Chapter Nine
W hen Boudicca finally entered the Practice Hall, as she and her family members had come to call it, and met him on their equivalent of a piste, she should have realized it would be a shock to Wesley to see her in trousers. His gaping jaw was abruptly clamped shut, but she had momentarily seen the man’s tonsils. It was an adorable reaction. His lingering gaze from toe to head was enough to make her blush. If she had allowed it. Instead, she shook his gaze, grabbed her rapier, and decided to spare conversation.
She wanted to see what he was made of. See if he changed at all when pushed, for she knew she was about to push him past his expectations. This was what she and her sisters had discussed. Show yourself to him, and he’ll be compelled to do the same. That was the idea anyway.
Having fenced with very few men, her nerves were as frayed as the hem on a three year old frock. Worse. But she was not the kind to back down from a challenge. One need only reference her involvement in the asinine sororal dare. Botheration. Really, the best way through something was the direct approach.
No holds barred, Boudicca took her stance.
“En garde, Wesley.”
“Prêts?” She watched as he passed his sword to his left hand. She wanted to growl her response to his question as to whether she was ready or not. Frayed nerves aflame, a new emotion was set ablaze in her. Absolute, pure fury. Without a doubt, she knew he was right-handed, for she had seen the man eat. Ostensibly, he felt his skills were far superior to her own if he was choosing to apply his weaker hand.
She hopped her blade to her left hand as well. There would be no mercy. “Allez,” she thundered to start the bout.
And immediately she took the attack. Advancing with a lunge to the high outside. One. He parried and made a riposte. A passé, missing her completely. She feinted left, then struck low outside. Two. With a quick appel, her foot stomped the ground, temporarily distracting him. She struck low inside and pulled back. Three.
Her ears were thundering and her pulse was hammering through her. As if there were an attaque au fer, blade to blade, blood to limb assault in her own body, she could barely contain her rage. If eyes were blades, hers would steal another point, but she had already won. She retreated.
“That’s three.”
Clearly dazed, he was huffing.
Good. She pointed her rapier to his left hand. “Don’t ever insult me like that again.”
“I—”
“Again,” she demanded, while striking her pose.
He flipped his blade to his dominant hand. When she did not mirror his actions, he tilted his head. But the commands had already been called.
She scored three to his two. By then she was having a little bit of fun.
“Again,” she shouted, her blade flipped to her right hand. This time she would leave nothing on the mat. The duke could love her or hate her for it, but she would show him everything she had.
Advance-lunge. High inside. One.
Retreat. Advance. Feint. Low inside. Two.
Retreat. Retreat. He lunged. A passé. And then…
She wheeled her blade high, swung it over her shoulder and the tip of her blade swung under her arm and tapped him low inside. Three.
“What the deuce was that?” Wesley shouted, eyes wide, voice rumbling. He sounded more than a little angry.
“What was what?”
“That!” He attempted to duplicate her movements by swinging his rapier up and then crashing down on himself.
It was ambitious to hold in her laughter, but she succeeded. She was walking over to the water stand, which helped control her amusement. It was a quick second to pour herself a glass to drink, and a bit of a slower second to gulp it down. Normally not one to gulp down anything in the presence of a man, she threw etiquette out the window.
“Boudicca, what the bloody hell was that?”
“It’s my signature move.”
“How do you even have a signature move?”
“Practice.”
“Practice? That’s all you have to say in explanation?”
“Hours and hours of practice.”
He waited.
“Upon years and years of practice.” She poured another drink. “Is that a satisfactory explanation?”
He was shaking his head, almost as if he had water in his ears. “How in the world did you come up with that?”
“I thought I’d explained—”
He put up a hand. “I know. Practice.” A whistle blew out between his lips. “I have never”—his eyes met hers—“in all my years of…practice, met anyone who has done anything remotely close to that maneuver.”
“Thank you.” And then she smiled. A triumphant smile if there ever was one.
“You have to teach me that.”
And then she folded in laughter. No matter how many hours she spent with him, he wouldn’t just be able to do it. She had never seen or heard of anyone who had done it. Her fencing master himself, even after years of fencing with her, had yet to be able to mimic it. And not for want of trying. Oh, the man had been eager to replicate it. But the eagerness had waned over the years. He still attempted it, but…it was one of her foolproof moves.
“Sure. I’ll teach that to you right after you teach me to be a rake.” Oh, why had she said that? She was not normally one prone to impulsive verbiage.
“Well, I guess I could—”
“Forget what I just said.”
“All right—”
“I wasn’t thinking.”
“No matter. It’s forgotten.”
“Shall we go again?”
“I think not.”
So that was that then. He had made up his mind about her. And he wasn’t in it. She peeked up at him, as he hung the sword back in its place. He appeared rather out of it, if she were taking proper note of his body language.
“My pride has suffered enough blows for one day.” He turned to face her again, and sighed. “However, now that I know your secret, my pride shan’t take such a beating the next time we parry.”
Her heart fluttered. He wanted to see her again. More than that, he wanted to fence with her again. Silly heart, be calm.
“You’re assuming I’ll want to fence with you again.”
“Yes.”
Well. It was true. And he had just called her bluff.
But her dignity…what of that? She needed it intact. “Tomorrow then. Ten. Don’t be late.”
*
After waking up on the couch the next morning, Wesley couldn’t help thinking that that was the most intimidating, most glorious event he had ever witnessed in fencing. Perhaps in any sporting event. And by a woman! Most assuredly, she was living up to her namesake. She was a warrior. Bet aside (almost), he now just wanted to be near her to learn some fencing techniques he might employ on Samuel in the next tournament. He was in need of some fresh moves. That, and partly he wanted to see how she might next surprise him.
His father would have a heyday, seeing Wesley lose. And to a woman, at that. He could still hear his father’s threat. Don’t come home unless you win. Losers don’t sleep in this house. And that had been drilled into Wesley’s head almost from birth. And the first time he lost, a ridiculous footrace of some kind at his fifth birthday party, his father told him to sleep over at his friend’s house. It hadn’t been harsh. It was just a simple dismissal. He didn’t want to look at him. And the first time it happened (the sleepover that is), Wesley was thrilled enough to spend more time with his friend. It was when the dismissals happened again and again, each time a little harsher, that Wesley felt the sting of them.
Losing to Boudicca had him torn. In one sense, it was a loss. It stung. Not that he would let her see that. But in another sense, he appreciated her skill and could see how he could exploit his time with her.
He was still in a state of shock by the time he arrived at her house the next day. Not a minute late. In fact, he was a few minutes early as he strode up her front steps, so he found his mind wondering, not for the first time, why no one was ever at home when he called. Boudicca had explained that given her age, her family had agreed to let her be. Wesley couldn’t help thinking that she had probably just told them to let it be, and so they had. And just as he was thinking that, before he even knocked, Arnolds opened the door and he came face to face with three sisters coming down the stairs.
And then he thought, why did I have to go and wonder about no one being home?
The sisters were bantering amongst themselves when they stepped down into the foyer, and even though Arnolds had only taken his hat and coat, he felt a bit exposed.
“I’m here to see Boud—Lady Boudicca.”
“Bodi’s in The Practice Hall already, Your Grace,” Lady Artemisia spoke up.
“Thank you. I’ll be on my way then.”
“So you know her secret then?” Lady Zenobia asked.
“Yes, we had a bout yesterday.”
With some astonishment, Lady Artemisia asked, “And you came out unscathed?”
“If one’s pride doesn’t count.”
“Touché.” He was pretty sure Lady Joan uttered that single word, but he was trying to make his way toward the gymnasium, without being impudent.
“We shan’t keep you from your visit.”
And he had almost quit the room when Lady Artemisia tapped him on the arm and whispered, “But if you hurt her,” and then she drew a line across her throat, smiled, and skipped away with her sisters.
Chills ran down his spine. If Boudicca had secrets, the other sisters might have as well. He recalled the various weapons in The Practice Hall, shuddering to think which weapon of choice belonged to Lady Artemisia. She was the youngest of the four, but perhaps the most reckless.
He arrived in the gymnasium and observed as Boudicca practiced her single leg hops. His focus on her thighs. Those thighs would probably have an incredible grip around his hips. He blasted the thought from his mind.
“I’ve brought my own gear today.” He lifted his satchel in proof.
She ignored his words as she finished her exercises. Breathless, she called out to him. “You can change behind the screen again.” She pointed it out to him as if he had forgotten about it since yesterday. “That’s what it’s there for.”
It felt awkward this time to change in the room because she was in it. And she was close enough to him that he could hear her heavy breathing. And that heavy breathing was doing something to him that he wasn’t ready to admit.
He ducked behind the screen and changed quickly, affording himself little time to dwell on the swelling member between his legs.
Fencing. Attacks. Parries. That’s what he was here for.
When he emerged, his body and all its parts were in their restful proportions. He grabbed a foil from the wall and proceeded to the piste.
“I know you pronounced it an impossibility, but would you consider demonstrating your signature move all the same?”
Her smile and clear blue eyes stirred something within him. He had deemed her fetching in that sapphire blue from days ago, but in trousers, with a foil in her hand, she was a warrior he might follow into battle.
“Of course, Wesley.”
And his name on her lips…heat seared his heart. What the deuce was that about?
Corralling his thoughts, he studied her movements. She was lightning quick, and he barely registered the whipping of the blade. When she repeated her movements, slower the second time, he forced his ears to listen to her describing the action.
“You try.” She motioned for him to stand in front of her.
When he attempted the move, halfway through the swing, his body drew a blank on what came next.
“From here, what’s next?”
He expected her to vocalize the subsequent action, so when she didn’t say anything, he forced his body to complete the arc it had started.
A soft grunt sounded close to his ear. He hadn’t seen her come up behind him and his blade made contact with her.
He whirled around. “I didn’t know you were—Oh my God, Boudicca, you’re bleeding.”
Her hand was on her neck.
“What happened?” His eyes dropped to his blade.
“I didn’t see that you grabbed the wrong sword.”
“You have unprotected swords in here?”
“Yes.” Nonplussed, he watched as she walked over to the water station and grabbed a small cloth.
“Hang it all. You’re bleeding. I stabbed you.”
“You didn’t stab me.”
“What do you call it when a blade makes contact with skin and draws blood?”
“I walked into it. It’s my fault.” She was pressing the cloth against her neck.
“Sit down.” He looked around, but there were no chairs. “Just sit on the floor. Let me see the damage.”
“No damage. I’ve had worse.”
“Just sit down, will you?”
Together they sat on the floor, leaning their backs against the wall. He took the cloth from her hands, and brushed a few strands away from her neck. He could feel the heat from her body, and his breathing was labored. Even though he was the uninjured party. “Let me see,” his voice was a hoarse whisper.
Her body was rigid, and he saw how she twitched when his fingers grazed her soft skin. Just this small, soft touch lay siege on his warrior queen’s defenses.
“You act as if you’ve never been this close to a man before?” Surely she had stolen a few kisses in her years. She was a beautiful woman after all, at least one man must have pressed his lips to her crimson petals.
But her whispered reply shattered his illusions. “I haven’t.”