Page 19 of A Royally Fake French Menage
“Yes, I do,” I countered. “You know that if I don’t get you to agree, then I’ll just find someone else to show me where everything is kept, load up and go out and do it on my own anyway.” I didn't bother turning that statement into a prettily phrased question. We both knew I'd do it.
Jacques sighed but his pace slowed. “How long has it been since you've shot?" he growled.
“Too long,” I admitted. “But I’m sure I remember where everything goes.” I let the ramifications of that sink in for a moment. “Or you could just come with me, torture—I mean, tutor me, and then let me do my thing.”
Jacques said nothing for a long moment. Actually, I didn't think he breathed at all. Finally, he made a sound that resembled two cars crashing. If I hadn’t been prepared for some level of drama llama activity, I would have been alarmed.
Instead, I looked up at him. “So, are we sharing now?” I asked brightly.
Jacques stopped and glared at me. “No. We are not, ‘sharing now,’ he mimicked me cruelly, laughing when I rocked back a half step. If I hadn’t been prepared already, the sound would have actually frightened me. “You should be running, American girl. Run far from me, as far as you can. I can’t control your new boyfriend, nor can I save him from himself. Do you understand that? He's going to come apart this weekend. Right. Fucking. Here. And there’s nothing he’ll let me do about it.” Jacques stared at me. Short breaths panted from his lips, his heavy chest heaving.
And all I wanted to do was wrap my arms around his waist and hold him.
I don’t do women.
He said that to me yesterday. I thought it was yesterday. My hours were already running together.
“I understand,” I murmured.
Jacques glared at me. “No, you don't."
“Don’t I?’ I laughed, a brittle horrible sound. “I came here as your boyfriend’s fake date. The fake date I’ve wanted for so long and when he did ask me out it was…wrong. Meaningless. But I said yes because I was curious. I wanted to see what it was that made Barclay Augustus Chesterfield tick. And now that I have…” I offered Jacques a woeful smile. “I almost wish I hadn’t. Almost.” I held up a hand. “Because now I understand a little bit more about him than I did before. More than I did twelve hours ago. And that matters so much more than me spending four hours crying myself to sleep last night, wishing I was in his arms instead. “Or yours,” I whispered. Shaking my hair back, I fixed him with a hard stare, uncaring if he saw the vulnerability inside me. “Which is why I’d like to go shoot something.” I completed my pitch and stared at the wall opposite. A particular pitch in my kit that my mother had helped me put together back in the earlydays when I wasn’t so sure of myself and needed to rely on her inspiration to get me anywhere.
Jacques sighed and shook his head. “Come on then.”
It looked like that little starter pitch kit still worked.
“Are we heading to the shooting range?” I plastered on a smile, still aching from not curling up with Barclay like I wanted last night. I wished I could go to him now, but he didn’t seem to want company if he had pushed this man away who stood beside me.
And I was back in No-Barclay land again, unsure where I stood at all.
“No.”
His answer wiped my not so hidden smile off my face.
“No?”
“No.” I heard the satisfaction in his voice without looking at him. “If you want to fight, Miss Lockwood, then I suggest we begin a little closer to home.”
I snorted. “Are you going to start me off with bows and arrows?” Because that would be so much safer. I’d likely shoot the arrogant preening valet in the tush. Somehow, explaining that little endeavor to Barclay would be both an amusing and horrifying tale.
Jacques smiled slowly. “I’m going to teach you how to use a sword, Miss Lockwood.”
I blinked at him. “I don’t remember giving you my surname.”
His smile widened. “You didn’t.”
That was twice I’d been blindsided recently, by people who shouldn’t have had the information that they did. Casting that information aside for a moment, I focussed on what he just said.
“You want to let me loose in front of you with a pointy object? Are you actually insane?”
“What is it that you Americans say at times like this? He reached a small door just inside the exit to the rear of the house and unlocked it with a key from his pocket. “Jury’s out?”
I smiled at his back as I took the epee from him that he passed back, noting the weapon’s blunted tip. “Can I tell you a secret, Jacques?” I murmured, taking a step back and raising the sword that felt natural in my hand, its weight an old friend.
“Of course, Miss Lockwood,” he murmured, all manners and etiquette.
The tip of my epee pressed to the middle of his spine below his collar. “I’m not American. Didn’t my file mention that when you dug me up?”
