Page 79 of Only Scandal Will Do

Redmond bored into her with his stare. All she could see were black pupils bordered by a sliver of blue. “You wish to fence with me, Lady Dalbury? You wish a memento of my blade to take to your grave? I will oblige you. We still have some time to kill.” He lingered on the final word. “The third floor attic is unused and will accommodate us nicely. Your cries will scarcely be heard when I cut your face. A just revenge, don’t you think, for your scarring of Duncan? A cheek for a cheek, as it were?”

As her arms were released, pain screamed through the muscles and she stifled a groan. Her shoulders hurt horribly from the unnatural position they had occupied for the last several hours. She shrugged, trying to loosen them up. To make a good showing with a sword, she would need all her faculties to be in top form. She stood, acting more unsteady on her feet than she actually felt. If her opponent’s confidence was boosted under false pretenses, then so much the better for her.

Redmond led the way out of the office, Kat right behind him and Nigel behind her, his sword pressed uncomfortably into her back. They wound up flights of shadowy back stairs, music, laughter, grunts and moans emanating from closed doors on the first and second floors. She had hoped to fix her mind on the coming fight, but the embarrassing sounds of a working brothel intruded on her senses. By the time they arrived on the third floor, she was grateful for the relative quiet of the attic. Her cheeks cooled a trifle. But this was no time for modesty; she was about to be scandalous herself.

Her captor led her into a large chamber, where many wooden crates and several trunks lined the walls. The center of the room, however, was completely clear, if a little dusty. All three men carried candles or candelabra so there would certainly be enough light if they were placed on either side of the fencing area.

Kat bit her lip and untied the strings that fastened the petticoat of her riding habit. The garment slid to the floor. She stepped out of it, kicked it to the side of the room. The velvet jacket, she would retain, both for support and protection. It was only slightly more restrictive than her fencing jacket. She glanced up, to find all three men agog at her.

“You truly did not believe that I would fence in a skirt, did you, Mr. Redmond?” She smiled at the man’s sudden discomfiture. Nigel and Will were all but drooling, but she dismissed them from her mind. Focus on the major threat only. She stood, looking expectantly at her opponent.

“I will need a blade,” she reminded him.

He continued to stare at her stocking-clad legs, which were quite visible from the bottom of her chemise, just below her knees, to the tops of her brown buskins. Redmond, now clad only in shirt and breeches, gulped comically and gestured at Nigel. “Give her your sword, Crawley.”

Nigel’s immediate scowl clearly indicated his dislike of the idea. With reluctance, he handed the gleaming rapier to her. “Don’t be gettin’ it dirty, now.”

“Then pray Mr. Redmond is not a heavy bleeder.”

Nigel laughed at her bravado then returned to his place beside the doorway, still chuckling and shaking his head. Armed as well, Will had his sword drawn in case she decided to bolt.

Katarina had no such thoughts. Instead, she tested the balance of the blade, becoming familiar with the feel of it in her hand. She tried to limber up her stiff legs and arms with a few mild lunges. At least the blade itself was of good quality, well kept, and comfortable in her hand. She needed all the advantages she could get, and thrust the sword through her chemise, cutting down the front from mid-thigh to the hem, doubling her mobility.

She paid no mind to the men’s startled gasps, until she glanced over at Redmond. His gaze flicked over her exposed legs. When he wet his lips with his tongue, her composure slipped a notch. The last thing she wished to do was encourage his attentions on a more personal level.

Redmond eyes grew hard in the uncertain candlelight. “Shall we have at it, my lady?” His bow mocked her in its overblown courtesy.

“We shall, Mr. Redmond. What is to be the determination of the winner? Will first blood do?” She took her place opposite the man she longed to kill, although her primary goal was only to distract him.

“First blood to last blood, Lady Dalbury. You die tonight, regardless. Why not let it be with a sword in your hand? You profess such a love for the blade. Would you not wish to die in your lover’s arms, so to speak?”

“Only if you would.”

He laughed at that and lunged, his sword engaging hers instantly. She had suspected he would attack without warning, and so fended him off easily. Redmond received a very nasty shock for he had, of course, completely underestimated her skill. When she parried his initial thrust, his face changed from incredulous surprise to grim concentration as she pressed her attack. Metal rang on metal as she advanced, pushing him down the attic, only to have him turn and press her back.

“Hah!” Her opponent crowed openly as he landed the first blow, a light slash to her left arm that cut the material but did not draw blood.

Finding a way under his guard, she landed a solid thrust to his thigh.

“You bitch!” he shrieked, punctuating the cry with a wild slash.

Maintaining her guard, she waited cautiously for her next opportunity. That she was tiring more easily concerned her. Nevertheless, she intensified her demand for endurance from her body. She could not collapse now.

Out of the corner of her eye she saw Nigel slip out of the door, and the momentary distraction cost her a cut across her shoulder, the sting of the blow telling her, this time, Redmond’s sword had bitten deep enough.

Silently she cursed her flagging strength, her shorter reach, cursed Duncan for not showing her that damned disarm. She would have to attempt it anyway; her strength was fading. Her strained breaths, hot in her lungs, screamed for her to end the match now.

With a fury born of desperation, she whipped about, sword singing, redoubling her effort to drive her opponent down the chamber. She picked her moment, as he blocked a swipe to his head and lunged, attempting to disarm him. Another commotion from the hallway proved distraction that caused her to knock his blade awry, but did not disengage it from his fingers. He retaliated by thrusting his sword all the way through her upper left arm.

Her scream echoed loudly in the chamber. God, her arm was on fire! Any movement of the embedded sword sent unimaginable agony through the limb. Would she vomit or faint? She swallowed hard and tried to focus. Noting her opponent’s smug countenance, she whipped her blade around and slashed it against his right side.

The astonishment on his face was replaced by pure rage, then he pulled on his sword. She gave another echoing shriek as his blade tore out of her flesh, and sat down hard. Redmond lurched toward her, sword once more upraised. His mouth moved, but a roaring in her ears drowned out whatever he was saying.

Lethargy stole over her as she tried to raise her weapon to fend him off, but her arm would not do her bidding. As he staggered toward her like grim Death himself, she dug down into her innermost reserves. Redmond pointed his blade down at her heart, raised his arm for the kill. She tilted her blade up and plunged it into his groin.

His high-pitched scream deafened her. He stared down at her, arm hovering, then crashed backward onto the floor, dragging the sword out of her hand.

As he twitched and moaned, the horror of the moment filled her. She had killed a man, but could feel nothing but thankfulness she was finally safe from him. Continuing to observe the jerking body, she became aware of boot heels pounding across the floor toward her. She turned to meet this new menace and found herself scooped up in strong arms. Her husband’s face hovered over her, white-lipped and ashen, but a beloved sight to see.