“Aye. And faster this time.”
She failed twice more. On the fourth try, she pulled free, stumbling back with triumph bright in her eyes before she could hide it.
Connor gave a short nod. “Better.”
Violet paused, as if the small praise had struck harder than criticism. Then she quickly squared her shoulders. “Less terrible than before?”
“Less terrible than five minutes ago.”
“How generous.”
He moved behind her and put his hands on her waist, turning her hips into a safer line. She went still under his touch and suddenly grew aware of him. He felt it in the way her back stiffened and her breathing hitched.
“Must all lessons involve yer hands?” Violet asked.
“Only the ones where ye stand wrong.”
“How fortunate for ye that I am apparently terrible.”
“Ye are improving.” The words came out lower than he had intended.
She did not answer at once as he stepped away before his attention became the problem. He picked up a short practice staff his men must have left behind and tossed it aside.
“What if he is too strong? What do I do then?” Violet asked.
“Always assume they are.”
She nodded, grimacing. “Comforting.”
Connor’s gaze dropped briefly to her hands, then returned to her face. “Ye must understand that the fight willnae always be fair or honorable. In cases where the odds are stacked against ye, ye have to become unpleasant.”
That earned him a look of interest.
He took her wrist and moved slowly through it. “Let him think he has ye. Then ye stamp hard on the instep. Heel of the palm under the chin or nose. Then, an elbow to the ribs or throat when he recoils. After that, run or go grab the bairn.”
Violet listened without interruption, which told him she understood the difference between instruction and argument.
He demonstrated once, careful and slow.
“That,” he said, “is what I callThe Yellow Lady.”
She stared at him. “What?”
“‘Tis a name I came up with.”
“I can tell. ‘Tis hideous.”
“Well, pretty names do not drop men now, do they?”
Violet muttered something under her breath and tried it. Her first attempt was too gentle, and her second struck the wrong angle. On the third, she stamped hard enough that Connor had to shift his weight, and her palm drove upward with enough force that he caught her wrist before she hit his chin.
For a second, they both went still.
“Good,” Connor said as her eyes lifted to his.
The dawn had grown pale enough to show the flush on her cheeks and the loose strands of chestnut-brown hair stuck near her temple. She was breathing harder now, but there was no complaint on her face. Only hunger for the skill, and anger that she did not yet have it.
“Again,” he said.
