Disclaimer: Cameron and Eglee own Dark Angel; no copyright infringement intended.

Summary: M and L in early 17th century London. Can true love withstand the test of time, not to mention my attempt at Romance writing?

A/N: Many thanks for the feedback, but you should know better than to encourage me. In this chapter I make if as far as "sculpted chest." Hey, it's only chapter 2—let's at least have some pretence of literary justification for what's about to arise in chapter 3.

Title:  Loveless in London

Chapter 2: The Best Made Plans…

Logan stepped into the parry and instantly felt his shoulder muscles scream in protest. Damn Drimsdale! He should have left him in the drunken heap in which he had landed after Logan hauled him out of the tavern the previous evening instead of lugging the ignorant bastard home. Alone in the dark city street, the count would have been easy prey for thieves and murderers. Not that he didn't deserve to be taught a lesson after the lewd remarks he had made about Maxine. He just hoped he had interrupted Drimsdale's comments before they had reached the young maiden's ears.

"Aaarrggghhhh. Dammit Bling, the fencing vests aren't made of lead."

"From the way you are moving this morning one would almost swear they were. Perhaps milord's thoughts are not on the bout." The fencing master dodged gracefully to the side as Logan's blade swished through the air in a hasty counter attack. "So, who is she?" The flash of steel, as his blade cut through a shaft of sunlight streaming through the large windows of the fencing room, was almost as blinding as the immense African's broad smile. "The only time I manage two points in as many minutes against you is when you are lovesick. Now, focus."

Logan lunged forward, dropping one hand to the floor and darting under the oncoming foil. Stepping back, Bling recovered quickly and moved back into the en garde position with the grace of a panther. Stiff muscles forgotten, Logan launched into a new attack, the blades sending shards of light reflecting off the mirror-lined walls.

"That's better. Focus."

Focus. A word Bling repeated endlessly in each training session since the morning, two years ago, when Logan had failed to avoid an obvious move and the side of the fencing master's foil had sliced into his neck. A fraction more to the left and he wouldn't have had to endure the tirade the shaken man had launched at him. Not that he had cared; a fraction more to the left would have been a mercy on that particular morning. Although, he had doubted his broken heart would have been capable of pumping enough blood to make the wound fatal. No, Valerie had bled him dry—body, soul and wallet—before informing him over dinner, and her usual one and a half bottles of wine, that she was leaving him for an Italian count with a large bank account and, judging by the size of his Sicilian vineyards, and even larger wine cellar.

The swords tangled in a lightening parry and Logan allowed his blade to glide along his opponent's, his body moving forward into the attack.

"So, you did learn something in Paris." Bling's voice boomed in delight above the clash of steel on steel.

He had learned a lot during his two year exile in Europe, as his heart had scarred over and become just another item that the new world of science was beginning to understand; an efficient muscle at the center of the human circulatory system, not the seat of emotion and love and such nonsense.

Logan countered Bling's diagonal parry with an expert riposte that backed the ebony skinned man dangerously close to the wall of mirrors. His swordplay, along with his intellect had improved greatly in the free-thinking capital of France. As had his love life. No more strings and attachments, just romantic interludes with free spirited, educated, independent women—women English society would never produce, at least not in his lifetime. 

"Point!"

Bling raised his hands in acknowledgement of the hit and smiled at his young student. "Excellent form, it seems your new life agrees with you."

Logan returned Bling's salute and the two men turned to exit the salle. His new life did agree with him. He was a man in charge of his own destiny in a new world, the rules of which were now beginning to be examined and understood: a world with no room for vague and improvable concepts such as love. He just needed to focus, focus on what was real, not on the beats the center of his circulatory system seemed to have skipped when he had laid eyes on that beautiful, olive skinned, raven haired maiden with Shakespeare last evening. No, that was just idle fancy in a moment of distraction.

He laughed as Bling threw a congratulatory arm around his shoulder and relished his hard earned victory. No room for distraction in the life of Logan Cale; man of science and more than adequate swordsman. At least Maxine would be a distraction easily avoided. He, unlike Drimsdale and his ilk, would never use his rank to seek out and take advantage a defenseless, innocent maid. He could safely ignore an isolated heart skipping incident, which was probably just the result of indigestion anyway. He would never see Maxine again.

"Some water milord?" The soles of his boots screeched to a halt on the gleaming wooden floor.

She stood in the doorway casually holding a serving tray, decked out in the garb of the Cale family servants, olive skinned, dark haired and—oh crap—heart stopping.

*****

Max smiled sweetly and attempted to examine her master through respectfully downcast eyes. Damn, yet another maid skill to learn. She would have sighed, but-- as Normal, the pain-in-the-neck and ever present head servant, had already informed her three times that morning—that was not actually a sanctioned maid skill, even if it was "the only bloody thing she was good at."  However she, as would any woman worth her salt, had felt justified in sighing over emptying chamber pots and airing out bed linens. Not to mention scouring breakfast pots and pans and feeding master Logan's Irish wolf hound a meal that made her meager breakfast look like left over pig slop. Indeed, she wasn't entirely sure it hadn't been left over pig slop. As cook had been busy explaining since her arrival that morning, in language that even the Royal Navy would have frowned upon, the stately abode of Lord and Lady Jonas Cale was not know for its enlightened treatment of its serving staff. Max sighed.

Not that master Logan was guilty of any ignorance in his treatment of the household underlings. Cook had waxed on ad nauseam about the young gentleman's kindness and fair treatment of the unfortunate serving class in his luxurious and decadent home. Why, master Logan had gone as far as to defend Max's predecessor from the lecherous clutches of Lord Jonas himself. An act which had not endeared him to his filthy rich uncle. Of course, master Logan had also defended the keys of the liquor cabinet from the clutches of Normal, thus ensuring the continued supply of Cook's nighttime nip of, purely medical, ninety percent proof gin. Cook's beady eyes grew watery and soft as she explained how the sun, moon and stars positively radiated out of master Logan's arse. Still, Max had to admit as her eyes flitted surreptitiously to mirror behind the immobile and apparently speechless nobleman towering above her, a damn fine arse it was.

Quickly, she gathered her senses and resumed her reconnaissance mission of the Cale home; nothing of interest in the fencing salle. Except for the glistening chest hairs escaping the opening of that loose fitting white linen shirt and the expanse of sculpted chest the fine fabric clinging to sweat sheened skin did nothing to conceal. The water pitcher and mugs clinked dangerously. Stop it! Concentrate on the job at hand, not on some feeble minded girlish fancy. Downcast eyes remember. She was a maid in training and a thief casing the perfect cache. That toned abdomen, the solid hips, the powerful thighs clad in form fitting pants-- that were impossible to avoid at she innocently averted her gaze downward—were mere distractions.

Clink! Clink!

A strong hand steadied the tray in her faltering grasp and she felt heat burning her cheeks as long fingers brushed hers. Good God, she was an embarrassment to the thieving profession and Logan Cale was a…a wealthy, indulged, upper-class, chauvinistic male. Just a man, a man she could handle like any other. She grabbed the tray and with a toss of tangled curls stomped from the room. She was pretty sure tossing and stomping weren't high on the list of maidly attributes, a list Logan Cale could shove, along with the universe according to Cook, up his sainted behind.