Because You're Mine (Capital Theatre #2)(5)

The other man replied in the most distinctive voice Madeline had ever heard—dark, deep, worldly…the voice of a fallen angel. “What I want, Stephen, is for you to put some fire into your performance. Your intention, if I'm not mistaken, is to kill the man who nearly seduced your fiancée. Instead you're handling that foil like an old woman with a knitting needle.”

Madeline stared at him, riveted. Logan Scott was taller than she had expected, more charismatic, more…everything. His rangy, muscular body was clad in a simple white shirt that was open at the throat and a pair of dark trousers that closely followed his lean h*ps and long legs. The print Madeline had seen hadn't begun to do justice to him…the color of his hair, dark brown touched with fire; the sardonic curve of his wide mouth; the rosewood hue of his skin.

Somehow his polished appearance was tempered by a hint of brutality…the sense that the princely facade could disappear at any moment and reveal a man who was capable of almost anything. Madeline blinked uneasily. She had expected Scott to be something of a rakish dandy, a charming skirt-chaser, but there was nothing light-hearted or dandified about him.

The blond actor protested. “Mr. Scott, I'm afraid that if I don't hold back during that last bit of choreography, you won't have time to parry—”

“You won't get through my guard,” Scott said with stunning self-assurance. “Give it everything you've got, Stephen—or I'll cast someone who will.”

Stephen's mouth tightened. It was clear that Scott's barb had found its mark. “All right, then.” He raised his foil and lunged, evidently hoping to catch Scott off-guard.

Responding with a short laugh, Scott parried expertly, and the foils scissored and clashed as the two men moved in a lightning-swift exchange. “More, Stephen,” Scott said, his breath quickening from exertion. “Haven't you ever lost a woman before? Wanted to kill someone for it?”

The other actor's temper seemed to flare, as Scott clearly intended. “Yes, damn you!”

“Then show me.”

Stephen exploded in a flurry of movement, his face intent beneath a veil of sweat. Scott praised his efforts with a few terse words, retreating and moving forward with his own volley of feints and thrusts. Madeline wouldn't have expected a large man to move with such grace. The sight of Scott literally took her breath away. He was powerful, commanding, and chillingly self-controlled. Fascinated by the intense battle, Madeline drew closer for a better view.

With a shock of dismay, she felt her foot catch on the valise she had set on the floor, and she fell against a small table piled with props. A candelabra, a few pieces of china, and an extra foil dropped to the floor, shattering and clanging noisily. The actors' concentration splintered, and Logan Scott's head whipped around toward the right wing. At the same time, Steven lunged forward with his foil, unable to halt his momentum.

Scott gave a muffled grunt, and his taut rump met the hard floor, his large hand clasped to the opposite shoulder. The ensuing silence was disturbed only by the actors' rapid breathing.

“What the hell…,” Stephen murmured, staring into the shadows of the wing, where Madeline struggled to her feet. He glanced back at Scott, who wore a strange expression.

“Stephen?” Scott said, his voice slightly raspy, “it appears that the tip came off your foil.” As he spoke, a rush of scarlet spread between his fingers and over his shirt.

“My God!” Stephen exclaimed, his face blanching with horror. “I didn't know…I didn't mean to—”

“It's all right,” Scott replied. “It was an accident. Your performance was exactly what I wanted. Do it that way every time.”

Stephen stared at him incredulously. “Mr. Scott,” he quavered, seeming torn between despair and laughter, “how can you sit there directing me while you're bleeding all over the floor? At times I wonder if you're human.” He tore his panicked gaze from the spreading bloodstain on Scott's white shirt. “Don't move. I'll get someone to help…send for a doctor…”

“There's no need for a damned sawbones,” Scott called tersely, but Stephen had already fled the stage. Muttering beneath his breath, Scott tried to lurch to his feet and fell heavily again onto the floor, his face whitening.

Madeline threw off her cloak and snatched at her woolen scarf. “Here,” she said, rushing out of the wing and dropping to her knees beside him. She wadded up the scarf and clasped it hard against his shoulder. “This will help stop the bleeding.”

Scott inhaled sharply at the painful pressure.

Their faces were very close, and Madeline found herself staring into the bluest eyes she had ever seen, shadowed with thick dark lashes. The irises were lined with sapphire and seemed to contain every shade of blue, from the darkest depths of the ocean to the palest midwinter sky.

Madeline discovered that she was oddly short of breath. “I'm sorry about…,” she paused and cast a sheepish glance over her shoulder at the pile of broken stage props, “…all that. It was an accident. I'm not at all clumsy, not usually, but I was watching the rehearsal from the wing, and I tripped—”

“Who are you?” he interrupted coldly.

“Madeline Ridley,” she replied, using her grandmother's maiden name.

“What are you doing here, aside from disrupting my rehearsal?”