Guarded Heart by Jennifer Blake Page B

she said evenly.
    â€œOh, yes, and a sleeve may hide the result parfaitement, but what will cover my soul’s wound, or heal it?”
    The mask obstructing her view was suddenly intolerable. She wanted, needed, to see what caused the anguish she heard beneath the low murmur of his voice. More than that, the wire screen seemed to be interfering with her breathing. That had to be the cause of the lightheadedness that gripped her, the weak sensation that made her arm that still lay upon his knee tremble against him.
    With her free hand, she reached up to wrench it off. Her hair, loosened from its pins by her exertions, caught in the band. The long swath of it tumbled free, raining pins into her lap as it unfurled down her chest padding.
    It was then that the door from the gallery swung open and a man stepped into the room. He stopped as if he had run upon a sword point.
    â€œA fencing lesson, is it?” Sasha asked, his voice corrosive with suspicion. “I don’t remember my own instruction being so tender.”

Eight
    I t only needed this, Gavin thought with profane resignation. It wasn’t enough that he had goaded and driven the lady into a misstep which drew blood, but he would now be required to explain it to the stiff-rumped Cossack who had designated himself her protector. That should be an interesting exercise since he hardly knew himself how it had come about.
    There had been a sickening moment when he had been much too vividly reminded of the dawn meeting four years ago when his opponent, a young poet of overweening pride and minimal skill with a sword, had tried a clumsy attack that broke his sword so he plunged forward, slipping in the rain-wet grass of the dueling field. In a sequence that played in memory as horrendously slow, he had flailed, falling, impaling himself on Gavin’s rapier before it could be disengaged.
    The object had been to teach the young fool patience and consideration, not to take his life. It was a senseless death. His own jagged wound from the broken sword had long healed before he could put it behind him.
    He had thought he was over it except for an occasional nightmare revisited in the dead of night. To discover it was untrue was sobering.
    No doubt it was the association of accident and inexperience that had affected him so badly just now, that and the natural disinclination to harm any member of the gentle sex. Ariadne Faucher gave little indication of the tender sensibilities that description brought to mind. Still she was valiant, proud and most definitely female, and did not deserve to have her blood drawn for no cause.
    If the mention of her brother’s death in a duel had any bearing, Gavin could not see it. So far as he knew, the young poet of his meeting, Francis Dorelle, had been the only child of parents who were nearly middle-aged when he was born. He had heard them described in that manner, seen them from a distance at Maurelle’s Maison Blanche plantation when they came for the body of their son.
    â€œWhat are you doing here?”
    It was the lady who made that demand of the interloper. Snatching her wrist from Gavin’s knee, she bundled the darkly shimmering mass of her hair into a knot and secured it, then began to climb to her feet.
    Rising with less encumbrance, Gavin put a hand under her elbow until she could disentangle her feet from her skirt hem and stand beside him. He released her then, stepping away a pace to allow room for retrieving and wielding his blade should it become necessary.
    â€œI become curious about your progress while calling upon our hostess,” the Russian answered, his eyes narrow under lowered brows. “What have I interrupted, if I may ask?”
    â€œYou may not ask,” she answered, her gaze on her glove she donned once more, “particularly in that tone. I will tell you, however, that you came upon us after a small mishap.”
    â€œTo you?” His gaze rested on the few drops of blood