Free Guarded Heart by Jennifer Blake Page A

day, each four hours in duration. Passion without politesse does not a fencer make. You must control your emotions, madame, or they will defeat you.”
    A hard knot formed in her chest as she absorbed his meaning. Was there another message in the words? It seemed possible; he was not a stupid man. Oh, but surely not. He could know nothing of her real purpose.
    â€œI shall endeavor to remember,” she said finally.
    â€œCry peace and hosanna but no quarter, and let us arm ourselves.”
    He turned to where chest pads and masks lay ready next to the case of foils on the long side table. Handing the smaller of the two pads to her, one shorter at the lower front than his own, he showed her how to manipulate the buckles, also how to pull the wire-grid mask on over her face. Then he stepped back, leaving her to it while he donned his own protection.
    The concealment made him seem a different man, she thought, watching covertly even as she struggled with the metal fastenings of the chest pad. It removed personality and identity, concealed the changes of expression that might indicate imminent attack or vulnerability, exultation or pain. His eyes were only a blue glimmer, a bright hint of mockery that might have been for her but could also be for the arrangement, or even for himself.
    He was as much aware of her as she was of him, for he swept off his mask and strode back to her, removing his gloves and tucking them under one arm. “Allow me,” he said, and reached to brush her hands aside, fastening the buckle that had stymied her with quick, competent movements.
    â€œThank you.” The words were uneven. He was so close, much too close. His scent of starched linen, night freshness and warm maleness enveloped her.
    â€œReluctant gratitude,” he said mildly, “is often worse than none. Breathe.”
    It was a frowning instant before she realized he wanted to check the fit of her padding. It was, she saw as she lowered her gaze, down-filled and white, no doubt the better to show blood if sliced by an accidental blow. She filled her lungs with air to show that she could, in fact, breathe without unusual effort.
    The movement lifted the padded vest. He reached to catch the front edges, tugging them into place. His gloved knuckles grazed her abdomen in shockingly intimate contact. She inhaled more deeply, a soft sound in the quiet, while something warm and tenuous swirled inside her before settling heavily in her lower belly.
    He met her eyes, the dark sapphire depths of his own rich with contemplation and something more that hovered, tightly restrained, behind it. The moment stretched, marked only by the flutter of a candle flame and the distant clip-clop of passing carriage horses in the street beyond the windows. She was almost painfully aware of his virility and inherent power. She wanted to step away but could not move, could find nothing to say even in protest.
    His gaze flickered downward, lingered. Following it, she saw that his adjustment of the padding had pulled the opening of her canezou blouse lower, exposing the upper curves of her breasts. Something she saw in his face caused the heat in her midsection to leap higher, flushing her throat, scalding her face. Yet she would not acknowledge it, would not call attention to her exposure by attempting to cover herself.
    He released her abruptly and turned away, ducking his head as he pulled on his mask again. Reaching for his gloves, he drew them firmly into place then picked up his foil from the nearby table as he stepped to the strip.
    She followed more slowly while pressing the leather of her own gloves tighter between her spread fingers. She had thought they would protect her from any chance contact, but she had been in error. The question that occupied her mind was just how intentional the sword master’s aid just now had been, how unavoidable. She had the distinct impression that he did nothing without a reason. What possible purpose