Violet blew a breath through her nose. “Good Lord, do we have to? Is this how ye train yer men?”
He looked at her for a second before responding, “Nay.”
She raised her hands in mild protest. “So, ‘tis just me?”
“Well, this is a matter of life or death.”
That made her quiet, and he immediately regretted the words the moment they settled between them. They were too plain. Too close to the truth of why he had risen before dawn and crossed the yard with more attention than he gave most new soldiers.
Violet looked down at his hand still on her wrist.
“Alright then,” she said, her voice sharp. “Let’s do this one more time. Always remember, when trying to use The Yellow Lady, daenae pull against the grip.”
Those words should not have affected him. But for some reason, they did. He continued to speak anyway.
“Turn with it and drop yer weight instead. The Yellow Lady wins because the fool expects her to flee straightaway.”
He attacked slowly at first, then faster. She missed one turn, recovered badly, swore under her breath, then tried again before he ordered it. She broke free from his grip once, but he caught her again. Then she changed the angle, stepped in, and drove her shoulder hard enough into his chest to force him back half a step.
“I told ye I could learn,” Violet said, breathless, her face lighting up.
“I never said ye couldnae.”
“Yethoughtit.”
Connor didn’t respond. Instead, he reached for her again, and she twisted free too quickly, lost her footing on the damp grass, and landed with a startled sound.
He stepped forward and offered his hand. “Up.”
Violet looked at his hand, then at his face.
Oh nay.
Connor could see the exact moment the next idea formed in her head, but before he could do anything to stop it, she gripped his hand, shifted her weight, and pulled at the weak angle he had shown her. He had not expected her to use his own tactic against him so soon.
He fell with her, and they hit the grass and rolled. He recovered first by instinct, bracing one knee beside her hip and planting one hand near her shoulder. His other hand caught her wrist before she could strike again.
Violet lay beneath him, chest heaving, hair loosened across the grass, eyes wide with triumph and shock.
“That was foolish,” Connor chided.
“Well, it was effective, was it nae?”
He should have moved. He knew it. He felt the damp grass under his palm, the heat of her body beneath his, and the wild, bright challenge still in her eyes.
Training had placed them here. Desire kept him here.
“This doesnae seem like a lesson,” Violet said.
His gaze dropped to her mouth before he could stop it. “Depends on what ye have learned.”
“That ye are too pleased with yerself? Good thing we daenae have a mirror here and I?—”
Connor didn’t wait for her to finish. He lowered his mouth to hers.
The kiss was not gentle. It could not be, not after the dungeons, the argument, the rules, the feel of her wrist in his hand and her courage sharpening under his instruction.
Violet stiffened for half a heartbeat, then her fingers gripped his shoulder, and she kissed him back with a shocking fierceness that shot right through him.
