Charity Begins at Home (21 page)

This time Lord Braden was the aggressor, tantalizing Crispin into reacting to attacks that never occurred, into parrying thrusts that vanished only to reappear elsewhere. In short order, he scored another two touches, and Crispin no longer swaggered back to the en-garde position.

In the fourth exchange, Lord Braden slowed the match down. He stood his ground in the center of the field, his blade still except in parry, forcing his opponent into offense. Against this infuriating calm, Crispin's thrusts became more and more desperate, and once he was so off balance following a lunge he went down on one knee. He ended up, after one wild lunge, scoring a touché. Charity could not be certain, but she thought that Lord Braden might have allowed it. His control of the bout was so complete that even his missteps seemed planned.

Lord Braden won the next point with a complex double, feinting a direct hit with the point of his blade and then circling around Crispin's parry before circling back and thrusting the blade home. Charity didn't actually see this—the action was too much a blur for her to distinguish parry from counterparry. But she received low-voiced commentary from the Justice of the Peace, who leaned on the rail next to her. He straightened at this last score, calling out, "Oh, good show!" He added to Charity, "The Italian method, don't you know. Precise point control. You remember that. Pay no attention to where his hand is leading; always watch the point of the blade."

An obedient girl, Charity focused her attention on those dancing points, and so she was not diverted as everyone else was when Crispin erupted into a snap-lunge, thrusting upward, forcing Braden to retreat. She kept her gaze on the points as the swords clashed, and so she saw the little red tip break from Crispin's blade and fly off into the grass.

The scene crystallized. She could hear the echo of the clash of metal on metal, see the glare of the sun off the blades, but everything was still, expectant, frozen.

She could not move; she could only wait for the engagement to stop, for Barry to call hold, for Crispin to raise his free hand and gesture for a pause. But when animation returned, the attack was continuing, Lord Braden moving back, Crispin pressing his advantage, a greater advantage than he knew. For he could not know, Charity was certain. He was competitive but not dishonorable. He, like the rest of those assembled, had not noticed the loss of the little red tip.

But Lord Braden had. With a sensitivity based on their intense if short acquaintance, Charity translated his momentary stilling, his instinctive retreat, into recognition of his danger. She let go a relieved breath; he would call hold and Crispin would pull up his sharp blade.

But Braden did not call hold. She could not see his expression under the mask but could imagine it nonetheless, that thoughtful assessing look, then a sudden smile. His stillness only lasted that instant, then he deftly turned his wrist and beat aside Crispin's thrust so that the lethal blade slid to the side, barely brushing his arm.

Her unusual passivity ended. Charity jumped off the rail and started toward Barry. She knew where her duty lay, knew he had to be told about the unzipped blade. But something stopped her as soon as she pushed through the crowd to her brother's side. It was reckless, it was irresponsible, it was dangerous—it was thrilling, to watch Lord Braden step forward, his own point dropped, inviting another attack. This was no exhibition, no contest. This was deadly serious and yet the laughter bubbled in Charity's throat. Tristan was courting death with such insouciance. How wild, how romantic, how very Mediterranean of him! And somehow she knew it was for her benefit.

Crispin launched another attack, aiming his blade as every swordsmen did for the vulnerable area above the heart. He was fury personified, his free hand clenched in a fist, a cry escaping him as he lunged forward and slashed upward. Tristan stepped back, flashed his blade up in parry, knocked Crispin's to the side, then instantly drew back to thrust forward in riposte.

Crispin's counterparry slid off the handguard, and his unshielded point caught Tristan's right sleeve, slicing cleanly through the linen. It all happened so fast that Barry's startled exclamation was lost in the cheer that rose from the crowd. Tristan deftly, swiftly slipped the point of his blade under the ribbon on his rival's arm. A flick and the ribbon was dangling from the sword. He tossed it up and caught it in his free hand, then, almost as an afterthought, thrust to Crispin's chest for a touché.

Barry brought his own sword slashing down between the combatants. "Hold, I said! Jupiter, Cris, your tip is gone! You could have—"

Crispin yanked off his mask and brought his blade up, staring at the broken point, then at his opponent. Then his gaze shot to Charity, standing beside Barry, still breathless from her knowledge of the danger and her own criminal inaction.

She could hear Barry's remonstrations, Buzzy and Pookie's argument about counting that last touché, the cheers of the crowd, Crispin's harsh breathing, her pulse pounding in her ears. Lord Braden took off his mask. His face was damp with sweat, his breath coming ragged. But he seemed not to notice the tumult around him. He was studying the purple ribbon as if it spelled out some secret only he could read, and he looked up only when Crispin cried out impatiently, "It doesn't matter if the last touché counted! He won! I yield—on all counts."

Crispin let his broken sword fall to the ground. He bowed to the victor, shook his head, and walked off toward the church. Charity saw the brave set of his shoulders and remembered that last year, when she refused his proposal, Crispin had responded with as much confusion as hurt. "But I have never imagined any wife but you," he had said and, "Think how happy Neddy would be, to have his twin and his best friend together always."

Now Crispin had conceded. And the victor was holding the captured token, ignoring the clamoring well-wishers, gently putting aside Princess Molly when she threw herself into his arms. He pulled off his glove and held out his hand to Charity.

It was only then that she noticed the blood that stained the lace of his cuff. Her breath halted, then started up again, easy and slow. She crossed to him, saying calmly, "Molly, give me that towel there. Lord Braden has been cut."

And as she used Crispin's discarded sword to slice a bandage out of the towel and as she concentrated on binding up Lord Braden's slashed arm, she felt his somber gaze on her and told herself, This I know how to do. This at least I can give.

Chapter Twelve

With the highly tuned courtesy essential in a village, the crowd melted away. Barry and Buzzy and Pookie withdrew to a nearby table, still arguing over the scorebook and handing coins back and forth in some obscure banking ritual. Molly Ferris lingered to cast an accusatory look at Charity, but she left, too, when Barry called for her to come share a lemonade with him and Buzzy and Pookie.

So Charity was left alone at the edge of the green, adjusting Tristan's bandage, her gaze focused on the cords the long muscles made in his arm. I should take the entry money to Mrs. Hering, she told herself, feeling the weight of the coins in her pocket against her leg. But she didn't move, except to tie a final knot in the bandage, her fingers brushing against the smooth skin of his wrist.

"Look at me," he commanded, but she only shook her head, staring at the jaunty bow she had tied on his arm. He groaned, then laughed, and with his uninjured arm drew her against him. Against her cheek she felt the rough linen of his shirt, the warmth of his chest, the steady beat of his heart.

"I don't know why your parents named you Charity. You are the least charitable girl I have ever known." His hand tangled in her hair, and she remembered that he still had her ribbon tucked away in his pocket. He whispered, "Will you come with me now, Charity?"

She felt herself on the brink of disaster, and he was urging her over. She wanted to go with him; she wanted to go away from him—she didn't know what she wanted. She felt like Marie Antoinette on the way to the guillotine, except that the executioner was going to ask her if she preferred it quick or slow. This is precisely what you hoped for, she told herself, but she felt an ache in her chest that had more to do with fear than with fulfillment.

It was all too fast, a whirlwind courtship at its whirlingest. For all their crackling conversations, for all their occasional moments of oneness, they had had no courtship. He had never sent her love letters or bunches of flowers; she had never melted into him during an improperly close waltz or felt his kiss even on her hand.

She had no time to prepare for this, to unwrap her heart and examine her feelings one by one. She had never been the sort to make impulsive choices; and yet he expected her to know so soon what was best for her, for him, for them both.

She looked up into his wary dark eyes, saw the shadow of sadness, the glint of laughter, and with the recklessness she had just learned from him, she agreed.

He drew her across the road, down the shady lane toward the bridge that crossed the stream. They were hidden from view here, though she could not forget that the whole village must know where they were and what they were doing.

The overarching oaks muted the noise and the light here—it was rather like a church, she thought. The stream rippled below, gentle now that the flood season was done; she stared down at a leaf floating along in the current. It got caught up in an eddy and swirled helplessly there for a moment before it was released back into the stream.

Lord Braden leaned against the old stone wall and pulled her close to him. Everything paused while he studied her, and feeling challenged somehow, she lifted her chin and stared back. With laughter lighting his eyes then, he lowered his head to kiss her.

This was not her first kiss. Boys had been stealing kisses since she was fifteen, seven of them at last count. That made her, she supposed as she twined her hands behind his neck, somewhat fast. But never had a kiss gone farther than her lips. She might be fast, but she was never loose.

Lord Braden didn't appreciate this fine distinction, and suddenly neither did she. She opened her mouth to his searching and arched closer to his lean body. Her head fell back as he pressed his advantage, kissing the soft skin of her neck and caressing her back with his artistic hands. She was aflame where he touched her, burning where he kissed her, a fire kindling as he held her.

But finally good sense edged back into her consciousness, and reluctantly she complied with a lifetime's strictures. "You must let me go, Lord Braden." She punctuated her less-than-forceful protest with a hand's gentle pressure on his chest, and slowly he loosened his embrace.

"I think it's proper to call me by name when I kiss you, Charity."

She had longed to say his name, had whispered it to herself a thousand times. "Tristan." It was a beautiful and sad name. It will be all right, she thought. This is Tristan holding me.

But then he dropped his hands from her waist, leaving her bereft. "You might also open your eyes and look at me while I propose."

She opened her eyes to meet his, but held her breath, for the first time in her life completely unsure of herself. She felt lost in love, cheated of love, fascinated, frightened. She dropped her gaze to the weedy ground, trying to corral her emotions. But they kept squirming out of her frame.

"You're not attending, Charity."

She looked up, startled, and found that he was no longer smiling. In fact, he looked wary again. "You're not so distracted because you're wording a polite refusal, are you? You should be practiced enough to rattle one off without thought."

She shook her head, more in confusion than in denial. This was the oddest proposal she had ever received, worse even than Sir Ralph. At least Ralph had got around to asking her eventually. But she supposed her own behavior was not beyond reproach, for she was standing there, biting her lips and clenching her fists for all the world as if he were going to cane her instead of offering her his name and his home.

"There's no turning back, is there? Ah, Charity, be charitable with me, won't you? I do want to marry you. Will you be my wife?"

She closed her eyes, waiting for the happiness, the
something
to fill her. Then she opened them again to his intense regard. He looked almost sad as if he were anticipating her refusal. When she could not speak, he added ruefully, "You know, until this very moment, I did not realize how much I want you to say yes. I need you in my life, I think."

Finally she found her voice. "But you have known me for such a short time."

"I know. But your virtues are so apparent. And I do know my own mind." He smiled, reaching out to stroke her cheek. "I should have waited, I know. But with you receiving offers every week or so, I couldn't be sure you'd still be available." That brief smile never reached his eyes. "Come, girl, put me out of my misery."

She listened again to his words, "I need you in my life," and decided that they were more convincing than she had thought at first, and she looked at his sensitive mouth and remembered his kiss, which had all the passion his declaration had lacked. She touched the bandage on his arm, so neatly binding the wound he had earned for her. He needed her; she thought that might be true.

She had had no practice at accepting, and somehow throwing her arms about him and shouting "Yes!" seemed inappropriate. Very softly, still studying the bandage, she said, "Thank you. I hope I will be a good wife to you."