ROMANTIC VENTURE

CHAPTER SEVEN

Maurette lay quietly upon her huge feather bed. She looked around her without comprehension at the velvet hangings, the fire crackling merrily in the hearth, the tall mullioned windows with the drapes closed against the damp night air. She turned onto her side and regarded her night table. A low-burning candle guttered musically, snapping and crackling. It cast its soft light on her comfit box and a leather-hound volume from which she read each night before retiring. All these familiar things surrounded her, and yet she felt far away from everything that was real. A strange emptiness had overpowered her when Dominic Warbrooke had accepted her challenge. >From the moment that she had struck him, she had experienced the feeling of being a disembodied Maurette watching with dispassion a separate identity. Her actions were somehow disconnected from her real self.

Edyth, Lady Elaine, Imogene, and Lady Violet had all gathered in her chamber to fuss over and console her. Elaine Harper had been consternated by the terrible outcome of the affair and had implored Maurette to disregard whatever offense she had taken to whatever the duke of Revenshead had said. No single cut was worth one's life, her mother had pleaded. Lady Violet and Edyth, in their older wiser fashion had simply reminded Maurette of the man's physical superiority and of his reputation as a villain. Maurette had sipped the tea that Imogene had brought her and had then quietly dismissed them all.

She did not have the heart to tell them that she was not afraid, that the Maurette they saw running around doing all those foolish things was, in no way, a part of the larger, watching, reasonable Maurette. A strange peace had overtaken her.

In her mind's eye, the other Maurette raced into the courtyard. She faced the raging anger of Dominic. Their clash of arms was warlike and belligerent. They scrambled wildly over the cobbled yard, he ploddingly powerful and she wickedly precise. The larger Maurette smiled as she continued to view, in her fantasy, the broiling fray. Pictures flashed in her mind and held. She, baring her teeth, coiled for an attack. She, thrusting Sinuously. She, lying on the cobbles of the courtyard, blood pouring from the gaping wound in her chest. Reality and fantasy suddenly merged, and Maurette sat bolt upright on her bed.

That Dominic could kill her had not become a cogent thought until this very moment. She had pictured the fight but had not really envisioned the outcome. Now she realized the worst. Her stomach lurched, and her heart pounded violently in her chest. The barbarian, the indomitable Raven, could kill her without compunction. Her eyes widened with a terrible fear and her small hand went to her throat. She gasped for breath. She must, she told herself in a frenzy of desperation, control her emotions. She attempted to breathe normally. Slowly the fire of her panic began to cool.

Slowly her mind began to pull away from her darker fears. She was not, she remembered herself, completely without resources. She did possess superior skills as a swordswoman. There was a possibility, though a farfetched one, that she could lay siege to the omnipotent Warbrooke. She would, she decided, give him the fight of his life.

She stood with new resolve. How could she have allowed the brute to lay her so low? She began to dress. She allowed her dressing gown to slip down over her slender hips and to lie in a filmy cloud around her feet. She snatched the flimsy cambric shirt that she had worn in the earlier contest with her father from a low stool. Shrugging into the softness of the pale gray blouse, she pictured the spectacle of the romantic pirate sprawled at her feet in abject submission. She would not kill him, she mused with anticipatory satisfaction, but his humiliation at being beaten by a woman would be death to such a man.

Maurette smiled at her fancy as she stepped into her black kid breeches. She had no true hope of such a fine retribution, but she had the satisfaction of the humiliation of his reputation. To find himself in the position of being forced to face a woman on the field of honor must be mortifying for the swaggering lout. This was Maurette's true victory over Dominic Warbrooke, she decided.

He must be awaiting the spectacle with dour dread. Maurette did not, as a rule, enjoy bringing men to such shame, but the brute, Warbrooke, deserved that and more.

Maurette caught the wide hem of her shirt inside her breeches and buttoned them. She surveyed herself in the cheval glass. Her outfit was suited to unrestrained movement. She tested its flexibility. The breeches were tight and molded themselves to every movement of her slender legs. The billowing sleeves of her cambric blouse were tightly cuffed at her wrists, and its collar was wide and open, allowing unimpeded movement of her shoulders and neck. Maurette pulled on her Spanish leather boots and smoothed the soft leather against her calves.

Her hair needed to be contained, for she would wear no protective mask to hold its amplitude in place. She struggled with the heavy mass, pining errant curls willy-nllly to the too of her bead. The resultant upsweeps, a mass of curls piled in wild disarray, was less than orderly or even vaguely stylish. Maurette smiled. She now looked every inch the wandering wench that she felt Dominic had envisioned when he kissed her in the courtyard, the same courtyard, she reflected with satisfaction, where he would meet, in one way or another, an ignoble defeat.

Dominic Warbrooke did not appear defeated or ignoble as he stood in the cold, predawn light of the courtyard. His silver-raven head was bared, and his full-length cape was draped with majestic abandon over one shoulder. In the wavering orange shadows of the flickering torchlight, he appeared to be a huge hellish creature awaiting with motionless resolve the appearance of its prey.

Arthur Warwick had offered Dominic his support as second and now strutted proudly on the periphery of the waiting crowd. The lad's sickening cockiness disgusted even those young men who had waited in awe as he had approached the notorious Raven with his offer. They had congratulated the honored young gallant when he had come back among them to boast of his success. But now his triumph paled in light of his apparent insensitivity to everything but his own fortune. Did he not realize, the young men wondered, the terrible reality that was to play itself out in this cold gray place? The lads had to shiver in fear for their beautiful and delicate Maurette. At the very least, she could come out of this horribly scarred. Warbrooke was less than a gentleman for even considering facing a, woman on the field of honor. No gentlemanly instincts could be counted upon, therefore, in the actual contest. Still, they wondered if even the beastly Warbrooke could bear to mar the beauty of the fair Maurette without a sting of conscience.

The women huddled together with Lady Elaine, offering her their support and sympathy. Lord Harper stood apart from the assemblage, his hand firmly on the hilt his sword. He knew that he could not have deterred either of the two combatants. He resolved that he would watch, for the moment. He was, however, tense and rigid with a further resolve. He was fully prepared to deliver a swift and merciless retribution if Warbrooke dared to injure his daughter. Warbrooke disgusted him, as it was. How the man had allowed this to happen was beyond Alex Harper's comprehension.

Lady Violet stood in her own circle with Edyth and Thelma, the cook in the Harper household, and several other servants. One young serving girl, a particular favorite of Maurette, wept bitterly and made great sobbing sounds which the other servants bade her stifle. 'Twould not do, they reminded her, to let the guests see such a lack of discipline among the Harper house people. 'Twould surely curse Lady Maurette's efforts in the bargain, she was told. She stopped and sniffled loudly, and Lady Violet, rolling her eyes to the diety, yielded up her handkerchief to the girl.

All eyes were now riveted on Maurette as she stood in the doorway of the house. She hesitated for a breadth of a moment before moving deliberately into the courtyard. The soft mist of the night before had dissipated, and now a cold rain began to fall. The spattering of the large drops on the cobblestones was the only sound as Maurette passed among the hushed assembly. No one moved except to allow her passage. Even Arthur Warwick stopped his preening and regarded with awe Maurette's courageous entrance. Her eyes were leveled upon her adversary; her concentration was complete. She stopped before the tall, caped figure who stood in isolation at the center of the yard.

"I have come to give you satisfaction," she said, her voice clear and steady.

Without a word, Dominic swept his cape from his shoulders and flung it in Arthur Warwick's direction. That young man nearly stumbled over his own feet to retrieve the heavy garment. Lord Harper started to speak, but Maurette held up her hand to stop him. She drew her sword and stood straight and implacable before her towering opponent. His features tautened as he gazed down on her. Her luminous white face, unprotected by a mask, might have been carved from the finest marble. Her eyes were like fiery chips of purple ice, and her small cleft chin was raised in magnificent defiance of the trial that she was about to undergo. She raised her sword arm slowly.

"En garde," she said softly.

Dominic drew his own sword and crossed hers with an almost delicate touch. "Your servant," he said. His lips were set in a firm line of determination and control. The combatants separated, their blades barely grazing. They circled slowly. Maurette thrust first. Dominic parried with a feathery clink of steel. Again Maurette thrust, and again the thrust was parried. They continued to circle, exchanging escalades. Their swordplay took on a fluid aura as though they moved in an eerie gavotte. Dominic parried one of Maurette's ripostes with determined ease, and she felt the hilt of her sword, now slick with the rain and her own perspiration, twist in her hand. For the first time in her life, she felt the sickening claw of fear in her belly.

Dominic advanced, his blade stinging hers. Maurette was backed inexorably across the wet cobbles. The crowd gasped as her foot slipped and she found herself faltering. Dominic relaxed his advance-though it continued-as she regained her footing. Nothing his momentary gallantry, Maurette feigned further clumsiness until she could gain a firm foothold. An excellent swordswoman, she suddenly lunged. Her swift and unexpected attack put Dominic at a disadvantage and he found himself retreating from the rapid thrusts of Maurette's aggressive blade. Unable to contain their joy, the crowd roared in approval. Maurette's concentration was keen, and she did not waver for momentary indulgence in the approbation of her friends. Her teeth bared and her eyes leveled upon her opponent, she lunged and thrust with avid tenacity. Dominic kept her blade at bay. His movements were frugal, and he was regarding her, after his initial surprise at her offensive, almost lazily.

Maurette was tiring. She had never fought so long, and she had never, she now suspected, endured the full strength of a man's resistance. Dominic's parries were forceful, and each time she felt his sword deflect her blade, her Wrist responded with almost unendurable pain. Her shoulder ached sickeningly. The horrible truth of the situation dawned upon her. Dominic could disarm and kill her at any moment. Why was he toying with her, she wondered. She did not let the question daunt her, however. She fought harder than she ever had. Her breath came in gasps, and her eyes blazed in determination.

As Dominic sensed her weakening, he advanced and retreated at will. Recognition swept over Maurette that his practiced moves were enhancing the appearance of her own. He was making her look more adept than she was. Her eyes widened and shot up to look directly into his, and she could not believe the tenderness she found there. Her guard lowered imperceptibly, and suddenly, inexplicably, the sword was roughly plucked from her aching hand to fall clattering to the ground. Dominic had somehow backed her to the stone wall, and the point of his sword was now at her throat.

As she stared up at him, her great eyes were limpid with fear and perplexity. She could not divine what would happen to her; she knew only that the silver gaze of Dominic Warbrooke might be the last thing she ever saw. He was very close to her now, the pressure of his blade against the White column of her arched throat causing her the most terrible fear she had ever known. Her breasts heaved and her bodice was darkly wet with the rain and the perspiration that had soaked through the thin cambric of her blouse. Her arms were at her sides, palms splayed on the rough gray stone behind her.

The crowd had stifled a horrified gasp at Maurette's defeat and now held its breath with expectant terror. No one moved, least of all Maurette, as she stared up into Dominic's inscrutable face. Eternity seemed suspended in the pale, sallow dawn.

Dominic's voice, when he finally spoke was unperturbed. "I shall now extract my satisfaction, my lady." The words sent a tremor through the crowd. Lady Elaine gasped and fainted. Alex Harper caught his wife in his strong arms, then turned her care over to several waiting women. His gaze remained fixed upon Dominic Warbrooke. Alex had no choice in this matter. He could no more allow his daughter to come to harm than he could have fought her battle. Honor be damned, he thought determinedly. If Warbrooke drew so much as one drop of blood from the tender body of his beloved daughter, Alex Harper would kill him.

"My satisfaction is this," Dominic said, his voice so soft that the assembly had to strain to hear. it. Their attention was riveted upon him, but he seemed not to notice. His own aspect, the full force of his powerful presence, was fixed on the brave and beautiful creature whom he now held fixed at the point of his blade. Seconds passed. "I demand that, for the period of one year, you agree to be my consort-my companion. That in all things you be my subjugate and that you give to me your support, service, and obeisance. And that you forbear all this with absolute equanimity, sufferance, and restraint."

Maurette drew in her breath even as the crowd gasped audibly. She twisted away from his blade in outrage but yielded in submission as its pressure was subtly increased. She breathed heavily, and one finely winged brow arched in anger. looking up into his hooded gaze, her eyes flashed amethyst sparks, and she thought fleetingly of accepting death at sword point. Seeing the hard flicker of savage determination in his silver gaze, she thought better of it and shored up her resolve. If she were killed, the battle between them would be over, but if she lived, she might one day find a way to humiliate him as he was now humiliating her. Perforce, this was not the victory the foul Warbrooke envisioned it to be. She drew a long breath.

"As a woman of honor," she said, not taking her eyes from him, "I do comply. If my acquiescence will appease your honor," she spat the word at him, "I do comply."

An almost imperceptible half-smile touched his lips as he held her at sword point for one last frozen second. Then, very slowly, he lowered his blade.

The voices of the assemblage rose in verbose horror at the man's infamy. Surface emotions were stridently expressed. As people broke up into smaller clusters, however, they were heard to whisper their fears for the delicate Maurette and her uncertain future.

Lady Elaine roused from her faint, and the women fell upon her to apprise her of the horror that had just passed. Alex Harper untensed his sword arm and stood in grim silence. In the chaotic seconds after the combat, Lady Violet moved out into the courtyard. There, she stood alone and silent in the cold rain.