Chapter Five #2
“So the two rulers decide there is no point fighting with huge armies if they can settle the thing with a duel,” Sarah continued, as though she had not noticed the impact her words were having on him. “And that’s where the fencing comes in. Do you see?”
Montague nodded, not trusting his voice. He did see. And if she truly had never read the Iliad—which felt impossible, but still—it made sense why she wanted to learn how to fight.
“But war isn’t like that,” he could not help but scoff, leaning against his cane. “Honor and chivalry and all that!”
It was her turn to scoff. “Well, what would you know? You’re a duke, aren’t you? You’ve probably never been in danger in your whole life!”
Montague froze. She did not know—he had not told her, and there had been minimal tittle-tattle when he had arrived at Oxford; he’d made sure of that.
So she did not know.
Despite himself, his gaze flickered to his leg. To the damned cane he was stuck with.
He saw Sarah’s gaze had followed his own. Her cheeks and décolletage were a blotchy red.
“I—I didn’t,” Sarah stammered, her voice faint. “When I said—I—”
“Let’s work on your stance,” Montague said harshly, turning away.
Only then did he close his eyes, just for a moment, and permit himself a moment of agony. Oh, God, this leg!
When he turned to face her, his expression was completely calm and she was still pink.
“Stance,” he barked.
Sarah immediately moved into position. To his great relief, she did not this time lift her skirts to ensure her feet were in the correct position. Not that he would have minded. That was the problem.
Montague tried to find some fault with her stance, but without seeing her feet, it was impossible. Oh, drat it.
“Right. Fine. Good. Lunging and retreating,” he said calmly. As calmly as he could.
Sarah raised an eyebrow. “I am not sure I like the sound of retreat.”
Montague could not help himself. “You don’t like to back down from a challenge?”
She twisted her fingers before her, but managed to hold his gaze. “N-No.”
Tendrils of desire were attempting to surround Montague’s heart, and for a moment, he let them. It was pleasant to look at Sarah, imagine what kissing her would be like. A bedding, perhaps. A wedding? Utterly out of the question.
But it was pleasant to look at her, feel her presence, allow his gaze to drift over her—
“Caelfall?”
Montague jerked as his attention, focused once more. Blast. “Retreat. Yes, it sounds negative, but I assure you, sometimes retreat is the best option.”
She did not look convinced.
“Sometimes, a retreat when you know you are already losing the advantage gives you the opportunity to…to regroup. You can launch forward with a better attack. The best attack.”
Sarah’s focus drifted before she turned on her heels and rushed away.
“Sarah!” Montague could not help it—her sudden absence was painful. She couldn’t leave.
But it appeared she had no intention of leaving. Instead, she pulled her pocketbook of hers from her reticule and was furiously writing something down.
Montague watched her, bemused. “What on earth are you doing?”
Not that he was complaining. As she leaned over, there was a remarkable view of—
“Writing what you said—launch forward with a better attack, that is most helpful,” said Sarah distractedly, her hand moving quickly. “I think I can use that in the second stanza—certainly the third.”
She was mesmerizing to watch. Montague had no idea what he looked like when he was fencing—at least, he thought, when he’d been fencing in his prime—but he wondered whether it was like this.
Complete focus. A passion that leapt to the fore, a determination to get it right.
Dear God, he had never thought of a woman’s intellectual pursuit as attractive, but Sarah was doing an excellent job at proving him wrong.
She straightened. “Sorry. You were saying something about lunging at me.”
Montague closed his eyes, threw a small prayer to heaven that he would not lose all self-control, then looked back.
“Lunging,” he said, voice croaking. “Yes. Watch me.”
It was easier to leave his words alone, seeing as they never appeared to do what he wanted in Sarah’s presence, and merely show her.
His leg protested, but Montague ignored it. The pain earthed him, grounded him from the delight he was finding in Sarah’s presence and focused him on what he should be thinking about. Fencing. France. Fu—
“Like this?”
Montague glanced at Sarah as she lunged forward.
“Almost—too much distance, and not enough balance remaining on your back foot,” he said, trying not to smile at the several feet she had launched herself in her enthusiasm. “Here, watch me—no twist of the right foot, do you see? Your other left.”
He had taught fencing to several gentlemen, yet none of them made his heart pound as they watched him. Montague tried not to think of the searing gaze she was undoubtedly casting in his direction as he lunged forward once, twice, and then attempted a third time but his leg quivered.
Halting swiftly, he turned. “See, you must—Sarah Lockwood!”
She had not been watching him.
It was a rather disconcerting thing to discover, when he had been delighting in her attention, that he’d not had it.
Instead, Sarah was hunched over her pocketbook. “I do apologize, I just need to—”
“Write it down,” chorused Montague with a frown. “You know, there is little point in being here if you’re just going to do that—why not learn the damn thing from a book?”
It was petulant, childish, and he could not believe those words had come from his mouth—but at the same time, it was difficult not to be hurt by her daydreaming.
Sarah glanced up. “You’re such a grump, you know that?”
Montague scowled. How dare she! No one had ever said such things to him before—he was a duke! He could be any way he liked!
She flushed at his dour expression. “You’re only proving my point.”
It was alarming to hear. Was he a grump? His temper had always been a little stern, and he was prone to moods when he did not get his own way—but surely everyone did.
“Do you want to practice fencing or not?” he said aloud, ignoring the “grump” comment as best he could.
Sarah straightened after placing the pocketbook on the bench. “I do.”
And for a while, it appeared she did. Montague was able to teach her the footwork for retreating, but just as she had almost got it—
“Oh!”
He knew what was coming. As Sarah rushed toward the pocketbook, Montague stepped into her path and she careened straight into his waiting arms.
“Caelfall!”
“I don’t want you going back to that pocketbook,” Montague growled, hating how easily he was overswept by desire as she squirmed in his arms. “Dammit, Sarah, stay still!”
“I won’t—let me go, I need to write—”
“No, you don’t!”
But it was impossible to hold her. Montague was no monster, even if he was experiencing some very inappropriate thoughts as she pressed up against him.
Sarah released herself and stepped around him, face flushed, to pick up her pocketbook. “All I have to do is write—give that back!”
Montague had lifted the pocketbook from her hands in one sweeping movement, raising it above her head with a smile he could not quell. “Come and get it.”
For a moment, she just stood in absolute shock—and then she laughed. “Caelfall, are you teasing me?”
“Maybe,” retorted Montague as darkly as he could manage while his heart leapt.
What on earth was he doing?
But this was instinctual, something sparking deep within him. Stepping back and holding the pocketbook above his head as Sarah grabbed for it, they both laughed as she missed, almost launching herself into his arms again.
Montague tried not to notice how wonderful this felt. Perhaps he was a grump, he thought wildly as Sarah laughed, reaching for her pocketbook. Perhaps instead he could—
“Caelfall!” Sarah attempted to reach her pocketbook and fell straight into his arms.
Montague did not think. He just acted. His lips were on hers in a moment.
It had only been a joke. At least, it had been intended to be a joke.
But the moment he kissed her, something overwhelmed him. A desire unlike anything he had ever known. She felt wonderful, curled in his arms, her lips warm and welcoming—sweet, like she had eaten strawberries. Her scent overpowered him, leaving Montague in her hands.
And she did not retreat. Montague groaned as Sarah not only accepted his kiss but deepened it, tilting her head to welcome him in.
Sparks of desire were rushing through him and they had the gymnasium for another half an hour. In that time, he could easily—
Montague stepped back, releasing both Sarah and her pocketbook, which she dropped.
Sarah stared, cheeks flushed, lips pink from the pressure of his kiss. “What was that for?”
It was almost impossible to think. “N-Nothing.”
He cringed at the stammer that escaped his lips. What was wrong with him?
Sarah swallowed. “That…that was nothing?”
Montague looked away, but his gaze was pulled inexorably back. He wanted to look. In truth, there was nothing else in the world he would rather look at.
“It…I…it mustn’t happen again,” he said impetuously.
“No, it mustn’t,” Sarah said quietly, gaze dropping to the floor. “We wouldn’t want to make a habit of it.”