Triumph in Arms by Jennifer Blake Page A

friends for the excitement and chance to prove his courage.”
    “He seems too sensible for such foolishness. More than that, the code I practice, the one I teach, warns against it. Fencing is a valuable tool for turning boys into men, teaching them responsibility, self-discipline, manners, endurance and a dozen other things.”
    “And you think my brother has need of these.”
    What Christien thought, gauging the concern in her eyes, before resting his gaze on the fine skin of her face and silken length of her lashes, was that Paul was lucky to have such a sister to worry over him. “Most do,” he answered, “and he seems at loose ends.”
    “He frets about things over which he has no control.”
    “It’s a failing of young men, to care beyond whatmight be expected, to take responsibility for things they can’t change. Learning skill with a blade will give him direction. I should also point out that it may save his life if he crosses the path of a man who has not been taught to curb his conceit or his temper.”
    “Pray God he never does,” she said with a small shake of her head. “Still, I refuse to allow that you, who met my brother only yesterday, know more of what he requires than I.”
    “But you will concede that we are both male, so must have similar impulses.”
    An intriguing shade of wild rose appeared on her cheekbones before she spoke. “I can hardly argue with that.”
    “We will move farther from the house for his lessons, if that will serve.”
    “You may do as you like. I’m sure you will, regardless.” Her voice carried a distinct edge, and she looked away as she replied, as if she could not bear the sight of him.
    Christien watched her a long moment, noting the tightness at the corners of her mouth and firm clasp of her hands in front of her. His gaze wandered to the luscious, peachlike curve of her cheek, the tender, blue-veined valley between her breasts that was exposed by the rounded neckline of her gown. He swallowed, clearing his throat and collecting his thoughts before he could frame the question in his mind.
    “Is something wrong?” he asked after a second. “Or, perhaps I should say, something more?”
    “Of course not.”
    “I’m not sure I believe that. If you’ve changed your mind…”
    “It isn’t that.”
    “But there is something. Come, out with it. I can’t fight what I can’t see.”
    The look she gave him was scathing. “Nor can you help being male or going about your so very male business at all hours.”
    “Ah,” he said, studying the accusation in the blue depths of her eyes. “You know I left the house last night.”
    “I saw you go.”
    “And you think the worst.”
    “It’s usually correct, in my experience.”
    “But you have no experience with me. If I tell you I couldn’t sleep after my long evening nap and the excitement that interrupted it, that I went into town to pack the remainder of my things and arrange my affairs in order to be more settled here, would you believe me?”
    She stared at him with doubt in her eyes, and who could blame her? His explanation might be true in part, but left out much. That it couldn’t be helped did not make it easier to stand behind the lie of omission.
    “You’re quite right,” she said abruptly, “I don’t know you at all.” Turning from him, she leaned her back against the trunk of the great oak that spread its protective umbrella overhead. “It’s wrong to judge you based on other men. I’ve been meaning to tell you…to say that I regret screaming at you like a fishwife on the night we met. You had done nothingto deserve it, and everything to earn my eternal gratitude. It’s just that I was so…so shaken and terrified for Marguerite that I hardly knew what I was saying.”
    “You were also embarrassed to be the focus of so much attention. You’ve had, I think, more of such public notice than is comfortable.” His attempt to pass it off was sincere enough; her gratitude was not what he