A glint at his side alerted him just in time. A saber flew through the air at his face. He caught it, his heart galloping in his chest and hammering in his ears. That had been too close. He could not afford any distraction.
Alex laughed and urged on her crew’s bawdy cheers. Coins clinked and bets were cast.
Darcy balanced the saber in his hand, testing its weight and fit. Sailors scrambled to the edges of the deck or up the rigging, eager to see the action up close and shouting taunts from the lines above Darcy’s head.
The crowded deck was nothing like the fencingsalons he knew. It was cramped, close quarters. Not only would Darcy have to focus on Alex, but he would have to pay attention to his surroundings lest he hurt a sailor or stumble over a rope. There was a hatch in the middle of the deck. The main mast provided another obstacle. Boons and ropes…. He continued taking note of the details while he waited for Alex to signal the start of their fight.
She signaled with a charge.
Darcy warded off her blows, studying her over the next several minutes, letting her tire. Fencing was a skill which required as much thought as it did strength and endurance. She was skilled—of that there was no doubt. She held her weapon confidently and delivered her blows soundly. But it did not take long for Darcy to see his advantage. Alex fought as he had imagined she might—as he had hoped she would—all fury and bluster.
If he could make her angry or frustrate her, he could make his move.
She feigned left, trying to provoke a reaction.
Darcy smiled at himself. He could do this all day. His strength had always been in keeping his head when under pressure. He did not react.
The crew shouted and roared when her bluff was exposed as the empty threat it was.
Nostrils flared, Alex twirled, lunged, and thrust with greater force. Sweat poured downDarcy’s face and back as he parried, bided his time, and waited for her frustration to reach its peak.
Her breath came in quick heaves and her cheeks were red from exertion, but she was strong. She advanced.
Darcy retreated, seeing his opportunity the closer he got to the mainmast. When one more step would have pinned him against the unforgiving surface, he pivoted around the mast to the other side, shuffling his feet as quickly as they could move.
He heard her frustrated screech.
Now! Darcy attacked, advancing relentlessly, thrust and lunge, again and again. Metal clanging against metal; blades flying; sweat stinging his eyes.
Her parries got sloppy, and Darcy surged forward, knowing that her wrists were weakening. He almost had her against the foresail, and she knew it. Her eyes widened.
Still, he continued, thrust-parry-block-lunge-thrust-thrust. He had her now. One more blow, and her saber would fly from her hands. He raised his arm, putting all of his weight in the movement because he would not fail Elizabeth now.
Alex dodged down to the deck, one hand gripping a rope. Before Darcy could change his stance, she whipped it around his feet and pulled.
He toppled to the deck like a felled tree, the breath knocked out of him, his saber still in his hand.
Elizabeth shouted, but he could not hear her over the louder crew.
Vision filled with blue sky, ropes, and sails, Alex’s shadow fell over him, and he felt the sole of her boot, then her weight on his wrist.
He gripped the saber harder.
She stepped down harder, twisting her foot.
Darcy’s bones shifted and cracked, his fingers had gone numb, but he did not loosen his grip.
Alex reached down and pried the saber from his hands with her fingernails, holding the weapon up triumphantly.
Darcy rolled to his side, trying to catch his breath and recover the feeling in his arm.
Elizabeth now stood at his head. “You did not win. You did not play by the rules.”
Alex laughed. “Me ship, me rules.”
“You gave your word.”
“I lied.”
