Page 19 of The Swordmaster's Daughter

Chapter five

Friends and Rivals

McCraeturnedupon time and nodded politely in Lucinda’s direction. In the meantime a few other fencers trickled in, and she showed them their allocated piste. She had no desire to converse with McCrae, still wary of what he might want from her, so she hovered near the doorway hoping that Nathan would arrive soon. When Nathan poked his head through the door, the urge to hug him was overwhelming. Under normal circumstances it was his dark compelling eyes and cheeky grin that would tempt her to fling her arms around him, but today it was the huge sense of relief. They always worked well as a team. She would gladly trust Nathan Field with her life. Her virginity…now that was an entirely different matter. One time she might have been foolish enough to be tempted but working with her grandma had made her wise. She paused for a moment to study Nathan Field. It was not hard to see why he was fast becoming a popular actor. The potent combination of smoldering promise and boyish charm sent grown women into a swoon, but she had long ago discovered that there would only be one true love in Nathan’s life, and that love was the stage. So despite his declarations of love and devotion, she kept him at enough distance to be safe.

“I came as quickly as I could,” he said, his puffing breath confirming the veracity of his words. “The messenger said there was some kind of accident?”

Lucinda supplied the version of events she had concocted with her father. Even Nathan could not be trusted with the grave secret of his sudden affliction. “I would be so grateful if you could rescue him. He is in so much pain but will not admit it. Perhaps offer to stand in to do the physical sparring while Father gives verbal instructions from the side?”

“That could work,” Nathan agreed rubbing his chin with his hand. “Have you suggested such a plan?”

“Do you take me for a fool? He needs to keep his pride intact. That is why you must suggest it. I thought if you couched it as an opportunity for you to improve your own skills…”

“I will do my best,” he shrugged, glancing over to the piste. “Who is that?” She turned around to look.

“Robert McCrae, the Scotsman Father is meant to instruct.”

“I do not like his manner. He keeps looking at you. The big burly oaf.”

“I am sure he is not looking at me. If he has been to Blackfriars and seen one of your plays, tis more likely it is your face he is trying to place.” She turned around again, and Robert McCrae was indeed looking her way. Her chest lurched as their gazes snagged for an instant before she quickly turned back.

“I told you it was so,” Nathan said with a badly concealed scowl. “Now your father is trying to pick up a sword.”

“Quickly, before he does more damage to himself.” She scuttled across the room, towing Nathan in her wake.

“What do they put in that porridge up in Scotland? The man is a Goliath,” he whispered as he caught up by her side.

“Are you afraid to face him on the piste perhaps?”

“Of course not. Brains always triumph over brawn. That is what you say every time you beat me.” She couldn’t help but smile. Nathan always made her smile, but her amusement was cut short at the sight of her father’s face. With the effort of holding a broadsword, he had turned a sickly shade of grey. Once again, she caught McCrae watching her. She glanced at Nathan who was scowling all the more as he continued to watch McCrae watching her. Enough of all this watching! She did not have time for these foolish games.

“Go on,” she prodded Nathan, though it was her father who opened the discourse.

“Ah, Field! You are a sight for sore eyes. Come here and meet Master McCrae. Nathan is one of my scholars when we are able to drag him away from the theatre.”

“I heard you had a mishap and needed some assistance, so I came as soon as I could.”

“Mishap?” McCrae said.

“A little trouble with my shoulder. My own foolish fault.”

“You should have said. We can postpone our bout until later.”

“Perhaps I could be of help?” Nathan jumped in. “I am very rusty and sorely needing some practice. I would be honored if you would allow me to stand in while Master Evans coaches from the sideline.”

“An excellent suggestion,” Father agreed, though McCrae did not look as enamored of the idea, eying Nathan with great suspicion and a gleam of something else she could not quite place. And so after they were formally introduced, the two men put on practice leathers and chose their weapons. Everything had gone according to plan, and yet she was not reassured. For no good reason she could discern, the two men seemed to have struck up an instant dislike, testing and sniffing at each other like rival dogs in a pack.

Nathan had spent any moment he could be spared from Blackfriars Theatre at the fencing academy, helping keep the ledgers as payment for fencing lessons. Although his accounting was better than his sword play, Father had taken him on as his pupil. After three years of training he now possessed enough skill to hold his own with the long sword, broadsword and rapier, and yet worry buzzed in her ear like a summer mosquito. At first Father put the two men through some classic English broadsword drills involving cutting, feinting, and counter-attack, each swordsman following the moves he dictated.

The unwritten rule when fencing under instruction was that it was all about learning good technique rather than scoring points off your opponent. The force was always controlled. You never put too much weight into an attack especially when the opponents were unevenly matched in experience, size, or strength. McCrae was well aware of the customs. She had watched him in training before, and he had followed the rules. Yet now when pitted opposite poor Nathan, who was only standing in to help, he recklessly threw himself into each attack, only pulling back at the last moment to soften the blow.

If his intention was to intimidate, it was certainly working. They were well matched in height, but McCrae had twenty pounds extra of muscle and a good five years on Nathan. The more she watched the more uneasy she became. This wasn’t a lesson; it was a bitter contest. Why didn’t her father intervene? She went to fetch some ale, hoping a refreshment might help to cool the simmering tension.

“Might we try some Highland methods?” McCrae suggested as they took their ale break.

“If Master Evans thinks that would be of benefit, I am game,” Nathan replied. He wasn’t game. He was an idiot. Did he not see the threat beyond the innocuous words?

They all turned to her father for his yay or nay. Please say no she prayed, but her father stared blankly ahead of him as if he had not heard.

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