CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE CLARKE
Chapter Thirty-Three
Clarke
Clarke couldn’t sleep, unable to shake that feeling of holding Ceci in his arms, the weight of her leaning into him when she was crying.
They’d escaped to the terrace and he’d led her to her room via the back stairs. No one had seen her. Just as he’d promised.
What was that heavy yet breezy feeling in his chest when she’d looked at him with gratitude before closing the door to her room?
Sighing, he wandered down the corridor, until he heard something.
It was coming from the fencing room. He peered in.
He expected to see one of his brothers. Not her.
She had her back to him. And when she turned around, she was standing directly under the light.
She wore a pale-lavender nightgown with a light wrap the same color.
The material was sheer, but not sheer enough, he thought, wishing it were transparent.
Her eyes widened. “I couldn’t sleep.”
“Me neither,” he said. “You okay?”
“Yes, why? Oh, earlier. Yeah, I’m fine.” She turned to the blades. “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised to find an entire room devoted to fencing, given your brothers’ names.”
Chuckling, he entered the room. “Yeah. No surprise there.”
Should he just come clean? Now? That he was the Man in the Iron Mask? She had to know those three musketeers she’d met at that ball were his three brothers.
She peered at him. Usually when she did that, her eyes glinted and were piercing, but now they looked soft, even velvety.
His eyes drifted down, imagining the curve of her breasts and her nipples.
Pugnacious. That was the word that came to mind when he thought of her nipples. His gaze wandered further.
I wonder if she tastes like vanilla. She might. If ever there was a woman who should, it would be her. Because to the outside world, she’s so … not … vanilla.
Why this made him smile, he couldn’t say. Not only couldn’t he say, he couldn’t stop. He was still smiling when his eyes met hers.
“So,” she said, “are you as good a fencer as you are a marksman?”
He still couldn’t put a stopper on that smile. He shrugged. “I’m okay.”
“Why did you shoot like you did in Montana? Did you think I wouldn’t be able to handle it if you were better than me? And mind you, I’m not saying you are.”
The grin widened as he drew closer. “Of course not.”
“You obviously did poorly with that rifle on purpose. Why?”
He hesitated.
“I didn’t do it on purpose. I didn’t get much sleep the night before.”
“The rooster.”
And you in that catsuit.
“Yeah. The rooster. And you …” He hesitated, swallowing. “I mean, you’re good. Plus …”
Should he tell her? He didn’t want to tell her. Or did he?
“What?”
“My hands were sweating.”
“Sweating? But it was freezing.”
“I know. But they were sweating.”
She was grinning.
So you like that you made me sweat, do you?
He placed one hand on her cheek. She started.
“They’re not sweating now,” he murmured, brushing her cheek with his thumb before taking his hand away.
She turned back to the blades.
“Do you fence?” he asked.
“I was on the fencing team at boarding school. But I haven’t in a while.”
He picked up a blade and held it out to her. “This one, I think.”
Once she’d taken it, he chose another for himself.
He took a step back, drawing his sword in one fluid motion, letting the weight of it settle in his hand. Then, with a flourish and a glint in his eye, he saluted her with the blade.
“Come then, milady, let us see if thy skill matches thy spirit. Let steel speak where words have warred.”
Rolling her eyes, she scoffed. “You can stop the knightly bit. Sofia and Beatrice aren’t here.”
He took a step toward her.
“Thy tongue is quick, milady, sharp as any blade. But tell me—dost thou wield thy sword with the same deadly grace, or art thou but a warrior of words?”
He took another step and watched as strands of her hair fluttered from the force of his breath. “Dost thou fear that the battle of tongues is the only one thou canst win?”
His eyes drifted to her lips. He watched them part.
She lifted her chin, her eyes alight, and it was her breath now that fluttered over his flesh. “Tis not fear that stays my blade—tis mercy. I would spare thee the shame of defeat.”
Suddenly she retreated and lifted her blade, placing the tip on his chest, forcing him back.
“But since thou dost beg so sweetly for humiliation, I shall not be the one to deny thee.” She placed the tip of her rapier just below his chin.
“Let it never be said that I am unkind or without mercy to those who wish to kneel before me.”
Her wrist flicked, forcing him to take another step back or risk being marked.
“Thou art swift, I grant thee that. But tell me, milady—what wager dost thou set? If I best thee, shall I claim that which mine heart and body doth most desire?”
“Which is?”
“That I shall not tell thee.”
“I think I can guess.”
“Wilt thou risk it?”
“And if I best thee?”
“Thou shalt have whatever thou dost more desire. Dost thou knowest what thou most desires?”
“I do. And unlike you, I’m not afraid to say it.
Hear me well, Sir Clarke, should I best thee, I shall demand something far greater than you do.
Should I triumph, thou shalt kneel before me, not as knight, but as conquered man.
Dost thou still wish to wager, knowing the price of defeat? Or dost thou fear to kneel?”
Tapping the flat of his sword against his shoulder, his eyes locked on hers.
“Ladies first.”
She lunged forward with a probing attack—a straight thrust to his shoulder.
But he deflected her blade, twisting his aside at the last second.
Without hesitation, she aimed for his wrist but he lifted his arm just in time to dodge her touch.
He sidestepped and countered with a flick to her exposed forearm, but she saw it coming and pulled back, evading him.
They circled each other until he lunged. His attack was quick, but her response was quicker. She eluded him, her blade sliding against his. She responded, going for his shoulder but he twisted just in time, deflecting her strike and stepping back.
After a moment’s pause, she made a move, aiming high for his shoulder, but then quickly changed course, striking low and going for his thigh.
He barely escaped, countering with a lightning-fast thrust to her wrist. But once again, she confounded him.
Pressing her advantage, she forced him back.
He took a swift glance over his shoulder to see he was not far from the wall.
When he met her gaze, she was smirking.
You think you’re going to put my back up against this wall.
He was close, and he could tell by that glint in her eye she knew it. He lowered his sword.
She placed the tip of her blade at his heart.
“What wouldst thou have me do with thee now?” she asked.
He hesitated, but just for a fraction of a moment. “I beg thee, show mercy. Let thy blow be true, and aim for my heart.”
Clearly startled by his response, she lowered her sword and seemed to forget the game they were playing. “Why did you say that? What do you mean by it?”
“A man who would say such a thing and reveal that much to a woman would never answer such a question.”
“Why? Because he’s afraid of what his answer would reveal about him?”
“Perhaps. Or maybe because he’d like to think he’d delivered the line to the right woman.”
“What does that mean? Who would qualify as the right woman?”
“A woman who understood what he meant. A woman who would require no further explanation.”
She stood so still he could almost imagine she wasn’t breathing. He tilted his head at the sword by her side. “Your blade, milady.”
As she lifted it, he tightened his hold on his, which rested against his thigh.
She lunged hard, but he sidestepped and swiftly raised his sword, twisting his blade just beneath hers, close to the wrist, and in a single, fluid motion flicked upward. Ceci lost her grip and the blade flew from her hand, spinning in the air before clattering to the floor.
He took a step toward her, slipping the flat of his blade under the strap of her nightgown.
She lifted her chin and met his gaze. “Now thou mayest claim thy prize.”
He said nothing, but only lowered his blade and stared back at her.
“And what would that be?” she asked.
“I thought you knew.”
She tilted one shoulder in a kind of half shrug. “Come on, then,” she said, taking a step forward.
She halted suddenly when he swiftly lifted his blade so that the tip was positioned just above the scooped neckline of her nightgown.
“Where do you think you’re going?” he asked.
“To … my … bedroom. Or do you prefer yours?”
When he remained silent, she smirked. “Isn’t that which you doth most desire, to lieth in my bed?”
Without taking his eyes off hers, he shook his head.
She blinked. He watched a blush bloom across her cheeks.
“Well, what then?” she asked.
He took a step forward, forcing her back. He did so again. And again. And again. Until her back met with the wall.
He lowered the blade, let go of it, and the rapier clattered to the floor.