Lord Crayle's Secret World. Lara Temple
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feels natural.’
She nodded again and turned, heading for the stairs. She needed air.
* * *
Michael took out the gun-cleaning kit absently and began cleaning the pistols with the ease of many years of practice. At least he now had an answer of sorts to Antonelli’s questions. Training women was distinctly different to training men.
If he had needed any further proof of her lack of experience, he had found it in the unconscious way she had accepted his touch. A more experienced female would either have made a show of modestly demurring or made the most of the situation. He almost wished she had done one or the other.
In some respects, training her had been easier than he would have thought. As she had been with Antonelli, she had been attentive and immediately responsive to his corrections. It wasn’t until the recoil had knocked her back against him that he had realised he had been far too comfortable touching her.
With his hand on the warm curve of her waist there had been a moment when it had seemed natural to pull her back against him, lean in and follow the faint, exotic scent of jasmine he could detect beneath the acrid smell of gunpowder. It had only been for a moment, but long enough to convince him he had been right—she was trouble. The fact that she was innocent trouble only made it worse.
Towards the end of Sari’s second week at the Institute her muscles were protesting after the unaccustomed exercise of daily fencing practice and her mind was crammed with assorted chemical formulas, social dictums and political doctrines. But she didn’t regret a second of it. For the first time in her life she felt a real sense of purpose. She told herself it was ridiculous to feel as if she truly belonged in this strange environment after little more than a week, but she just did.
She could hardly believe that a few weeks ago she had been drowning in fear and poverty and now her life had taken on a whole new glow of hope and purpose. Every evening she, Mina and George would sit in the small parlour of their new lodgings off Wilton Street in Pimlico, revelling in its cosy warmth. She had even allowed herself to buy two new books. She loved seeing the pleasure Mina derived from her new sewing basket and the relaxed smile on George’s face as he watched his wife stitching, his newspaper in hand. She only wished Charlie could be there with them, but at least when the school holidays arrived they would have a safe, warm home waiting for him. Every now and again the amazed realisation would bubble up in her—for now her family was safe and cosy and content. She was so happy it was almost suspect.
The only faint cloud on her sunny horizon was one she would hardly allow herself to consider. Every day as she entered the Institute and reported to Penrose for her daily schedule, she indulged in the guilty hope of another summons to the shooting gallery. When none came she told herself firmly that it was better that way. She needed to be focused and confident, and as much as she enjoyed the shooting range, there was something about the earl that left her raw.
Other than that, she was increasingly comfortable with her instructors and their strange whims, but Antonelli and Deakins were still her clear favourites. Between her other assignments she spent every moment she could in the salle or in Deakins’s lab. Therefore in the break between her classes that Thursday she entered the salle as usual to see what Antonelli was doing. She almost withdrew when she realised Lord Crayle was fencing with O’Brien, one of the senior agents, while Antonelli and another agent, Morton, watched. The two men fencing didn’t notice her as she entered, but Antonelli smiled and motioned her to silence as she leaned back against the wall to watch.
They were both skilled, but Crayle was clearly a fencer of a higher order. His moves were economical but powerful and within the first few minutes it was clear O’Brien would lose the encounter. Antonelli kept well back, not making his usual comments.
Sari was enthralled by the grace of the game. It was obvious Crayle could end it when he wished, but he withdrew from each potential hit, allowing O’Brien to recover. His skill matched even Antonelli’s, who had been fencing for over thirty years. And yet there was something more dangerous in his swordplay, a contained force that threatened to break through with each riposte, all the more formidable for being held in check.
Their shirtsleeves were rolled up and Sari could clearly see the muscles of the earl’s forearm tense and flex with each strike and parry. From watching the foil she found herself drawn to the dance of shadows along his arm. It glistened with perspiration, its firm lines cording as he drove his opponent back. It was as if she had never seen a man’s arm before, had never realised it must have a unique texture with the unyielding muscle, the smooth glide of warm skin and silky dark hair.
A peculiar heat rose in her, just skimming the inside of her skin and leaving her strangely cold outside. Her gaze was glued to the fluid, brutal moves as O’Brien was consistently destroyed, stroke by methodical stroke. She held her breath as Lord Crayle pushed O’Brien back almost to the edge of the strip. Then suddenly, with a slight flick of the earl’s wrist, O’Brien’s foil went flying and landed with a clatter at Antonelli’s feet.
O’Brien leaned over, resting his hands on his knees as he drew breath.
‘Damn you for a pitiless bastard, Major.’ He chuckled breathlessly as he straightened, pushing back a damp lock of hair from his forehead.
‘You asked for the meet, O’Brien,’ the earl pointed out with a smile, leaning the tip of his foil on the strip and flexing it.
‘So I did. Never did have an ounce of sense in this Irish brain of mine,’ O’Brien returned good-humouredly as he bent to pick up his foil. ‘Here, Jack, care to try your luck?’
‘No, thank you,’ Morton answered with a slow smile. ‘I’d rather go and swim in a peat bog.’
The two men had turned to Morton and noticed Sari.
‘What are you doing here?’ the earl asked, clearly surprised by her unexpected appearance, and Sari pushed herself away from the wall nervously.
‘Nothing. Just watching.’
‘Shouldn’t you be in some lesson or another?’ he asked, slipping his foil back into the rack.
‘I am between lessons, my lord,’ she answered, somewhat offended by his indifferent tones. ‘I am not playing truant if that is what concerns you.’
‘I see no harm in the signorina observing, Michael,’ Antonelli interjected mildly.
‘There is harm in her wandering around the Institute at will,’ Michael replied, a hint of impatience entering his voice. Sari felt strangely hurt.
‘I was not wandering around,’ she replied. ‘Signor Antonelli said I could watch the other men fence if I wished. There is nothing wrong with that.’
He didn’t even turn to acknowledge her comment, but continued to address Antonelli. ‘You shouldn’t encourage her to come in here at any time other than for her lessons. For her own protection.’
Sari felt a humiliated blush wash over her and tried to salvage some dignity.
‘If you have issue with anything I do, you may direct it to me, my lord.’
Michael turned to survey her.
‘May I, now?’ he asked with deceptive smoothness. ‘Very well, Miss Trevor. I have issue with you entering the salle at any time other than for your lessons. Or frankly going anywhere in the Institute except where you are expressly directed to go.’
Sari knew she should not react. The three other men were watching the exchange with interest and her sensible side told her the best thing to do would be to accept his rebuke and leave. But the gap between his behaviour towards her in the shooting gallery the previous week and his current dismissal hurt more than she could understand. Perversely, a wave of angry resentment bubbled up inside her.
‘I hadn’t realised I posed such a threat to the Institute’s