Chapter Six #2
But seeing him like this, it was hopeless to deny her attraction. He was a powerful man, not just thanks to his birth, but his efforts.
Sarah’s breath caught in her throat as sunshine glinted off the blade and her gaze was drawn to his arms.
Montague had at some point divested himself of his jacket and waistcoat, rolling up his linen sleeves. She could see the strength of his arms, the impressive power in his forearms, and it made the same heat she had felt when he had kissed her rush through her again.
She was not gawping at a gentleman, Sarah tried to tell herself. She was learning.
Learning what it was in particular she liked about—
“Christ alive!”
Montague had launched himself forward as though completely forgetting his injury and had immediately crumpled to the ground.
“Damn and blast it!” His hands clutched at his leg, the sword left to fall on the lawn, and his anguished cry rang out around the quad.
Sarah stepped forward instinctively—but then hesitated and crept behind the pillar.
There was still so much she did not know about Montague, but of this she was sure. He would not want anyone to see him in this position.
He had pride she would have expected from anyone with a title, but in him it went deeper. Right to the core of him, from what she could tell. Permitting a woman…anyone to see him helpless and in pain on the ground was, she was certain, quite opposite to his wishes.
Sarah bit her lip, then leaned around the column. She could not just leave him there.
Montague was breathing heavily, panting in obvious pain as his hand reached out for his cane. It was just out of reach.
He swore again, very loudly this time.
Sarah swallowed. The college was almost empty. All the students had returned home for the summer and there were very few dons around, from what she could tell. There was no knowing how long it would take for someone else to come across him.
That meant…
She took a deep breath as she stepped around the column. He was not going to like this one single bit, but she could not leave him there. It was not as though she was rescuing him. Not really.
Montague’s head jerked up the moment she stepped onto the lawn. She hated the way his cheeks flushed. “You.”
“Good afternoon,” Sarah said quietly.
It took but a moment to reach his cane. As she stooped, she caught from the corner of her eye the vehement anger in his face.
When she straightened, it had gone. But she knew what she had seen.
“You can give that to me then clear off,” Montague snapped.
Sarah hesitated. She had intended to hand it to him, receive his gratitude, then leave.
But there was something about the way he spoke that made her halt. There was no need for him to speak like that to her…and more, she did not want him to. She wanted him to speak to her like…like he had when he had held her pocketbook over his head.
She swallowed. “If…if you are in pain, you can say.”
Her words had been spoken quietly, but she may as well have shouted them by the way Montague reacted.
He flinched, as though she had moved to attack him with the cane rather than merely hold it in her hands. “No.”
“No, you are not in pain?” asked Sarah quietly. “Or no, you will not admit it?”
Their eyes met and heat rushed through her. There was no one like this man for gruffness, yet she could see the soft warmth underneath. She could see pain, agony, his desire to be free of the encumbrance of his cane.
Why couldn’t he just say it?
Montague appeared to know what she was thinking. A wry smile crept over his face as he sat looking at her. “I’ve…I’ve never admitted I was in pain before.”
Compassion twisted in Sarah’s chest. Of course he hadn’t. He was a duke, had never had to admit such frailty before, she could see.
But if he could do that with her…well, that would mean something. Something she certainly should not pin any hopes on, but still.
Montague sighed heavily. “You’re going to make me say it, aren’t you?”
A smile quirked Sarah’s mouth. “I don’t think I can make you do anything, Montague.”
Perhaps it was saying his name that did it. Sarah wasn’t sure, but something passed in the air between them. Though they were only a few feet apart, she suddenly felt more close to him, more understanding of his desires and wishes than before.
Their gazes met and Sarah’s mouth went dry. The way he looked at her…as though she were the only woman in the world. As though he could easily kiss her again and more, if she would just let him…
“There’s only you and me here,” she pointed out quietly, desperately leaning into the strange moment they were sharing. “You can admit it to me.”
A shiver of something she did not recognize rushed through her. This was…intimate. Far more intimate than she could ever have imagined with a gentleman, let alone a duke.
Montague brought that out of her. Or she brought it out of him; it was impossible to tell.
The compassion that twisted in her heart, however, was not the only emotion there.
The memory of that kiss overwhelmed Sarah for a moment and she tried to push it aside. She was not going to lose herself in the eyes of a duke, she told herself. Even if he kissed like a rake. Or what she presumed a rake kissed like.
Montague swallowed. “I am in pain.”
Something changed between them. Sarah would not have been able to place it, would have struggled to put it in her poem…but there was something. A grudging respect, perhaps. A desire not only to be close, but to be open. Vulnerable.
And then the moment was gone. Montague reached for his cane, and she placed it in his hand.
“There,” said Sarah matter-of-factly as her head spun. “That wasn’t too hard, was it?”
Montague glowered as he rose. She had almost reached out to help him, but was unsure what would happen if she took his hand right now. The feeling of his skin on hers—
“Well, I won’t be practicing lunges anytime soon,” he said darkly.
“All the more reason to watch me—instruct me, I mean.”
A flush threatened to tinge her cheeks. Why, Sarah wondered furiously, did she like the idea of him watching her? Did he perhaps gain as much pleasure as when she watched him?
Turning away in the hope her embarrassment would lessen, she tried to focus on her footwork. First, stance. She lowered herself slightly, her knees flexing as she moved her feet into position. Then—
“Now that is what I call a lunge,” came Montague’s voice.
He evidently had no wish to praise her but could not help it. Sarah almost laughed at the way his frown deepened as she lunged again.
“Admit it, you are impressed.”
“I will be impressed when you can do this with a foil in your hands,” came the gruff reply. “And retreat?”
Sarah swallowed. She had never wished to retreat less in her life. Still, she obeyed.
Montague nodded grudgingly. “You have been practicing.”
Flicking back her hand in an attempt to push back some of her hair, which had escaped her pins, Sarah nodded. “Believe it or not, it is quite hard to practice at home. My bedchamber is simply not large enough, and when my mother caught me in the drawing—arrgh!”
It was not, Sarah thought later, the most dignified thing to say—but then, there was little choice when one tripped over one’s own skirts and landed in a heap.
“Ouch,” muttered Sarah, wincing at the throbbing pain of her behind. “That hurt.”
Montague’s face appeared above her, looking far too pleased. “If…if you are in pain, you can say.”
She could not help but laugh. “Why should I? Why can’t I be as taciturn and stubborn as you?”
His eyebrow rose, eyes still dancing with laughter. “There’s only you and me here,” he teased, repeating her own words. “You can admit it to me.”
Sarah rolled her eyes as she stuck up a hand. “Just help me, Montague.”
His name had once again slipped from her lips before she could stop it, and she had no time to apologize. Montague’s hand had grasped hers, his touch searing. Her stomach swooped delightfully as he pulled her upright.
For some reason, Sarah found herself breathless. “Th-Thank you.”
Montague hesitated for a moment as though he was going to say something. Something important.
And then he gave a dry laugh. “Retreat.”
Sarah blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“You’ve practiced your lunges, now retreat,” Montague said, stepping away.
She smiled weakly. “Oh yes. Fencing.”