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Forbidden Fruit
London 1604 -Whitefriars Fencing School
LucindaEvansknewshe should not touch, but no one was looking, so where was the harm? With one swift motion she picked up the sword, expertly feeling its weight and balance, gauging its strength and possibility, her hand seeking out the dormant energy hidden inside the steel. Quickly she looked behind her. All were engrossed in their own thoughts, conversation, or sword play, not paying any attention to her, a mere woman whose purpose was to fetch, carry, and clean. Hiding the sword in the folds of her skirt, she moved to the cover of a storage alcove, hefted the blade upward and commenced a series of sweeping arcs, each motion blending into one sinuous flow. So engrossed was she in the sing and soar of the weapon, she did not hear the footfall until it was too late. Her chest gave a sudden lurch as a shadow loomed behind her, and yet she finished the sequence with a determined downward swipe. Clasping the sword to her breast she turned to face the consequences, a prickle of dread working its way down her spine.
“What have we here?” Robert McCrae said, his gaze as penetrating as his sword.
Lucinda braced her shoulders and held his stare. “It is not what it looks like.”
“A lass playing at swords?”
“I wasn’t playing. I was testing it.”
“Testing it for what, pray tell? Fighting off an army of suitors?”
“My tongue usually suffices for that. Or so I am told.”
“Ouch!” He jumped back snatching his hand up to cover his arm as if it were nicked. “It is rather sharp.” Lucinda stared back at the tall broad-shouldered Scotsman. The only good thing in this whole situation was that her height meant she could face him eye to eye.
“If you plan to complain to my father once you have had your fill of mockery, may we hasten and get it over with? I have work to do.”
“So I saw.” He imitated the sword drill she had just executed using the blade of his hand, all the while keeping his eyes fixed on her. “What do you suggest I tell him? That his daughter has been playing with my sword?” Lucinda felt her face redden. Curse the man for twisting her words.
“I suggest there is nothing to tell,” she replied.
“I suspect you are probably right. Only a fool would risk such a confession. No harm done,” he said echoing Lucinda’s own thoughts, “though some might say that touching without permission is a risky proposition.”
“Some might,” she said, the heat in her face continuing its slow burning creep as he held out his hand for the sword. Gladly she passed it to him, cradling the blade carefully and offering him the hilt. Unlike the training weapons at her father’s fencing academy McCrae’s sword had a double-edged and lethally sharpened blade. He turned the sword over from a palm-up to a palm-down grip. “What did you think of her? Is she not a beauty?”
“A beauty yes, though I was not aware it was a she.”
“Are not all swords like a woman?
“How so?”
“Best kept close...and dangerous when unsheathed.”
Lucinda lifted one shoulder in a nonchalant shrug. “I would not presume to influence your opinion on women. As to the sword, it is exceedingly well-balanced. You could be fooled into thinking the basket work is purely ornamental, but it is cleverly designed both to protect the hand and to counter-balance the weight of the blade.”
“You are a fine judge of a weapon. An unusual skill in a woman.” Once again, his eyes looked her up and down.
“Not so unusual if you grew up here.” Lucinda swept her arm around to take in the racked weapons in the storage area. “Swords, halberds, buckler shields, these are the tools of my father’s trade and have always been part of my life, just as leather to a glove maker or cloth to a tailor.” She shifted her weight from one foot to the other to peer around McCrae. If she tarried too long her father was bound to notice her absence, yet the aggravating man seemed intent on prolonging their conversation.
“So a sword for you is like fish to a fishmonger?
“You could say that.”
“Tell me, I am curious to know, in this vast and shining sea of steel what was it about my sword that caught your eye?” A mocking smile played about his lips. The question was more difficult than it appeared. How could she explain the unseen forces of attraction? How McCrae’s sword seemed to beckon her, to call out to her waiting hand? How to explain the curiosity and longing it inspired?
“I had not seen a hilt quite like that before,” she said. She could have left it there, with a partial truth palatable to her conscience, but the way this man studied her so intently tilted her composure and before she could stop herself, she was revealing far more than she should. “Most swords are useful but ordinary, and some are decorative but not very useful. The swords I am drawn to possess something intangible. It is a quality I struggle to describe that goes beyond beauty or function. Who can say what separates the everyday from the remarkable? All I know is that it is rare to find and when I do there, is an overwhelming urge to seize it.”
“Indeed,” McCrae said in his soft Scottish burr. “When you see it, you know it instantly.”
Lucinda lowered her eyes and clasped her hands together. She really should not go on so much. She was feeling very hot despite the cold stone of the storage alcove. What did Robert McCrae care of her opinion? Women were not supposed to have opinions, especially opinions about swords.
“I am sorry. I really must see to my chores.” As she tried to step past him, he blocked her way.
“Before you go, I must extract a promise.”
