shirt to mend.’
‘Then carry on.’
Breathing became more painful, and Sir Leo gave her a moment to wipe her forehead with the back of her hand and then, defiantly, to unbutton her vest and fling it into a corner while reflecting that, with one more hit like the last, his esteem would be tainted for ever. Meanwhile, she would taunt him by showing him a little more of what he would never truly own.
Summoning all her strength, feet sliding and dancing in and out of their combined sword-length, blades clicking and squealing, rarely apart, Phoebe used every trick she had learnt both to defend herself from his relentless attacks and to make some impression on his phenomenal stamina. Recoiling, feeling the waves of exhaustion ready to overwhelm her, she heard her rasping breaths being forced out in gasps, betraying her sheer desperation. Reminded of what she stood to lose and win, she fought on with grim resolution. From the corner of her eye she could see portraits of the Dysart ancestors looking down on their descendants, whose hands covered their mouths, the black-and-white chequered floor blurring into grey, the impassive expression of her opponent, remorseless in his pursuit of victory, sparing her nothing. His lithe body was like a taut bow, perfectly toned and balanced, smooth and agile, trained to fight since he was nine years old. She knew he could continue to fence for hours, and that she could not.
Without mercy, his next attack drove her across the room, allowing her to do the same to him on purpose to tire her, to jolt and jar her arm still more until the pain almost blinded her. Confusion returned as her three years of training began to slip away, her beautiful balletic sword-play to coarsen into clumsiness, her rapier weighing as heavy as a pole-axe. Her legs trembled and sweat dripped into her eyes as his charge beat her back, sliding and slithering until, unable to hold her rapier up to him a moment longer, she was stopped by the discarded billiard table at her back.
‘Drop your sword,’ he commanded.
Shapes swam before her eyes, her lungs sucked at the air, noisily, stinging her with the effort. ‘No,’ she croaked.
‘D’ye want me to mark ye, then?’ he snapped. ‘I said drop it!’
She felt the prick of his sword under her chin, and it occurred to her then that she had better obey him. But there was still another raging voice that denied what was obvious to everyone else, a voice that came through the years of seeking revenge. As her fingers relaxed their grip on the pommel, the clatter of steel on the floor accompanied her breathless howls of fury and despair. ‘No…no…no! I will not!’
Holding his rapier to one side to prevent anyone’s approach, Sir Leo circled her waist with his free arm, pushing her head on to his shoulder with his own while effectively silencing her cries that filtered through the whispers of the crowd.
‘The contest is awarded to Sir Leo Hawkynne,’ called the Duke, though neither of the contestants heard him. Nor did they need to. For Phoebe, defeat was in Sir Leo’s hard possessive kiss, his arm across her aching shoulders, the heat of him through the fine linen of her shirt, the firm pressure of his thighs against her body. Defeat was in her arms hanging like lead weights and her legs, numbed and boneless. Defeat was in her capture before the shocked I-told-you-so audience, and the sudden lift into his arms as he scooped her useless feet off the floor and carried her through the hall to the stairs.
Helpless with exhaustion, Phoebe kept her eyes closed, vaguely aware of each turn of the staircase and of the scent of Sir Leo’s exertions, and she knew with increasing humiliation that if ever he were to tell her how difficult the contest had been for him, he would be lying to lessen her pain. But she would bring his pride crashing down, she would force that apology from him, and she would cost him dear in misery before she would give herself willingly. Of
‘Then carry on.’
Breathing became more painful, and Sir Leo gave her a moment to wipe her forehead with the back of her hand and then, defiantly, to unbutton her vest and fling it into a corner while reflecting that, with one more hit like the last, his esteem would be tainted for ever. Meanwhile, she would taunt him by showing him a little more of what he would never truly own.
Summoning all her strength, feet sliding and dancing in and out of their combined sword-length, blades clicking and squealing, rarely apart, Phoebe used every trick she had learnt both to defend herself from his relentless attacks and to make some impression on his phenomenal stamina. Recoiling, feeling the waves of exhaustion ready to overwhelm her, she heard her rasping breaths being forced out in gasps, betraying her sheer desperation. Reminded of what she stood to lose and win, she fought on with grim resolution. From the corner of her eye she could see portraits of the Dysart ancestors looking down on their descendants, whose hands covered their mouths, the black-and-white chequered floor blurring into grey, the impassive expression of her opponent, remorseless in his pursuit of victory, sparing her nothing. His lithe body was like a taut bow, perfectly toned and balanced, smooth and agile, trained to fight since he was nine years old. She knew he could continue to fence for hours, and that she could not.
Without mercy, his next attack drove her across the room, allowing her to do the same to him on purpose to tire her, to jolt and jar her arm still more until the pain almost blinded her. Confusion returned as her three years of training began to slip away, her beautiful balletic sword-play to coarsen into clumsiness, her rapier weighing as heavy as a pole-axe. Her legs trembled and sweat dripped into her eyes as his charge beat her back, sliding and slithering until, unable to hold her rapier up to him a moment longer, she was stopped by the discarded billiard table at her back.
‘Drop your sword,’ he commanded.
Shapes swam before her eyes, her lungs sucked at the air, noisily, stinging her with the effort. ‘No,’ she croaked.
‘D’ye want me to mark ye, then?’ he snapped. ‘I said drop it!’
She felt the prick of his sword under her chin, and it occurred to her then that she had better obey him. But there was still another raging voice that denied what was obvious to everyone else, a voice that came through the years of seeking revenge. As her fingers relaxed their grip on the pommel, the clatter of steel on the floor accompanied her breathless howls of fury and despair. ‘No…no…no! I will not!’
Holding his rapier to one side to prevent anyone’s approach, Sir Leo circled her waist with his free arm, pushing her head on to his shoulder with his own while effectively silencing her cries that filtered through the whispers of the crowd.
‘The contest is awarded to Sir Leo Hawkynne,’ called the Duke, though neither of the contestants heard him. Nor did they need to. For Phoebe, defeat was in Sir Leo’s hard possessive kiss, his arm across her aching shoulders, the heat of him through the fine linen of her shirt, the firm pressure of his thighs against her body. Defeat was in her arms hanging like lead weights and her legs, numbed and boneless. Defeat was in her capture before the shocked I-told-you-so audience, and the sudden lift into his arms as he scooped her useless feet off the floor and carried her through the hall to the stairs.
Helpless with exhaustion, Phoebe kept her eyes closed, vaguely aware of each turn of the staircase and of the scent of Sir Leo’s exertions, and she knew with increasing humiliation that if ever he were to tell her how difficult the contest had been for him, he would be lying to lessen her pain. But she would bring his pride crashing down, she would force that apology from him, and she would cost him dear in misery before she would give herself willingly. Of
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