“So,” she said, “are you as good a fencer as you are a marksman?”
He still couldn’t put a stopper on that smile. He shrugged. “I’m okay.”
“Why did you shoot like you did in Montana? Did you think I wouldn’t be able to handle it if you were better than me? And mind you, I’m not saying you are.”
The grin widened as he drew closer. “Of course not.”
“You obviously did poorly with that rifle on purpose. Why?”
He hesitated.
“I didn’t do it on purpose. I didn’t get much sleep the night before.”
“The rooster.”
And you in that catsuit.
“Yeah. The rooster. And you …” He hesitated, swallowing. “I mean, you’re good. Plus …”
Should he tell her? He didn’t want to tell her. Or did he?
“What?”
“My hands were sweating.”
“Sweating? But it was freezing.”
“I know. But they were sweating.”
She was grinning.
So you like that you made me sweat, do you?
He placed one hand on her cheek. She started.
“They’re not sweating now,” he murmured, brushing her cheek with his thumb before taking his hand away.
She turned back to the blades.
“Do you fence?” he asked.
“I was on the fencing team at boarding school. But I haven’t in a while.”
He picked up a blade and held it out to her. “This one, I think.”
Once she’d taken it, he chose another for himself.
He took a step back, drawing his sword in one fluid motion, letting the weight of it settle in his hand. Then, with a flourish and a glint in his eye, he saluted her with the blade.
“Come then, milady, let us see if thy skill matches thy spirit. Let steel speak where words have warred.”
Rolling her eyes, she scoffed. “You can stop the knightly bit. Sofia and Beatrice aren’t here.”
He took a step toward her.
“Thy tongue is quick, milady, sharp as any blade. But tell me—dost thou wield thy sword with the same deadly grace, or art thou but a warrior of words?”
He took another step and watched as strands of her hair fluttered from the force of his breath. “Dost thou fear that the battle of tongues is the only one thou canst win?”
