Bisclavret

Chapter 9

Rufus stands there, staring at me, waiting.

I clear my throat and break eye contact. "Forgive us the intrusion at such an early hour, my good sir. Would you mind putting your shirt back on?"

He snorts. "It's my forge. You're the ones barging in here at this ungodly hour. Why should I?"

I jerk my head behind me, where Livy still shelters. "She's sixteen."

He lets out a rough sound, but I see him set the hammer down out of the corner of my eye. His long legs carry him swiftly to the chair where his shirt hangs. I nearly sigh in relief as he jerks it on.

"Forgive me for my state of undress," he says, but the words are wooden, and he clearly doesn't mean them.

I glance at him to gauge his mood and wish I hadn't. He might not look like them, but he reminds me of the baron and Lord Giroux. What a strange refuge we've found, one filled with large men with glittering eyes that frighten me nearly as much as the sans culottes.

"What can I help you with?" the blacksmith asks, taking a seat on the rickety chair. Somehow, it holds his weight. He scoops up a wineskin propped against the chair leg and takes a deep pull.

I meet his eyes over the top of it. "I need eight well-balanced throwing knives, two rapiers light enough for women, and two blunted practice swords."

He splutters in response, wine spraying the dirt floor between us. Livy and I hastily step back to avoid staining our cloaks.

"What the devil for?" he says, wiping his mouth.

Livy finally pops out from behind me. "That is no way to speak to a lady!"

He places his hand on his heart. "My apologies." His gaze returns to me as he stands, looming over us in the forge light. "What the devil for, my lady?"

"Well, I never," Livy says, and I can feel the thunderhead developing beside me. This situation is rapidly deteriorating. "When my mother hears of –"

She cuts off mid-sentence as Rufus clears the distance between us in two long strides. I slip my hand into my pocket, not taking my eyes from his shockingly green ones as my fingers unhitch my holster. Even furious, he's heart-stoppingly beautiful, but what in the name of heaven has made him so angry?

He stops so close to me that his boots touch the hem of my dress, and I have to crane my head back to look up at him. I've met men like him before, who use their size and strength to intimidate anyone smaller, anyone they perceive as weaker. Too bad for him it won't work on me. Not after everything I've been through.

"We were nearly killed while traveling here," I tell him, meeting his gaze head-on as I slip my pistol from its holster. My heart slams against my ribs, but somehow, I manage to keep my voice even. "My sister doesn't want to remain helpless if there's a next time. I've agreed to teach her how to fight. Would you leave us defenseless in the hands of republican troops?"

He frowns. "Are you Isabelle?"

Shock ripples through me. How does he know my name? I fight the urge to step back from him. He's still too close, and I can feel the heat radiating from him as if he's a forge himself. His eyes search my face, still shaded by my cowl.

"I'll make what you need," he says, turning away.

My exhale is shaky from relief. "How much for the work?"

He gives me the amount, and it's half of what it should be. I slip the gun back into my holster with trembling fingers, glad his back is to me, and he doesn't see it.