When Strangers Marry (Vallerands #1)(67)

“He has practiced today, and you haven’t,” Philippe said, abandoning moral arguments in favor of practical ones. “He’ll be far more limber than you, Justin.”

Louis interrupted them impatiently. “Let’s get on with it, Justin.”

“Philippe,” Justin growled, “give the damn thing to me!”

“Not unless you promise to stop at first blood.”

“I can’t—”

“Promise!”

They glared at each other, and then Justin nodded. “Damn you, all right.” He reached for the sword. Turning pale, Philippe gave it to him.

The small group made its way to the lot. By tacit consent, they were furtive and quiet, knowing the duel would be forbidden if anyone else learned of it. Boys their age did not usually settle their differences in such a manner— it would not be appropriate for another two years or so.

Keeping to the rules they had learned at Navarre’s, seconds were appointed. Louis removed his coat slowly, glancing over his shoulder at the twins. Philippe was standing with his fists clenched, his tense posture revealing his anxiety. Justin was waiting with unnatural patience.

Louis almost began to regret challenging the Vallerands. Philippe’s gaze had been mild and frightened, but Justin’s hard blue eyes promised far more to contend with. Justin’s swordsmanship was also quite good, Louis reflected, almost equal to his own. He had watched Justin practice at Navarre’s, and as the fencing master said, Justin would be superb but for a lack of discipline. Walking forward until they were separated by only a few feet, Louis assumed the proper stance.

The group was quiet as they saluted each other and began the match with a click of steel against steel. They tried a few elementary combinations, each searching out what he needed to know in order to best his opponent. Double feint, lunge, parry, followed by a quick riposte. Both moved with fine coordination and equal skill. One of Louis’s companions couldn’t help murmuring to the other that he wished Navarre could see this. It was an impressive exchange.

Then the contest began in earnest, and the balance tipped. Louis sweated profusely as he tried to maintain his concentration. Justin fought with a cold, technical aggression that he had never displayed at school. Philippe was the only one who understood the reckless edge that made his brother so proficient. Justin did not care what happened to himself, and the more time went by, the less anything mattered to him. He was not afraid of pain or solitude, perhaps not even of dying… and that frightened Philippe.

Louis jerked back in surprise as he felt the point of Justin’s sword touch his shoulder. In disbelief he looked down at the dot of blood on his shirt. Exclamations broke from the boys, and Philippe rushed over to Louis’s second.

“Honor is satisfied,” Philippe said breathlessly, wiping at the sweat dotted on his forehead.

Louis felt sick with humiliation. He saw Justin through a haze of fury, sickened at the thought that such a minor mistake, one tiny opening of his guard, had led to defeat. His friends would snicker. Even more enraging was Justin’s surprising quietness. Louis would have expected a Vallerand to gloat. Instead Justin wore a serious expression as he watched the seconds confer… and for some reason, that seemed more contemptuous to Louis than open ridicule.

“It’s over,” Philippe said, making no effort to suppress the gladness in his voice. He smiled slightly as he saw the relief in Justin’s eyes.

“It’s not over!” Louis snarled, but they paid him no attention.

Justin started toward Philippe, intending to give back the sword, then stopped as he saw the flash of horror on his brother’s face.

“No!” was all Philippe had time to cry before Justin turned swiftly and saw Louis lunging at him.

Startled, Justin felt a flare of heat in his side, looked down, and saw the thin blade of steel withdraw. There was a glow of pain. Awkwardly he fell to his knees, staring dumbly at the blossoming stain on his shirt. He pressed his hand to the crimson smear and collapsed to the ground as his head swam. Breathing hard, he caught the salty, rich scent of his own blood, and he clutched harder at his waist.

“Oh, Justin,” Philippe gasped, falling beside him. “Oh, Justin.”

Louis was slow to realize what he had done. His friends were staring at him with amazement and disgust. “I didn’t mean…” Louis began, and his voice trailed off into ashamed silence. He had done something too dishonorable, too unmanly, for words. Backing away, he turned and fled.

Justin stirred at the sound of Philippe’s anxious entreaties, and his dazed blue eyes opened. He turned his face away from the cool grass and looked up at his brother, managing to find his old tone of annoyance. “It’s only a scratch.”

Philippe gave a choking laugh. “You’re bleeding, Justin.”

“Where is Louis… the sneaky, goddamned, cowardly bastard!”

“He’s gone,” Philippe said, some of his initial fright dissolving. “I think he was as surprised as the rest of us.”

Justin struggled clumsily to get up. “Surprised? I’ll kill him! I’ll—” He broke off and gasped, his side aching. Under his fingers there was a new surge of hot fluid.

“Stop!” Philippe cried, catching him behind the shoulders. “The blood… we need a doctor… I’ll leave you for just a minute and—”