Page 57 of To Love A Spy
A spinning parry brought them close together. So close she could inhale the intimate scent of sandalwood and sweat. So close she could see the smooth-shaven texture of his jaw and light dusting of tawny strands at the V of his shirt. The rapidfire rise and fall of his chest.
Valencia hesitated for a fraction of a second, tempted to reach out and run her fingers beneath the light linen. The contrasting textures—damp skin, coarse curls, smooth muscle—was awfully alluring . . .
“Touché.”
She dropped her arm with a muttered oath.
Lynsley fixed her with a penetrating look before commenting, “You lost your focus for an instant.”
“As I said, I’m out of practice. The isle of Sark is not exactly teeming with skilled swordsmen.” Looking for the excuse to turn away from his scrutiny, Valencia went to towel off her face. “My timing is off.”
“You are still a formidable opponent.”
Ha.Not against him.
Heaving a harried sigh, Valencia pulled the ribbon from her hair and shook out the tight plait, letting the dampened curls spill over her shoulders. “The Academy did not train us to be timid little sparrows. My feathers may be a bit dented, but on occasion I can still fly.”
A sidelong look showed the marquess was watching her intently. His expression was inscrutable, as always. Yet strangely enough the smooth muscle of his jaw betrayed a tiny tic.
For some reason, she felt compelled to loosen the lacings of her shirt, letting it fall open to the swell of her bosom. Fanning her cheeks, she lifted her chin to catch the breeze. “Lud, it feels good to work up a sweat.”
Lynsley was still staring.
That he found the view of interest touched off an even more erratic beat of her heart. It always seemed that he looked at her and saw only a hoyden hellion rather than a female of any grace or charm.
Not that she could blame him. Compared to the belles of the Mayfair ballrooms . . .
His mouth slowly curled up at the corners. “A lady does not sweat, she only beads with moisture.”
Valencia cut a last flourish with her sword, then set a hand on her hip. “But we both know I’m no lady, Thomas.”
Lynsley didn’t respond, save to set his sword down on the stone wall. Turning, he took hold of her blade and slid his hand up to the hilt. She let her fingers fall away.
“Have you kept up your practice with a pistol?” he inquired.
It was strange how he always changed the subject when things got too personal.
“Yes, my aim is still bang on the mark,” she answered evenly, though she longed to shake him or slap him—anything to remove that look of cool composure from his face. “Running and riding present more of challenge these days. But I manage.”
“I imagine you do.” With painstaking precision, he began rewrapping the foils in the canvas.
Though he had moved only a few steps away, Valencia sensed him distancing himself to a remote retreat.Lord Lynsley’s Lair.
Wherever that may be.
She gritted her teeth on seeing the change. In the blink of an eye, the marquess had transformed from a sweating, virile, vibrant man back to the stone sphinx. The quizzing teacher, ever tolerant of an unruly student.
She felt like stamping her foot in frustration. Or aiming a hard kick at his arse.
But before her temper could get the better of her, Lynsley drew out a knife from the hamper. “I trust your skills are still sharp with this weapon,” he said. “In the confines of a city, we may be called on to use it.”
She nodded.
He tossed her the weapon. “I’ve blunted the blade, so let us run through a few of the basic drills. Practice makes perfect.”
After several attempts to get through his guard, Valencia stepped back and conceded defeat. “I thought I was good, but you are a master of hand-to hand combat.” Indeed, he had deflected her attacks with maddening ease. After wiping her brow, she passed the weapon back to him. “I’m curious—how many men have you killed?”
“More than one,” he replied tersely.
