Page 171 of The Pirate Queen

Still, Grace shifts the blade to her right hand and tries not to shudder. It feels wrong. It always feels wrong when she forces that hand to act against its will.

Movement is key when fighting in close quarters. Quick and focused. But Grace always finds herself at something of a disadvantage, encumbered by tight sleeves and heavy skirts.

“Don’t do that,” he says.

“What?”

“Complain.”

Grace lowers into her fighting stance, bending her knees so that her center of gravity is closer to the ground, her weight on the balls of her feet. “I didn’t say anything.”

“I can see it in your eyes. ’Tis all right there. You’re making excuses about your clothes again. Or how much smaller you are than me. Like any of that matters.”

“Easy for you to say.” Grace closes the distance between them with deft footwork, forcing him to retreat. His back is to the stone wall of the enclosure now. The byre smells, as it always does, of damp earth and chicken shite. Like sweat and algae and ammonia. “You aren’t the one trussed up like a goose at Winter Solstice.”

“It’s harder to be big and fight in a small space with a small knife,” he argues.

Richard makes his point by lunging at her, but Grace drops lower and stops his approach by slashing his shin with her knife. The blade glances off the thick leather of his boots, but it’s enough to thwart his approach.

“Who’s complaining now?” she says.

“I was stating a fact.”

“As was I.”

She delivers an upward swipe that glances off his metal shirt with a dull hiss.

“Clever,” he says. “You must have a good teacher.”

“My teacher is an arse,” she says.

“A handsome one, no doubt.”

“He’s a face like a leprechaun and breath like manure.”

He laughs, rich and rumbling.

“Please, tell me more about his arse.” He waggles his eyebrows. “Shapely, is it?”

Grace swipes at his shoulder. This time her aim is true and Richard is forced to throw up his left forearm to block the strike that would otherwise sink into the broad swath of muscle. Instead, it glances once more against his chainmail.

Richard’s attack is swift and brutal and her chance to go for the door is gone before she sees it slip away. He uses his greater strength to shove Grace back. Two steps. Three. Then she trips over her own feet, arms flung out to regain her balance. In an instant he is upon her, blade slashing the air inches from her face.

Right before she loses her balance altogether, Grace throws her weight to the side and grabs the neck of his leine with her free hand. She uses her weight to pull him off-balance and drag him to the ground.

He lands—hard—on top of her.

Her breath whooshes out in a guttural ooff.

All around them, the chickens squawk their disapproval. They rustle in their roosts, fluffing wings and clucking at the disturbance. Dander floats through the air, illuminated by the long rectangle of golden light that stretches across the dark damp floor beneath them.

“Nice try,” he says.

“It was better than nice,” Grace argues, trying to squirm out of his grip to no avail.

“Except now I’ve pinned you. And I can do as I please.”

“Then by all means please explain to your mother what has happened to my dress.”