Chapter Fifteen #2
And to a woman with no title, position, or prospects.
Montague swallowed. Oh, damnation.
“I do not suppose our practice will continue,” Sarah said softly, utterly unaware of the great personal revelation Montague was undergoing. “If your leg is so discomforted, I would hate for you to sustain greater injury.”
“Y-Yes,” he managed to stammer.
Dear God, man, is that all? Was that truly all he could manage in the instant he realized he was in love with Sarah Lockwood?
“What a shame,” said Sarah quietly. “I had hoped to—but never mind. Your recovery must come first.”
And for the first time, Montague discovered the greatest pitfall of falling in love and giving your heart to another. They could injure you.
Not on purpose—Sarah did not see her words as injurious to his spirit, but they were.
Was she only here for his fencing? After all they had shared, would she leave him once she had gained all the knowledge about the sport she required for her poem?
In that instant, words he had not taken in when she had spoken them returned to Montague’s mind.
“You know, eventually, I will have to stop taking lessons.”
A sick, twisting feeling overcame his stomach. Montague moved a hand to it unconsciously, as though that could end the disquiet. But only Sarah could relieve him from such agony.
He could not live without her.
“I-I fear I am too tired to partake in fencing today.” Montague had no idea how he managed to speak, but he did. “I am sorry.”
A flash of something in her eyes. “Don’t you dare apologize for an injury you sustained while protecting this country!”
And some, but not all, of his fears melted away. They could not stand before such a blaze, such a furious look. “If you say so.”
“I mean it, Montague,” Sarah said, her gaze fixed on his own. “Never apologize for serving. You served well.”
“I was injured.”
“In the line of duty!” she pointed out. “Just because you cannot prance about—”
“It’s not prancing, it’s—”
“Oh, you know what I mean,” said Sarah, waving away his words. “I am sure there is still plenty that you can teach me.”
Montague’s mind filled with images of a naked Sarah riding him to absolute ecstasy—
“There is?” he croaked.
If she thought he was up to that particular challenge, she was very much mistaken. At least, Montague thought wildly, if she really wanted…he could teach her a different—
“I meant, about swords—sorry, foils, or scabbards, or something like that,” Sarah said sternly, as though she had peeked into his mind and seen precisely what he’d been thinking. “The theory of the blade. The way it must be cleaned after running someone through—”
“Hang on there!” protested Montague with a dry laugh. “You cannot think I have experience in such matters!”
Sarah sighed as she rose from her haunches and sat beside him on the bench. “No, I suppose not. What a pity.”
He snorted. “What a pity I haven’t run someone through?”
She really was the most ridiculous woman he had ever—
Then Montague caught the teasing air in her expression, the repressed laughter making her shoulders shake. “You minx!”
“Forgotten about your leg?” she quipped.
He opened his mouth, hesitated, then the pain rushed back. “Yes. For a moment.”
“Good,” said Sarah matter-of-factly. “Now, I will go and get some swords—”
“Foils!” Really, if she could not learn that simple fact…
“Foils, then, whatever you want to call them,” said Sarah, though pink dots appeared on her cheeks. “And you can show me how to take care of them.”
Montague wanted to tell her there was nothing better he could do that afternoon than sit with her and talk about foils and scabbards and sharpening and all those things.
But he hesitated.
Just because he had no better offers…well, Sarah was a brilliant, beautiful, buxom young lady of the town.
Surely she had better opportunities to spend her hours.
Invitations to afternoon teas, or walks, or dinner parties, Montague thought, heart twisting.
Far from you. With gentlemen with the bravery to offer for her hand.
“You…you truly wish to stay?”
Montague hated how desperate his voice sounded, but he could not help it. It simply did not make sense.
Here he was, a grump—her own words, he thought glumly—with a leg that didn’t work and a disposition which could never be described as sunny. It was a glorious day; most of Oxford would be walking along the river or promenading in the Christ Church Meadows…
And she was here?
Sarah turned from the rack of foils, a look of surprise on her face. “Stay?”
Montague nodded.
Stay by my side forever, he wanted to say. Stay with me during the day, my constant companion, then join me in bed, my delight and my love. Be the person I rely on, be the woman I make smile. Stay. Stay with me.
“Well of course I’m going to stay,” Sarah said with surprise, as though the answer was so obvious she was surprised he had to ask. “There is nowhere else I would rather be.”
Elation soared through Montague’s heart. That such simple words could bring him joy—but then, it was Sarah. Anyone else, it would just have been words.
But from her, it felt like a promise.
Sarah dropped onto the bench and surprised him with a sudden kiss. “You want me here, don’t you?”
There it was, the tinge of uncertainty Montague had felt within himself. She is just as uncertain as you are, he told himself. You may be a duke, and one seeking danger…but what is wrong with staying, just for a time, in the comfort and safety of Sarah’s company?
He kissed her lightly on the shoulder. “Of course I want you.”
His cheeks burned at the slip of the tongue, but she looked delighted. “Excellent. So. How do you sharpen a—”
“Foil,” Montague cut in with a wry grin. “Here. Let me show you.”