Page 7 of Devil at the Gates
“You didn’t… I…” she panted, breathing through the pain. “The coach overturned, as I said…and my shoulder took the brunt of the fall.” Why she felt the need to explain herself she wasn’t sure.
He continued to stare at her. “Why don’t you come upstairs, and I’ll have a look at you.” He spoke so softly that she was tempted for a moment to trust him, this man who until today she’d known only by his terrifying, legendary reputation. His focus was still on her arm, and that need to trust him, to trust someone, started to grow. Until his eyes rose to hers and she saw the desire in his gaze. And then her father’s advice to never let her guard down resurfaced.
She couldn’t trust him to play the gentleman for long. The man was a devil. It was clear in his face what he desired from her.
“If you try to remove me from this room, I demand an attempt to defend myself with honor.” She raised her chin and stared at him defiantly with every bit of her remaining strength.
“So…you will not submit to me if I decide to ravage you?” He seemed strangely amused at the indignation in her tone, and his own voice sounded like he was teasing, but no decent man would tease a lady about such a thing. He leaned down toward her, placing one hand on the settee and the other on her good shoulder, pinning her in place.
“Of course not! You have no right to touch me!” She struggled, trying to loosen his hold on her shoulder, but he kept her still with apparent ease. Rather than giving in to her own fear, she embraced her anger. She was a petite woman, but she was not weak. She’d become an expert on evasion around her stepfather, but there was no evasion possible in this moment. She would have to use her wits as a weapon until she was able to get her hands on something else she could wield.
“No right? My dear Miss Russell, rights have nothing to do with this. You have trespassed into my domain. My rules govern here, no one else’s.” He abruptly bent to press his lips against hers in a harsh kiss. The sudden sensation overwhelmed her for a moment—the heat of his mouth, the taste of his lips, and his warm breath that made her body stir to life. A moment later, reality crashed back in on her as she felt the gentle scrape of his teeth on her lower lip. Seizing the opportunity, Harriet bit his lip, drawing blood. He jerked back with a snarl. She braced for a blow, but it never came. He released her uninjured shoulder and stepped back, glowering at her.
“Damn you, you little minx!” He licked at the blood trickling down his bottom lip. Lord Frostmore then wiped at his mouth with his fingertips. He suddenly chuckled and shook his head, then muttered something that sounded like “Serves me right, I suppose.”
Harriet quivered with rage now. Rage felt so much stronger than fear, and it seemed to clear her head of the dull ringing from the pain from the accident.
Her eyes rose to the wall behind his head. Two fencing foils hung on the wall in a decorative style. If she could but reach them, she might yet fight her way out of the room. Lord Frostmore noticed her staring intently at the foils and smiled, his ill humor replaced with devilish delight. He reached up and took one off the wall, swishing it near his ankles. It seemed a careless move, but she saw the deftness with which he handled the foil. He seemed as intimately familiar with such a weapon as she was. Harriet rose from the settee and darted behind it as the duke approached her at a leisurely pace, teasingly waving the foil in the air. She needed to get to the other if she was to fight him off.
“I do not suppose you would permit me to defend myself as an equal?” she asked, her eyes darting to the second foil. Perhaps he would underestimate her and not realize her skill until it was too late—if only she could convince him to hand her the weapon.
“I will not simply hand it over. I should like to make a wager.”
“A wager? On what?” She had never been the sort to frequent gambling establishments, but she was not remotely surprised that he was.
“I will give you the other foil, and if you can best me, I will accost you no further this night. You can sleep safely, knowing the devil does not linger at your door. If I win, you come up to my bedchamber and I will take a look at your arm, whether you like it or not.”
She did not trust him one inch. His eyes and smile betrayed him, but Harriet could not refuse the opportunity to gain possession of the foil.
“And the terms of this match?” she asked, wondering if there might be some devious catch in his plans.
“The first to draw blood. Just a scratch will do—no doubt as a woman you are familiar with such meager defenses.”
The devil was provoking her. She was tempted to run him through instead, but if she could not make her ship to Calais by dawn, she would be surely caught and executed for murdering the duke, even if he was the devil.
“First blood? That I can agree to.” She had moved around the settee now, her back to the wall with the foil as he pursued her slowly across the carpeted floor. If she’d felt better, she would have smiled. The duke didn’t know she was the daughter of a renowned fencing master. He was going to lose.
Harriet spun quickly, taking advantage of the distance between them to jump up and rip the second foil off the wall with her good arm. Even though she was right-handed, her father had trained her to use both hands equally well in swordplay.
She turned just in time to deflect his first well-placed thrust. With a flick of her wrist, she changed the engagement of his blade’s position and was able to shift her footing, leaving herself able to retreat back a few more steps. Harriet steadied her feet and raised her sword arm. The thrill of the fight dulled the pain in her right shoulder and arm enough to keep her moving quickly. She then took two fast steps and lunged. He parried and she danced back, just out of reach of his responding lunge.
“Someone has taught you some skill with a blade. A lover, perhaps?” He leapt for her again.
Harriet countered with a circular parry and then riposted with perfect technique, but he had anticipated that and evaded her through a classic disengage. He feinted a thrust and dodged back, only to surge forward again. She feinted this time and managed to cut through his loose shirt near his stomach, but he moved back too quickly, and she did not even graze his skin.
“Perhaps you ought to put that foil away, child, before you hurt yourself,” he mocked cruelly.
“Careful, Your Grace, or next time I will slash deeper,” she warned without the slightest bit of fear now. She would injure him if she had to, and damn the consequences.
His tone remained flippant. “Be serious, my dear. You would not dare do more than a scratch. Young ladies such as yourself are always so shocked to see blood.”
Harriet wanted to growl, just as the giant black dog had done, but she couldn’t lose her concentration. The duke seemed ready to abandon the rules as he vaulted over the settee, which she had so carefully put between them again. He stood on her crumpled cloak now, and Harriet smiled. She dove for the ground, grasped the cloak’s edge, and ripped it out from under his feet. He fell onto his back, his foil rolling away from his hand as he looked up at her, astonished. He almost seemed ready to laugh with hearty amusement rather than scorn. Harriet advanced on him, blade tip poised at his throat. She forced him to look up and meet her gaze. Never in her life had she felt the thrill of having a man under her power like this, but now she understood why her father had warned his pupils to be cautious. One could be careless when one anticipated an easy victory.
“To first blood?” she asked with a wicked smile. There was something about this man, as frightening as he was, that drew out her own wickedness. A strange, wild need to prove she wouldn’t stay afraid of him.
His eyes narrowed to slits. “You wouldn’t dare…”
“I would do more than dare.” She flung his own words back at him with far too much enjoyment. She flicked the blade’s tip down, slashing his shoulder, tearing cloth and skin, but the line of blood was faint. A scratch, just as he’d said she would, but not because she feared blood—rather, out of respect for his talent with a blade. Her father had taught her much about fencing, but honoring one’s opponent was one of the most important lessons.
