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“I doubt it.”
They circled each other, parrying, testing each other as they moved. She stepped forward, and he backed up as they took a circuit around the room. He gave the table a hard shove with his hip as they passed by, pushing it out of the way, and as he did, she lunged forward, gave her sword a little flip up, nudging his aside.
With a surge of power, he tightened his hold and let the movement lift his sword up and around, a glinting arc of steel, then brought it back down again to hit her away, but she’d already danced backward.
“You’ve some talent, lady,” he said as he swiped his sword northwest, a flashing move.
“I know, my lord.” She swept around in a clockwise arc, out of the way of his blade, and returned her sword to its original position, lethally level, tip pointed at him.
They moved about the room, Aodh setting a rhythm that matched her mood. She took regular swipes at him, left, right, backing him up in predictable motions, then, when she used the natural flow of their parry to make a swift lunge forward, he stepped to the side, out of the way.
“Contratempo, Katarina,” he murmured as she stumbled forward.
She righted herself at once, blowing hair back from her face with the grace of a cat. His blood fired.
She was made for this.
“What is this word?” she demanded, circling him again.
“I created a rhythm, you fell into it, then I disrupted it. Contratempo.”
“I shall recall that to mind.”
“Do.”
“And pray, sir, who taught you such things?”
“The Corporation of the London Masters of Defence.”
Her gaze flew to his, then snapped back to the sword. “That is a great many words. I know what none of them mean.”
“Aye? Well, you needn’t use words, lass. Just look.” They parried.
“You are five stone heavier than I.” She punched off his parry and backed up. “Most of that between your ears.”
“You are paying attention to the wrong thing, Katarina. You keep watching the tip of my sword. Watch me—my posture, the grip of my hand; be aware of my sword.”
“That sounds like trickery.”
He laughed. Katarina frowned. He was laughing a great deal. Under other circumstances, she would welcome such lightheartedness. As it was, he was pointing a sword at her, so it rather unnerved.
“Drop your shoulders,” he instructed. She bashed away his blade. “They’re way up here, by your ears. And bring your elbows in.”
“Oh, hush up,” she muttered as they circled one another. Her face was bright, gleaming with sweat and energy.
They moved around the room, advanced sharply to engage, then retreated. He wasn’t toying with her per sé, but he could have ended this thing anytime. The reason he had not was because he was an insufferable, arrogant mule and he wished to torment her with this little drama as a metaphor for their larger struggle.
Still, she admitted, brushing back her hair, it did invigorate.
“Do you intend to make some point by this display?” she demanded, tucking loose strands of hair behind her ear as she bobbed to the left.
“What point could I possibly be making?” His tone was so dry, it could ignite.
“It escapes me,” she assured him.
“Come, lass, disarm me.”
She scowled. “You are making a point.”
