Narcise’s thoughts had thus been divided as she vaulted over a low table, giving herself space to think and distance from her adversary. Now, she had her back to the dais where the onlookers sat, and though she could feel Cale’s gaze boring into her shoulders, she was in no danger of locking eyes with him.
A burst of anger flooded her, fueled by uncertainty, and that gave her the rush of speed and strength to duck beneath the other sword’s blade, spin around and take a slice out of her assailant’s arm.
He cried out again in fury, but she was faster than his tall, lanky body allowed him to be—and than his lust-fogged mind could follow—and she snagged a chair, whipping it back at him. The crash of wood into flesh and bone, then its clatter onto the floor, told her she’d hit her mark even blindly. She followed through by pivoting on her toes, spinning back to face him. And then she was there, lunging, and used her blade to pin the man through his shirt and arm to the table before he could recover.
The stake was in her hand a breath later, and she positioned it over his heaving chest. “Surrender,” she demanded.
He surrendered and she stepped back, removing her weapons carefully as she always did, and watched as he mopped his face with a sleeve. “Big-pussied bitch,” he said, his expression ugly. All lust had faded from his eyes.
“Cock-sucker,” she replied with calm and disdain to a common reaction. “No entertainment for you tonight.”
She watched as he limped toward the door, which had been opened by Cezar’s guards, and slammed the saber into her sheath. Then she drew in a deep breath and turned to wait for her own guards to take her to the solitude of her own chamber.
Hot, heavy eyes bored into her back, and she knew without any doubt that it was Giordan Cale who stared at her. She swallowed and realized her fingers were trembling, and that her body had begun to waver between hot and cold.
Three weeks ago, it had been. Three weeks, and not only had Cezar not punished her for feeding on Cale, but he hadn’t remarked on it at all. Very odd, and certainly disconcerting.
And though Cezar hadn’t seen fit to mention the incident that night, Narcise couldn’t banish it from her thoughts and dreams. Even now, she felt her veins pulsing and surging with desire and unfinished need.
She became dimly aware of voices behind her, voices from the dais, and the low rumble that she recognized as Cale’s…followed by a short laugh and then affirmation from Cezar.
“Narcise,” her brother said peremptorily.
She had no choice but to turn and face the audience. A quick scan identified three pairs of male eyes, filled with lust and determination—likely future opponents—and her brother’s bemused expression. Cale… He had stood and was moving toward her.
“What do you wish to say?” she replied just as shortly. Don’t look at him.
“Monsieur Cale has expressed disappointment that he missed most of this evening’s entertainment. And he has made a special request.”
All at once, her body went cold, her stomach plummeting. Cale had a sword in his hand and he was examining the blade.
“He wishes to participate in a bout of entertainment himself.”
A flash of light clouded her vision, then receded. Two battles in one evening? Despite the fact that she’d been over-matched for her previous opponent didn’t mean that she could win against a second one in the same night.
Particularly against the broad-shouldered man stripping off his coat in front of her.
Cale didn’t spare her a glance as he tossed it to the table, and commenced with unbuttoning his waistcoat. He flung that aside as well, then unfastened his cuffs and rolled his sleeves up to the elbows.
As she watched with rising trepidation, he glanced toward her bare feet and then pulled off his own buckled, heeled shoes…and then the stockings that went up to his knee breeches. Narcise glanced at his bare, muscular calves, then tore her eyes away.
She was to fight him?
And if he won, he would drag her off to The Chamber.
A knot in the pit of her stomach grew tighter and heavier. I cannot let him win.
“I wish to change weapons,” she announced. A double-sided broadsword would be heavier, but it would give her that much more of an advantage.
“I was just about to suggest the same,” Cale said, speaking to her for the first time.
She couldn’t help but look at him, and to her dismay, the heat was gone from his eyes to be replaced by cool determination. Her belly pitched sharply, for she would have preferred to see an emotion she could use against him. Like lust or desire.
“I propose a stake only for each of us, mademoiselle. You might remove the one from your hair, and also from the sleeve of your tunic, and choose only one of them.”
Narcise hid her consternation at the prospect of fighting in such close quarters, hand to hand. She was lighter, she told herself. Lithe and quick.
But then again…this was a man who’d somersaulted from a rooftop four stories down, merely for the entertainment of his friends. Or so she’d heard.
“If you suggest stakes, that implies a conflict to the death,” she said, keeping her eyes cool. “You are a brave man, Monsieur Cale, for you are no stranger to my abilities.”
The room was so quiet the only sound was the heartbeat in her ears and the crackle and snap in the fireplace on the dais.
“If that is what you wish, mademoiselle, by all means I am agreeable.” There was a flicker in his eyes, something almost soft, and then it was gone. “You,” he said, commanding one of Cezar’s servants as if he were his own. “A handkerchief or scarf.”
“What, will you fight blindfolded?” crowed one of the audience. “What a sight that will be.”
“No, I do not think that is what Cale has in his mind,” lisped Cezar, delight in his voice. “He means for their hands to be bound together. Narcise.”
This last was his order, and at first she simply couldn’t make herself move. They meant to tie their wrists together so that neither could retreat. Or leap or lunge.
She had no breath. Her mind turned blank and fear took over. Already, she could feel his body on top of hers, his hands tearing at her clothes, his mouth and fangs on her.
How badly she’d misjudged him.
That interlude at his place, when he’d been more than a gentleman, more kind and unassuming than she’d ever experienced…had been a lie.
He really was like the others: blinded by lust, fueled by bravado.
Narcise moved numbly toward Cale, raising her right arm—for she was left-handed in battle. They faced each other, and his strong, bare fingers curled around her hand as if they meant to arm wrestle. The feel of his hand cupping hers reminded Narcise of the intimate moment when their fingers had intertwined so that she could feed on his open wrist. The servant wrapped the scarf around their hands, binding them firmly, and she noted with apprehension that his arm was nearly twice as wide as hers.
Warmth flowed from his skin into hers, and she felt the slamming of a pulse where the delicate skin of their wrists met. Whether the beating was hers or his, she wasn’t certain. But she was fully aware of his smoky, rich scent, and the size of his long, bare feet only inches from her own.
She couldn’t look at him, instead focusing her eyes over his shoulder as they prepared to face each other.
“Begin,” cried Cezar, and so it was.
At first, they minced in a maudlin circle, as far apart as their bonds would allow, delicate and arrhythmic as one attempted to read the other’s strengths, strategy and steps. After one quick glance, she avoided his eyes, instead watching the rest of his body. Then Cale lunged, and she danced out of the way with ease.
But Narcise wasn’t fooled; she knew he hadn’t moved as quickly or sharply as he was capable. He was testing her, to see how tired she was from her first contest.