‘Damn you, what’s the matter with you?’ he snapped in frustration. ‘I don’t want to hurt you any more. Listen, it is I. The imbecile. Remember?’
‘Parbleu,’ came from his still struggling victim. ‘You will release me at once, imbecile.’
‘Not until you release that dagger. Now drop it.’
A strangled sob escaped her as his thumb dug cruelly into the soft flesh of her wrist. Her fingers opened and the weapon fell from her nerveless grasp.
‘That’s better,’ said Gerald, and let her go.
In an instant, she turned on him. The struggle had dislodged the white wimple, which was evidently too large for her, and her black hair broke free, whirling like a whiplash about her head as her hands curled into fists, coming up to beat at his chest, her little teeth bared for attack.
‘Espèce de bête,’ she snarled. ‘Idiot!’
‘Enough, now! Softly, you little termagant,’ he ordered, seizing her wrists to hold her off. But his own ferocity was less now that she was disarmed.
‘Softly, you say?’ she uttered, raging. ‘Is it soft, the way you seize me from behind? Parbleu, my heart it is flown from my chest! Boom, boom, it goes, even now. Imbecile.’
‘Yes, I’m sorry about that,’ Gerald uttered in a rueful tone. ‘It could not be helped, whichever way I made my presence known. And I guessed you would attack if I startled you.’
‘You should be happy that you are not dead,’ she retorted, but with a diminution of the venom and fright in her voice.
He felt her relaxation and let go of her wrists. She grasped at the right one, massaging where his grip had been and Gerald hoped he had not bruised her.
‘How could I know that it is you?’ She peered at him in the darkness. ‘It is in truth you?’
‘Of course it is I.’
‘Where then is your uniform?’
‘I don’t wear it to balls.’
‘Eh bien, it is your fault entirely in this case. Easily I could have killed you. Just as I might have killed another, if he had come out.’
‘Ah, so you did come here to find someone,’ Gerald responded eagerly. ‘One of your countrymen, perhaps?’
The girl clammed up, the moon of her white face staring up at him in the darkness. Then she spoke, with a carelessness he instantly suspected.
‘I do not understand you.’
‘I think you understand me very well.’
He could just see the glare.
‘What do you want with me? Why did you catch me?’
‘You intrigue me,’ he told her frankly. His gaze dropped to the black garment that covered her. ‘For instance, why have you reverted to your nun’s habit for this particular adventure?’
‘That is easy. For a nun at night it is less dangerous than for the jeune demoiselle.’
Gerald eyed her. His vision was becoming accustomed to the faint light now and her features were clearer. She was trying to adjust the wimple, dragging at it and fighting with her loosened hair. The white veil had fallen to the ground and Gerald retrieved it for her.
‘And how is it that you have acquired this garb of a religieuse?’ he asked as she fitted the veil over her head.
‘From the convent, where else?’
‘It does not strike me that you can possibly have been in a convent.’
‘Ah, non?’ Her voice was neutral. ‘And why not?’
‘Because,’ Gerald said matter of factly, ‘convent-bred jeune demoiselles do not commonly know how to handle either pistols or daggers. You did not learn that in a convent.’
A giggle answered him. ‘Not from the nuns, no. But there are ways to learn more than a nun would teach.’
Fresh suspicion kindled in his breast. ‘Oh, are there? You are not quite alone in these adventures of yours, I take it.’ He thought a wary look came into her face, but it was difficult to be sure. ‘Come, I am concerned merely for your safety, you know. I am not prying for my own amusement.’
‘Then leave me to guard myself, and do not ask me questions any more,’ she snapped, and crouched down suddenly, searching about for her dagger.
‘No, you don’t.’
Gerald dropped down to join her just as her hand came up, clutching the handle. He grabbed her wrist and prised the weapon from her fingers, ignoring her other hand that clawed at his to try to retain the trophy. As he pocketed it, her open palm reached out and slapped his cheek.
‘Bête!’
Gerald caught her hand as she pulled it back to deliver another blow. Next instant he had her immobilised, her hands behind her back, her chest crushed to his, the white veil slipping once again.
‘Do that again,’ he said softly, ‘and I’ll make you sorry you ever came to England.’
‘And me,’ came the guttural response, ‘I will certainly murder you the very next time I am compelled to see your face.’
