on the handle. Leodegrance was using that to envious advantage.

  Gradually, the nature of their exercise began to change. The space between them became charged with a competitive electricity. Something combative leapt and sparked between them, a lethal chemistry, more akin to sensual attraction. Leodegrance’s manoeuvres became a seductive dance, stealthy and mesmerising; his strikes came more quickly until Haviland was fully engaged.

  The exercise had transformed into an assaut. Haviland grinned beneath his mask, enjoying the thrill of competition. They circled, each one stalking the other, arms and foils held out in full extension to define their space and to protect it. Leodegrance’s frame looked as fresh as when they’d begun, his arm appeared strong. Haviland wondered if it was a bluff. His own arm was starting to ache and yet he dared not waver. Surely, Leodegrance, as slenderly built as he was, was physically affected by the duration of this match.

  Haviland wished he could see beneath the full-face mask. Was Leodegrance sweating? He could feel his own sweat trickling down his back, down his face. Leodegrance made a flèche at lightning speed, requiring him to put up a riposte and he did so, proud of the speed of his own reflexes. Haviland parried and moved to launch his own attack. That was when Leodegrance’s foil found his shoulder. He felt the hard press of the wooden button before he saw it, so fast did the strike come. He stared at it in full surprise for a moment before remembering his etiquette.

  He bowed as Anjou had bowed before him yesterday in acknowledgement of a fair match and in acknowledgement of the other man’s superiority. It did not gall him to be beaten—this time—it did gall him, however, that he hadn’t seen it coming. The final attack had been most unorthodox, coming as it did on the heels of Leodegrance’s deflected offensive. Haviland had parried the attack. It had been his turn to initiate one of his own, only Leodegrance had not waited. Haviland saw in hindsight what Leodegrance had done—he’d turned the move into a feint, a move designed to distract his opponent both in body and mind, while the real blow was delivered—a most effective fausse attaque.


  Leodegrance accepted his bow and offered a slight one in return. Haviland reached up to remove his mask, thinking Leodegrance would do the same. The man did not. Instead, he strode over to Anjou and conducted a conversation in low, hurried French, looked his direction one more time, raised his foil in salute and departed the room with a farewell as unorthodox as his final attack had been.

  ‘Bien, monsieur, bien. You’ve done well. Master Leodegrance is very pleased.’ Julian Anjou came to him, all smiles. It was the most pleasant Haviland had seen the instructor look. ‘He has asked you to come back Thursday for another lesson. Also, there is a small competition in a matter of weeks. Master Leodegrance would be honoured to have you entered.’

  ‘He could not tell me himself?’ Haviland interjected sharply. This was by far the oddest lesson he’d ever had. ‘Are we to never speak? Does he ever remove his mask?’

  ‘Of course not!’ Anjou sounded shocked, as if he’d uttered blasphemy. Anjou lowered his voice, tinged with a hint of French condescension. ‘It is because of the accident, monsieur. You are an outsider, so perhaps you do not know. The scars are too hideous, too distracting for opponents. He wears the mask out of deference for you, monsieur, for all of his pupils.’ He gave a thin smile. ‘We are French, perhaps we are vain, but we put much stock in our beauty. Beauty is life to a Frenchman. We would not willingly inflict ugliness on anyone.’ Anjou inclined his head in a dismissive gesture. ‘Jusqu’à demain, monsieur.’

  Haviland watched him depart with a shake of his head. That was the trouble with Frenchmen. They never quite answered your questions even when they did.