Alexandra marched along the rain drenched street, water splashing about her booted feet as she went. She was in a furious temper. When she’d gotten out of bed yesterday morning, she’d known that she would dislike Michael Ashford. She hadn’t doubted it for a second.
But then he’d come riding along, knocking the stable little planet she’d been living on right off its axis—with nothing more than the features that a very generous mother nature had bestowed upon him. It was enough to make her sick to her stomach. And the lies! God help her, but she’d never told such outrageous tales in all her life. She’d only planned to pass herself off as a young man, yet somewhere along the line, that had been greatly elaborated upon. Now it seemed that she, who was an innocent virgin, born without a single blemish upon her flesh, was pretending to be not only horribly malformed but also to have a voracious appetite for sex.
Good grief!
However, he would soon discover the truth, and once he did, their relationship would very likely take a drastic turn. In truth, she’d be lucky if he didn’t tear her limb from limb.
She picked up her pace to clear her head.
Before all else comes duty—her father had always said—toward one’s family and toward one’s country. Hers lay toward her family, while Ashford’s lay toward their country. She could not allow something as trivial as her growing attraction for him to come in the way of either of their responsibilities.
Alexandra was just passing by the Veuve Lorraine when the front doors to the place sprang open, and two men tumbled out, knocking her sideways. Before she had a chance to get her bearings, more men joined in the fight, while somebody else pushed her forcefully into the midst of the ensuing melee. Unsure of how it had all come about, she suddenly found herself dodging punches and doing the best she could to stand her ground. This was, she conceded, one of those rare occasions when men held the clear advantage. Her punches just didn’t carry enough weight behind them to make a difference.
Spotting an opening in the scuffle, she edged toward it. She was just about ready to make a run for it, when a large hand gripped hold of her ankle and pulled.
Alexandra’s heart leapt with the knowledge that she was about to fall.
Her cheek hit the pavement with a loud crack that sent shockwaves through her jaw. A sharp pain followed as she fumbled about, doing her best to gather her wits about her. This was not the time to be lying sprawled out on the ground while a hoard of buffoons were getting ready to trample all over her.
There was only one way for her to protect herself in this case.
Deciding that she wasn’t going to be stampeded for one more second, she sprang to her feet, coolheaded, and seemingly annoyed. She then drew a dagger from her left boot in one swift motion while unsheathing her sword at the same time.
Enough is enough.
“Sword!” someone bellowed.
As if by magic, all action came to an abrupt halt as darting eyes hurried to locate the piece of weaponry. A moment later, Alexandra found herself the center of attention.
“Quest ce que tu fait?” a loud voice yelled.
“I have no desire to hurt anyone,” Alexandra began. “Just let me go. This is not my fight, so I’d rather not suffer any further injury because of it.”
“Would you look at that?” a burly fellow snorted with much disdain in his voice. “A little chit in men’s clothing.” They all caught a good look at her face before she could manage to rearrange the scarf that had come loose during the scuffle.
“Aye, I wouldn’t mind givin’ her a tumble,” another said.
Grins broke out as the men, suddenly united in a different cause—their previous skirmish completely forgotten—turned on Alexandra. She rolled her eyes. This really wasn’t going the way she’d planned it at all.
Holding her sword at arm’s length to keep the men at bay, she tried to back away from them, but with little success. All were now grinning from ear to ear, likening the spectacle no doubt, to that of seeing a bear dance about the town square.
“Come now, mademoiselle . . . What exactly do you hope to accomplish with that?” one man asked, pointing to her sword.
“Stole it from her brother most like,” another commented. “Or a poor sod who was fool enough to fall asleep after a healthy bout of lovemaking!” a toothless fellow chimed in.
Roars of laughter filled the air.
“You a virgin then?” the first man asked as he ogled Alexandra from head to toe with eyes that seemed ready to leap from their sockets.
Alexandra swallowed hard, a soft prickle scurrying over her entire body. She suddenly felt more filthy being victim to these men’s rude remarks than if she’d been mucking out a pigsty. Well, she wouldn’t have it, not by any stretch of their pathetic imaginations. Squaring her shoulders, a sudden urge for recklessness washing over her, she stared straight back at them and held her ground. “Are any of you dimwits fortunate enough to own a weapon equal to mine?”
The challenge was unmistakable. There was a murmur among the crowd before a tall rather thinly shaped man with angular features and a sharp pointy nose stepped forward, brandishing his own sword. “Oui!” he exclaimed.
His companions immediately raised a cheer of encouragement for him.
“Very well then,” Alexandra remarked, the feeling of control back in her hands. A familiar need for danger filled her as she looked back at the expectant crowd. She was holding them captive in the palm of her hand, and she loved it. “I shall allow any one of you fools to have your way with me without offering a single complaint in return—if your friend here can beat me in a fair fight.”
After a moment’s silence, the exact amount of time that it took for everyone present to digest such a shocking proposition, the small group burst into cheers and began wishing their friend the best of luck, patting him enthusiastically on the back and shaking his hand.
“If, however, I win,” Alexandra continued. “You will give me free passage. You will not stand in my way, and you will not follow me.”
A roar of laughter filled the air and the terms were agreed upon with a quick handshake.
Looking about, Alexandra knew that none of them doubted the outcome of the upcoming fight—except, perhaps, the fellow holding the sword. If Alexandra weren’t entirely mistaken, he was beginning to look far less confident than he had done a moment earlier. His friend’s on the other hand seemed quite convinced that their victory was already in hand.
Returning her knife to her boot, Alexandra took an en garde stance, her saber held firmly in her right hand. “Let us begin,” she suggested. She then cocked an expectant eyebrow and beckoned for her opponent to engage her.
Rounding a corner, Michael stopped short as he took in the scene before him.
What the devil?
It seemed as if a duel was taking place right there in the middle of the street, though in the dim lighting it was impossible for him to make out the participants.
Highly unusual, especially since dueling was just as illegal in France as it was in England. His curiosity piqued, yet with no desire to get himself embroiled in the battle, he stayed within the shadows of the buildings and moved hesitantly forward in order to get a closer look. Two men were having a go at each other, though one appeared to be handling his weapon far more proficiently than the other.
What on earth could have brought this on?
Whatever their differences, a duel still seemed a bit . . . theatrical, for lack of a better word.
It took a while for him to get a clear look at what was happening. The large crowd of onlookers concealed most of the action from Michael, until one of the duelers was suddenly forced backward by the other and out into the street. Michael took in the sight with growing interest. One of the men was well over a head taller than the other, which ought to have given him a clear advantage, yet the smaller of the two held his ground with expert footing, giving as good, if not better than he got.
Moving closer still to the ensuing spectacle, Michael’s eyes moved over the figure that seemed to be effortlessly parrying every blow that came from his opponent. He was skilled. Very skilled. In fact, it was virtually impossible for his opponent to keep up. Each time he struck out his sword, the smaller man escaped him.
A small suspicion crept over Michael.
Can it be?
The body type was certainly similar . . . the arms, just as slim. . . .
The pair of duelers turned, the glow from a lantern bathing their faces in a soft glow, and then there was no longer any disputing it. Michael was watching Alex Summersby in full action as he danced about with an expertise and agility that he couldn’t recall ever having witnessed before.
Remarkable!
Ryan had certainly been right when he’d praised his brother’s swordsmanship. There wasn’t a single man that Michael could think of who might be able to compete with that level of proficiency.
He wondered how Alex might react if he saw him watching him and considered turning and walking away. But he could scarcely tear his eyes away—watching Alex was simply extraordinary. His body seemed to move with more ease than most people could manage when they were taking a mere stroll down the street.
Stepping onto the edge of the pavement, he watched, enthralled as Alex swept gracefully aside, sending his attacker stumbling with nowhere to go. The minute his adversary fell upon his knees, Alex ran up behind him, quick as a fox and delivered a good and solid kick to his backside, putting him flat on his face and bringing up a roar of cheers from the crowd.
Support has clearly shifted to Alex.
A helpless grin was spreading to Michael’s cheeks.
“Do you surrender?” Alex asked in perfect French while he poked his opponent in the back with the tip of his saber.
He sounds like a bloody native, Michael thought with a growing sense of awe.
And he seemed so comfortable too, so relaxed and carefree—not at all guarded like he tended to be toward Michael. This was clearly his element.
Michael started to turn away, but a pair of sharp blue eyes caught hold of his. They seemed to sparkle with glee—so much so, that Michael had no trouble imagining the triumphant smile on Alex’s lips. Well, now that he’d been spotted, he might as well wait. Indeed, it would probably be rude not to.
“Oui,” came the faint sound, carried on the breeze.
Alexandra eased away from her target and reached out her hand to help the poor man to his feet. His friends quickly surrounded them both, teasing him and congratulating her.
“An impressive display of swordsmanship,” Michael remarked when Alexandra came toward him a few moments later.
“Thank you,” she said. She regarded him for a moment. “Does it surprise you?”
“I have to admit,” Michael told her. “When your father and Sir Percy recommended you, I thought they might be exaggerating when they said you were the finest swordsman in England. But I do believe they may be quite right. I’ve never seen anyone else perform as well as you just did.”
Alexandra could feel her ears grow hot from blushing. It was the grandest compliment he could have paid to her. She’d struggled so hard over the years to be the best that she could be. Now, hearing Michael’s praise was a true reward.