victor go the spoils! " His meaning was unmistakable.
Annabelle had never felt more helpless in her life. Though she was perfectly sensible of the Frenchman ' s threat, her most pressing fear was for the safety of the man she regarded as her champion. The skill of the French with the short sword was legendary. Dueling was one of their favorite pastimes. And this particular Frenchman exuded a confidence that made her blood turn to water. She wondered if the man beside her had brains enough to be frightened.
As the two adversaries warily circled each other with flashing blades, she tried a last-ditch, forlorn attempt to avert disaster. "Excuse me, " she said, addressing both gentlemen, "if either one of you so much as scratches the other, I shall report you both to the authorities. "
A gleam of mingled surprise and amusement momentarily registered in the Frenchman ' s eyes. Again that soft laugh fell from his lips. "Dalmar, " he taunted, "where do you find them? This one, I look forward to taming. "
"The woman is mine, " said Dalmar, studiously casual. "If you want her, you ' ll have to kill me first. "
"With pleasure! " Livry ferociously lunged and lunged again, driving Dalmar ba ck till he was pinned against th e wall.
The hilts of their two swords locked. In a burst of strength, Dalmar wrenched the Frenchman round till their positions were reversed.
"Now! " he shouted over his shoulder to Annabelle. "Quick! The stairs! "
Clutching her hatbox in one hand and the key to Dalmar ' s rooms in the other, Annabelle scampered past the duelists. As her foot touched the first step, the combatants broke apart. She hesitated.
"Get going! " Dalmar snarled at her, and immediately made a slashing arc with his blade, forcing Livry to stumble back. Dalmar was on him in an instant.
Annabelle quickly mounted the stairs, but on the first landing she halted. Though she was shaking like a leaf and wanted nothing more than to find a safe hole where she could find refuge, everything in her rebelled at leaving Dalmar to his fate. Torn between a fear for his life and a fear of disobeying his commands, she faltered.
She glanced over the stairwell, and though she was not in a position to see the contenders, her eyes were drawn to the grotesque spectacle of their shadows on the wall—gray wraiths which seemed to be engaged in a deadly pas de deux. Only the ring of steel on steel, their harsh breathing, and their soft footfalls gave any indication of the awful reality. Mesmerized, Annabelle sank to her heels, her eyes riveted to the moving pictures on the wall.
She heard the soft cry before one of the shadows fell back, then sank to his knees. Annabelle was on her feet. Which one ? her mind screamed.
Horrified, she watched as the other man closed in for the kill. In that moment she knew that Dalmar, stringer to her though he was, would never kill a wounded adversary. The man who was poised to administer the coup de grace had to be the Frenchman.
She did not think of consequences. With an anguished cry, she hurtled down the stairs. Upon her sudden appearance, Livry ' s startled eyes were diverted from his target. It was all that Dalmar needed. With superhuman strength, he parried the Frenchman ' s blade and thrust.
A look of pained surprise flickered in the Frenchman ' s eyes. He staggered, holding his chest. His back hit the wall, and he sank to his heels. The sword fell from his inert fingers.
Annabelle rushed to Dalmar.
"Stubborn woman, " he growled at her. "Can ' t you ever do what you ' re told? "
At that moment, he could have cursed her up and down Britain from Land ' s End to John o ' Groats and Annabelle would have thanked him for it. That he was not mortally wounded was more than she had hoped for. That he had the temper to take her to task in such uncompromising tones filled her with an overwhelming relief. Tears started to her eyes. She hiccuped.
Dalmar, correctly assessing the fragile thread which held her together, roughly
Annabelle had never felt more helpless in her life. Though she was perfectly sensible of the Frenchman ' s threat, her most pressing fear was for the safety of the man she regarded as her champion. The skill of the French with the short sword was legendary. Dueling was one of their favorite pastimes. And this particular Frenchman exuded a confidence that made her blood turn to water. She wondered if the man beside her had brains enough to be frightened.
As the two adversaries warily circled each other with flashing blades, she tried a last-ditch, forlorn attempt to avert disaster. "Excuse me, " she said, addressing both gentlemen, "if either one of you so much as scratches the other, I shall report you both to the authorities. "
A gleam of mingled surprise and amusement momentarily registered in the Frenchman ' s eyes. Again that soft laugh fell from his lips. "Dalmar, " he taunted, "where do you find them? This one, I look forward to taming. "
"The woman is mine, " said Dalmar, studiously casual. "If you want her, you ' ll have to kill me first. "
"With pleasure! " Livry ferociously lunged and lunged again, driving Dalmar ba ck till he was pinned against th e wall.
The hilts of their two swords locked. In a burst of strength, Dalmar wrenched the Frenchman round till their positions were reversed.
"Now! " he shouted over his shoulder to Annabelle. "Quick! The stairs! "
Clutching her hatbox in one hand and the key to Dalmar ' s rooms in the other, Annabelle scampered past the duelists. As her foot touched the first step, the combatants broke apart. She hesitated.
"Get going! " Dalmar snarled at her, and immediately made a slashing arc with his blade, forcing Livry to stumble back. Dalmar was on him in an instant.
Annabelle quickly mounted the stairs, but on the first landing she halted. Though she was shaking like a leaf and wanted nothing more than to find a safe hole where she could find refuge, everything in her rebelled at leaving Dalmar to his fate. Torn between a fear for his life and a fear of disobeying his commands, she faltered.
She glanced over the stairwell, and though she was not in a position to see the contenders, her eyes were drawn to the grotesque spectacle of their shadows on the wall—gray wraiths which seemed to be engaged in a deadly pas de deux. Only the ring of steel on steel, their harsh breathing, and their soft footfalls gave any indication of the awful reality. Mesmerized, Annabelle sank to her heels, her eyes riveted to the moving pictures on the wall.
She heard the soft cry before one of the shadows fell back, then sank to his knees. Annabelle was on her feet. Which one ? her mind screamed.
Horrified, she watched as the other man closed in for the kill. In that moment she knew that Dalmar, stringer to her though he was, would never kill a wounded adversary. The man who was poised to administer the coup de grace had to be the Frenchman.
She did not think of consequences. With an anguished cry, she hurtled down the stairs. Upon her sudden appearance, Livry ' s startled eyes were diverted from his target. It was all that Dalmar needed. With superhuman strength, he parried the Frenchman ' s blade and thrust.
A look of pained surprise flickered in the Frenchman ' s eyes. He staggered, holding his chest. His back hit the wall, and he sank to his heels. The sword fell from his inert fingers.
Annabelle rushed to Dalmar.
"Stubborn woman, " he growled at her. "Can ' t you ever do what you ' re told? "
At that moment, he could have cursed her up and down Britain from Land ' s End to John o ' Groats and Annabelle would have thanked him for it. That he was not mortally wounded was more than she had hoped for. That he had the temper to take her to task in such uncompromising tones filled her with an overwhelming relief. Tears started to her eyes. She hiccuped.
Dalmar, correctly assessing the fragile thread which held her together, roughly
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