When Strangers Marry (Vallerands #1)(66)

Drawing back slightly, Max cradled her cheeks in his hand. His gaze was dark and tender. “This is one of the advantages of having a young wife,” he said with a sudden grin. “You obviously don’t know enough to dissuade me.”

“There are other advantages of having a young wife.” Busily she tugged the hem of his shirt from his breeches.

“Show me,” he said softly, and she did.

———

It did not seem too much to ask that the Vallerand family be granted some peace for a while, but apparently that was not possible. The trouble was started unintentionally by Philippe, who was on his way to a fencing lesson.

As Philippe dismounted his horse and walked to the establishment of the fencing master Navarre, he was only half aware of the sound of voices nearby. As usual, his blue eyes were fixed on the ground, his thoughts far removed from the practical day-to-day routine of living. As Justin so often mockingly pointed out, Philippe was a dreamer, not a realist.

Suddenly Philippe was jolted out of his imaginings when a hard shoulder slammed into his, knocking him off balance. Staggering back a few steps, he looked up in bewilderment. He faced a group of three boys who had just finished their fencing session with Navarre. Excited by their exertions, filled with vigor, they were clearly spoiling for a fight. The bump had been no accident. The leader of the group, Louis Picotte, had clashed with Justin before— it was well known that they hated each other.

Philippe, however, had no quarrel with anyone, and he preferred to keep it that way. He apologized instantly, something his brother would never have done. “Pardonnez-moi— I was not looking.”

“It would be a Vallerand, of course,” Louis sneered. He was a large, husky boy, with a shock of white-blond hair. “They think they own every street in town.”

Philippe felt his heart sink. “I am late,” he muttered, taking a few steps away, but the three blocked his path.

“Your apology wasn’t good enough,” Louis said, a smirk appearing on his lips.

Philippe raised troubled blue eyes to his. “I’m sorry for bumping into you. Now let me pass.”

Louis pointed to the ground, smiling nastily. “Get on your knees and say it.”

Philippe flushed, wanting to turn and run, but knowing that if he did, Louis would torment him forever. Looking from one face to another, Philippe saw nothing but hatred, the kind of hatred he and Justin had come to expect after years of being known as the sons of Maximilien Vallerand.

“I won’t,” he said, staring steadily at Louis.

“Then let’s take the matter somewhere private,” Louis said, jerking his thumb in the direction of a small lot where hasty duels were sometimes conducted. It was concealed by trees and buildings, and they would not be seen by passersby. His hand settled on the hilt of the sword at his waist.

Startled, Philippe realized the boy wanted something more than mere fisticuffs. Philippe had resigned himself to being bruised and beaten. After all, Justin had survived it often enough. But swords— it was too dangerous. “No,” he said, and nodded in the direction of the fencing master’s place. “We’ll settle it there.” The master often supervised such bouts between his students. Navarre had forbidden them to settle their disputes outside of the school, unless it was with mere fists, not swords.

“Are you afraid?” Louis demanded.

“No, I just—”

“You are. It’s what everyone says. You’re a coward. If I were you, I wouldn’t be so proud of your dirty Vallerand name.” Louis spat on the ground. “Your father is a murderer, your brother is a blustering bully… and you are a little coward.”

Philippe quivered with sudden rage.

“Ah, look at him tremble,” Louis jeered. “Look at him—” Suddenly he stopped, wincing as he felt a tiny, sharp blow to the back of his head. He clasped the spot and swung around. “What—” Another thud, this time on his chest. Louis stared in disbelief at the sight of Justin, who was lounging behind them and calmly aiming pebbles at him. Justin intently examined a small stone pinched between his thumb and forefinger. “What is it I heard him say, Philippe?”

Philippe gulped with relief and apprehension. “Nothing. Justin, we’re late for—”

“I thought I heard him call you a coward.” Justin dropped the stone to the ground and selected another from the handful he held. “We know that isn’t true. And I also thought I heard him say I was a bully. I don’t agree with that, either.”

“Don’t forget,” Louis sneered, “I also said your father was a murderer.”

Abruptly the handful of pebbles was released to scatter at Louis’s feet. Justin smiled, his blue eyes so dark they were almost black. “Philippe, give me your sword.”

“No,” Philippe said, striding rapidly to his brother. “Justin, not with swords.” They understood each other’s thoughts clearly. “It should be me,” Philippe told him.

“He doesn’t want to fight you,” Justin said. “He went after you in order to get me.”

“Not with swords,” Philippe repeated.

Louis called to them tauntingly, “Are you going to let your brother make a coward of you, too, Justin?”

Justin drew in his breath angrily. His eyes met Philippe’s, and he vowed, “I’ll carve him to pieces before he has time to blink!”