Chapter Eight

"T he first rule if I'm to train you is you must stop calling me monsieur ."

Nicolas planted his fists on his hips and straightened his shoulders, the stance he assumed to hand out lessons to his savate students. No matter if they were bigger than he was, adopting a posture of authority always persuaded them to listen more than the rules of politeness dictated. That and beating them soundly in the ring if they questioned his skill.

Though he was almost a head taller than Violette, for some reason, he needed to assert his position. Perhaps because none of his previous students had eyes quite so mesmerizing. Or lips so soft and delicate as rose petals. Or tantalizing curves that plain gray wool didn't manage to hide. Get a hold of yourself, man.

"In the ring, we only use our given names," he continued. "I may be the teacher, but if my students call me monsieur , they won't want to punch me as badly."

Violette frowned. "I'm supposed to want to punch you?"

He grinned. "Believe me, you'll soon be dying to do it."

Spots of red bloomed on her cheeks. Easy to fluster, this one. Much too easy for his own good.

"What shall I call you, then?" she asked.

"Nicolas. Or Lefevre, whichever you prefer."

"Nicolas." The three syllables rolled off her tongue like music. "Will you call me Violette, then?"

She was already Violette in his mind. Not mademoiselle . Not her fancy aristo surname. Just Violette, with her beautiful eyes and lavender scent.

"Or De la Roque, if you'd like," he replied. "It's a good fighting name. Tough. Spectators like that."

Her lips stretched into a small smile of contained amusement, but it reached her gaze in a gentle glimmer. Something seized in his chest. For a moment, the mask of worry and suspicion had lifted, giving him a glimpse of youthful, luminous charm.

Good Lord if life had not been so cruel to this woman… He shook the thought away. They all had to play the hands dealt to them. And this was precisely what he was here for.

"Violette is fine," she said. "I don't think I'll be fighting in the ring any time soon."

Nicolas unbuttoned the top of his collar. "Well, you'd have to get rid of those skirts, for one."

The flush returned to her cheeks and spread to her creamy neck. God help him, he couldn't help but wonder if other parts of her body would take on a similar hue in more pleasant circumstances. Tell her that, and she might just scratch your face off before you even start.

He cleared his throat. "For now, a basic exercise will do." He grabbed her shoulders to position her directly in front of him, at arm's length. Devil take it, as appetizing as her womanly curves were, her shoulders were nothing but skin and bones. When was the last time she'd eaten properly? "Make fists and plant your feet solidly on the ground. Then try to touch me."

She raised an eyebrow. "You mean punch you?"

"No. Touch me." His words came out raspy. "You have to learn to walk before you can run."

Her eyes blazed at his challenge, and she curled her fingers. She aimed for his gut. He blocked her hand effortlessly and shoved it back. She pressed her lips together and tried again. Her fist landed smack in the center of his palm. Again, and again, in quick succession. Deflecting her efforts was as easy as batting away a shuttlecock.

Too easy. Her gaze betrayed her intention every time, and she moved too slowly. She increased her pace, but only managed to narrow her range. She snarled through her teeth at every dull thump of her fists.

Finally, she dropped her hands. "Blast."

"Catch your breath and try again. But this time, don't look where you're aiming."

"I have to," she said. "I need to aim properly."

"No. For now, you only need to touch me, and I'm a rather large target, wouldn't you say?"

She ran her gaze over him, up and down, before averting it again. "Indeed."

"Besides, it should be easy for you. You already know how to move your hands without watching, or else you wouldn't be much of a pickpocket."

She turned her nose up at him. "That's not the same thing."

"How is it different?"

"Stealing requires stealth. Discretion." From the corner of his eye, he caught her hands curling back into fists. "Growing up, I was taught to be seen and not heard, to speak only when spoken to, to walk in a soft and ladylike manner. I… I started stealing small objects just to see how quiet and unnoticeable I could be. Or even if I could disappear altogether. It gave me a strange sense of satisfaction. So when I offered my services to the Boneman to repay my brother's debts…"

Her brother? The information prickled his curiosity, but also inflamed his anger. What kind of wastrel would leave his own sister in the hands of a monster like Estienne?

"Was it drink, then? Gambling? Women? Or any combination of the three."

Her eyes hardened. "Drink. Emile should never have come here. He wasn't ready for it, not when we were orphaned and already struggling to get by. Paris ate him alive."

Her tone was almost accusing, as if he had something to do with it. Or maybe she simply resented the fact that some people were better equipped to survive life in this formidable chaos of a city.

"Believe me, I understand more than you know. But I can see why the Boneman put you to work picking pockets. Your talent is undeniable."

Or else Estienne would have found another use for her. The flame of fury spread within like wildfire. Why had Violette been spared so far? Surely such a beauty could earn more entertaining wealthy clients than she would picking pockets. Unless Estienne was negotiating with several interested parties and trying to drive up the price—auctioning off her virginity if such was the case.

He could not bear to tell her. Could not bear to even think of it. But he couldn't remain silent, either.

"The debt will never be repaid," he said quietly. "You know that, don't you?"

Violette nodded, her eyes filled with sorrow. "If I leave my brother to his fate, they'll kill him. Emile is a coward and a drunk, but he's the only family I have left. And I have nowhere else to go."

His own brother's face rose to the surface of his mind. Leonard . The years had robbed Nicolas of the memory of Leo's voice, but some images were as vivid as ever. The quick work of his hands when he kneaded dough. The blazing fires of the bread oven casting a glow on his ruddy face and blond hair. His booming laugh—so similar to their father's.

Would he have sacrificed himself to save Leo if he could have? Or his father? A pointless question. The Revolutionary Tribunal was more ruthless that the Boneman and Malenfant put together, and the Widow never missed her mark.

But Leo had been a good man. A brave man, right up until the end. From what Violette was telling Nicolas, the same could not be said for Emile.

No, he must find a way to get her out. Preferably without everyone involved ending up in Montparnasse Cemetery.

Walk before you learn to run. Training first, then scheming.

"All right," he said. "Try again. And if you don't want to be tempted to look…"

He took a scarf from his pocket. Her eyes widened. Was she going to back down now? But almost immediately, her gaze hardened again.

"Fine. Whatever you think is best."

*

Tap. Tap. Thump.

On her fourth try, her knuckles landed in the brocade cloth of Nicolas's waistcoat, the fabric soft against her skin. A warm sense of accomplishment filled her. At last. It had taken three lessons in the basement of the brothel, but she'd done it.

With any luck, she could do it again. And again.

"Good. Very good. Turn around."

Nicolas worked to untie the knot at the back of her skull. "You see now, don't you? Savate isn't about brute strength. If it were, you would not stand a chance against Lenoir or any other of the Boneman's thugs. Speed and deception. Count on those. Make your enemy underestimate you. Lead him to expect one move and then—"

She whirled, arm outstretched, and almost hit his flank, but Nicolas's fingers curled around her wrists, stilling her hands. By God, he was quick. Quicker than she'd imagined. And the pressure of his fingertips on the delicate skin of her inner wrists…

Almost gentle, yet his underlying strength buzzed through every nerve ending. Made her crave a different sort of touch, one she had never experienced before, an idea that glimmered darkly but remained shrouded in mystery, out of reach. She pulled out of his grasp and batted at the locks of hair that had fallen from her chignon.

His gaze followed the movement of her hands. "Well done. You almost had me there."

There it was again, growing stronger. A feeling she couldn't name bloomed in her chest and tugged deep in her body. Pride? There was pride in it, something she thought she'd forgotten. Pride mixed with something. Something new and daunting.

"Now you're ready to learn where to aim," Nicolas continued, and pointed to a spot in the center of his chest. "Put your hand here."

She drew closer and placed her palm on his breastbone. Heavens, the heat of his skin radiated through his shirt. Burning, like she thought it would be. And the warmth coiled up her arm, gliding over her own skin. She sucked in a breath.

She met his gaze. His eyes burned even more, like emerald flames that pierced straight through her.

"Press harder," he murmured. "Do you feel that hollow just between the ribs?"

She shook her head. His solid muscles felt like rock under her touch.

" Harder ."

She pushed with all her might. Finally, she felt it. A slight indent between the bones and the hard knots of muscle. She snatched her hand back. Her head was spinning, her limbs heavy. Water. She needed water.

"There are three places you must aim for with hard, purposeful blows," he continued. "This spot on the chest with a solid forward punch. Then the nose, upwards with the base of your palm." The corner of his mouth lifted. "The third will require a kick."

Violette smiled. "A kick, or a knee? I imagine Suzanne could teach me that one. Though I was wondering if you were planning on teaching me how to use my legs and feet."

"Certainly. Go ahead and kick me right now."

Without warning, she whipped her toe upward. Before she could make contact with his shin, his hand wrapped around her knee, grip tightening to hold her in place. Her other leg wobbled. A steadying arm prevented her fall.

"You're not steady enough yet." His voice was low and thick, as if he too was struggling to keep his thoughts clear. "It's all about balance."

"Balance," she repeated blankly, for it was impossible to form a sentence with his hand holding her knee and the other splayed on the small of her back and oh …

He released her leg abruptly. "Hands first, then feet. But by all means, go ask Suzanne for a trick or two."

Violette rolled her shoulders and straightened her back. "Perhaps it might help me if I came to see a real savate match. That way I could see how your other students apply your techniques. Or how you fight."

"You wish to go to a match surrounded by blood-thirsty, screaming louts?" He laughed. "Forgive me for thinking that isn't a very sound plan."

"Why not? If you were there…"

She would feel safe. As if his very presence might ward off those who wished to harm her. Foolish girl. This isn't a fairy tale, and he's no prince.

Still, her curiosity prodded at her, conjured images of Nicolas in the ring, facing a rival as quick and ruthless as he was. What would it be like to see him in action, feet dancing, arms jabbing and slashing through his rival's defenses? Sweat gleaming on his skin…

" Savate matches take place at night, in any case." Nicolas smoothed his waist coat with his palms. "Impractical."

"At Saint Aphrodise, then."

He sighed. "We'll see. Come then, that's enough for today."

His expression closed off. No use insisting, but he had not deterred her. On the contrary. Their daily meetings had lit a flame in her like a bellows fanning embers to life. She managed to conceal it, to keep it burning low when she wasn't with him. Emile had finally returned, but he slept through the morning and had not even noticed her absence, and Lenoir had seemed satisfied with the pickings of her last two outings.

Find a way. Heed your desire. Now that she'd tasted victory, however small, she wanted more.

"Go on," she told Nicolas. "I'm staying a bit. Could you send Suzanne down here?"

He nodded. "At your service."

Moments later, Suzanne sauntered down to the ballroom with a smile. "Nicolas told me you needed my help with something."

"Two things, actually. Though the second one you'll have to keep to yourself. It's a bit… bold."

Suzanne's smile widened to a grin. "Bold, you say? I know a thing or two about that."