Where Passion Leads (Berkeley-Faulkner #1)(120)

“You will not need to use it long. I’ll cut you down before you know what has happened,” Rotherham said, his onyx eyes piercing. “After twenty years I will not lose her again. She was intended for me.”

“My God, are you well in the head?” Rand inquired, the course of his blood increasing with rage. “What delusions do you suffer from?”

“You don’t know a thing, you insolent pup.” Rotherham sneered. “She understands well enough, although you don’t.”

“Understands what?”

“That she rightfully belongs to me. She will pay for being the same whore that her mother was—”

“Your conversation is tiresome,” Rand interrupted with a snarl. “As well as irrational.”

They lifted the heavy weapons in salute, the briefness of the gesture a studied insult on both parts. Rosalie held her breath as the engagement began, the sabers clashing edge to edge. They fought with cutting strokes and strangely swift attacks launched immediately after the parry. It was a type of swordplay different from anything she had ever seen before, for the mock battles staged in the plays she had attended were conducted with the light scratching, maneuvering, and delicate offense of the foil. There was nothing light or delicate about the real-life duel she watched so intently: it was direct, simple, and acute.

Rand discovered immediately after the fight had begun that his opponent was well-experienced at saber fencing, and he field Rotherham at a distance while sizing up the situation. Rotherham guarded all of his lines well, his technique strong and his lunge impressive. They were both tall men, which made agility essentia! in defending against each other’s long reach. Rotherham’s advantage was experience. He had obviously practiced the saber riposte until it was second nature, able to deliver an instantaneous reply to each attack. Rand had to rely not on practice but on instinct, forcing himself to subdue his emotions and concentrate on trusting his own reflexes.

All of his recent fencing experience with Guillaume now became a disadvantage—dueling with foils was a different art from sabers. This was quickly apparent as he engaged Rotherham in quarte, a technique which Rand had used so successfully in besting Guillaume. It was not well-suited to the saber. The blade of Rotherham’s weapon bit into his unprotected arm, causing Rand to inhale sharply with pain. Any more damage done to his forearm and he would become disabled. “Competent?” Rotherham sneered. “That you are, but nothing more.”

Rosalie sat down abruptly on the stairs as she saw the scarlet blossom on Rand’s white shirt sleeve, her legs unable to support the rest of her body. The blades flashed like streaks of lightning, swinging through the air and meeting with sharp, whipping sounds. Rand’s concentration became complete as the engagement wore on. He forgot about his arm, his anger, everything but the mathematical precision of the strokes of the sabers. Feint. Parry, riposte. Low tierce to protect the flank. Low quarte to protect the stomach. The attacks became faster, the fight quickening until the only defense was to redouble the attacks.

It seemed to Rosalie that they fought for hours. She saw every detail of what was happening as if it had been slowed to a snail’s pace, yet there was nothing she could do to help Rand. She could only watch, her hands clenched around the stair railing until her knuckles were white from the pressure. Her life was suspended on the outcome of the duel, just as Rand’s was. After two feints and tierce yet again, Rand inter rupted Rotherham’s attack with a single lunge. The saber sank deeply through Rotherham’s flesh, ending his life with startling promptness. He dropped to the floor without a sound, his body thudding gently onto the flat surface.

Slowly Rosalie stood up and went to the doorway, stopping a foot away from Rand. His thick lashes lowered as he looked away from her and dropped the saber. His chest rose and fell rapidly, his body retaining the tensed, charged energy of the fight. Then silently he stared at her, his face expressionless as he sought for some word, some action that would help to banish the icy control he had built around himself. Intuitively Rosalie pressed her body against his rigid muscles, curving to him and sliding her arms around his waist. “I love you,” she murmured, clinging to him. “I knew you would find me . . . Oh, your arm, Rand . . .” As her warmth and soft whisperings gradually slipped under his guard, Rand wrapped his arms around her, burying his face in her hair. A faint, incoherent sound left his throat and he pulled her tighter.

He was whole again.

Rosalie stirred in her husband’s arms, her skin pinkened with pleasure, her eyes half-closed with feline contentment. For the first time they had made love as husband and wife, and although the experience was as lusty and breathtaking as ever, a new element had been added. Now they were joined by God and ceremony as well as love, and henceforth the world would never look upon either of them as a single entity. She was sorry that Amille would never know this particular kind of completeness with Baron Winthrop, yet in spite of that, Amille seemed to be happier than Rosalie had ever known her to be. The two women had spent a long time together the day before, talking about all that had happened and recognizing that although they were not related by blood, they were nevertheless mother and daughter. Smiling in contentment, Rosalie turned her attention back to Rand.

“Maman once told me that a woman’s duty was to give man pleasure,” Rosalie said, her silken legs en twined with his pleasantly rough ones. “But she never told me that he returned the obligation.”