Page 36 of Some Like It Wild
Chapter 15
Dread quickened in Pamela’s heart as Crispin came sauntering across the parquet floor. The blade of his epee, graceful and deadly, glinted in the sunlight streaming through the French windows.
She turned back to Connor, her whisper low and urgent. “You mustn’t do this.”
“And why not?” Connor responded, an all too familiar gleam in his narrowed eyes as he watched Crispin approach. “I thought we’d already determined my blade was up to any challenge.”
“You know very well why not. If he’s the one who murdered my mother, then you couldn’t give him a better opportunity to finish you off. You heard the duke last night at supper. He called him one of the finest swordsmen in London.”
“I’m not from London,” Connor reminded her.
She dug her fingers into the front of his shirt. A few more steps and Crispin would be within earshot of her frantic whisper. “You didn’t see the look in his eye last night when I was taunting him. You mustn’t do this! Please, Connor, I’m begging you!”
Connor gazed down into Pamela’s imploring eyes, wishing he could have heard those very words tumbling from her luscious lips when he was holding her in his arms last night. Then he could have given her everything she wanted…and more.
Ignoring a pang of regret, he gently disengaged her fingers from the front of his shirt and set her away from him. “Don’t fret, lass,” he said, raising his voice so that it could be clearly heard. “I promise to go easy on the lad for your sake.”
Crispin barked out a laugh. “Don’t make any promises you can’t keep. Because I’ve no intention of going easy on you, not even for the lady’s sake.” He turned his brash smile on Pamela. “If you don’t wish to watch us make fools of ourselves to impress you, I’d advise you to go. There must be a piece that requires practicing on the piano or a sampler that needs stitching.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t miss this for the world,” Pamela replied, her tone so frigid Connor wouldn’t have been surprised to see icicles sprout from the chandeliers. “I can assure you that I’ll be here to witnesseveryparry and thrust.”
Crispin shot Connor a bemused glance. “That doesn’t surprise me. It’s been my experience that the female is frequently the more bloodthirsty of the sexes. Not that any blood will be shed today, of course,” he hastened to add.
He strode over to the tall cherrywood cabinet on the other side of the suit of armor to retrieve afleuret, the knob used by fencers to blunt the deadly points of their swords. When he turned around, the delicatefleuretwas already fastened to the tip of his blade. “You’ll find I’m not as squeamish as Monsieur Chevalier. You’re welcome to use the weapon of your choice.” He gave the massive broadsword in Connor’s hand a derisive look. “Even if it does put you at a disadvantage.”
Connor said, “I would think the disadvantage would be yours since there’s no way for me to blunt the edge of my sword.”
Crispin gave him another of those shameless grins. “Ah, but you’ll have to get close enough to me to use it first.” A thoughtful look crossed his face. “There must be something we can do to make this contest even more enticing—a prize, perhaps?”
“What sort of prize did you have in mind?”
Crispin slanted Pamela a provocative look. “Since I sincerely doubt you’d be fool enough to wager the dukedom, how about a kiss from your lady?”
Pamela gasped, outraged at his audacity. She crossed her arms and tapped her foot, waiting for Connor to inform the scoundrel that her kisses were not cheap favors to be rewarded to the winner of some ridiculous contest.
“A kiss it is,” Connor agreed.
Pamela’s mouth fell open, then snapped shut. As the two men lifted their weapons and began to warily circle each other, she backed away from them until she felt her shoulder blades hit the wall. Crispin’s attempt to dismiss her had only fueled her suspicions. Although she would have liked nothing better than to flee the ballroom with her hands over her eyes, she had no intention of leaving Connor at his mercy.
When it came to size and strength Connor had every advantage, but Crispin was quick and light on his feet, anticipating each of Connor’s moves with the elegance and poise of a dancer.
It didn’t take Pamela long to realize that Connor was also surprisingly light on his feet. He moved with the feline grace of a predator—all muscle, stealth and power. When Crispin feinted, he dodged, using the broad blade of his sword to parry each of Crispin’s thrusts.
Crispin danced around him, taking great care to stay out of his impressive reach between attacks. Both of them knew that one sound blow from Connor’s sword could cut the delicate blade of the epee right in two.
“You’re a far more worthy opponent than I’d supposed, Cousin Percy.”
“I really wish you wouldn’t call me that,” Connor replied, using the flat side of his blade to strike a savage blow that left the finely honed steel of the epee singing in Crispin’s hand.
“What would you prefer I call you?” Crispin bared his clenched teeth in a smile. “Bart? Reggie? Cecil?”
“I was called Connor in Scotland. But since I’m going to be a duke and you never will be, you might try simply addressing me as ‘my lord.’”
Pamela gasped as that single, well-executed blow drew first blood. Crispin’s smile vanished. His dark eyes flashed in his pale face as he lunged forward, doubling the ferociousness of his attack.
“And what should I call you?” Connor asked. “Cuz?”
Backing toward the French doors, he neatly blocked each of Crispin’s blows, his own lazy smile deepening.
