“This time,” Gideon continued, “don’t wait.”
Beatrice frowned slightly. “What do you mean?”
“I mean”—he was all patience as he stepped back into position— “you allowed him to close the distance.”
She straightened. “I was warning him.”
“Yes.” His gaze was steady. “And while you were being courteous, he was advancing.”
She tilted her head.
“So I am to stab a gentleman before he misbehaves?”
“If the situation calls for it, then yes. You need to take the advantage,” Gideon replied calmly. “There is a moment—just before a man commits—when he believes he controls the outcome. That is when you move.” He stepped toward her deliberately. “Again.”
Beatrice lifted the bodkin.
“Not your arm,” he corrected. “Your body. Move your whole body.”
She shifted her weight forward just as he reached for her wrist.
For half a second she thought she had him.
And then the world tipped sideways, and once again, Beatrice was staring up at the ceiling.
“Better,” Gideon said calmly from somewhere above her. “But you allowed me to take your balance.”
He extended a hand and hauled her upright once more.
“Again.”
This time she did not hesitate.
The moment he stepped forward she moved—pivoting just as he had shown her, twisting her wrist instead of locking it straight.
Gideon caught her arm—but not cleanly.
The bodkin hovered far closer to his ribs than before.
His brows lifted.
“Well done,” he said.
Beatrice felt a small surge of triumph.
They repeated the motion.
Again.
And again.
Soon the bodkin was forgotten entirely. Gideon showed her how to shift her weight, how to break a grip before it could lock, how to turn a man’s momentum against him instead of resisting it.
Several times she still found herself on the mattress.
A handful of times she managed to stay upright.
When at last Gideon stepped back and reached for his coat, Beatrice was breathing hard, her hair half-escaped from its pins and her limbs aching in places she had never noticed before.
