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“Precisely,” I muttered. “I love a lass who’s in the shit.”
Her head tilted, confused.
“You’re raw, Robin. Primal. Your noble polish has been scraped away. You’re jagged and hungry and angry and feral. It’s . . . perfect.” My cock twitched just thinking about it.
Her eyes fell into a half-lidded, curious expression. “You’re a strange, strange man, Will Scarlet.”
My smirk spread into a grin. “Incorrigible, when it comes to you.”
“You’re supposed to be teaching me sword-fighting. Not hounding me with your smoldering eyes and blasphemous tongue.”
“Getting your ass smacked and brought to the ground is part of the learning process.”
She rolled her eyes.
We were standing in a small meadow circled by bushy trees. A perfect sparring location, a few glades over from our main camp in Sherwood Forest. After arriving with the carriages this morning, I’d only given Robin a few hours of sleep before rousing her for an early afternoon session.
The remaining two Mansfield guards we’d let live, after they surrendered, were being interrogated by Alan and others. Tuck was on food duty, and the new whelp was helping him.
I wasn’t needed anywhere but here, and I wouldn’t waste the opportunity of being alone with my little thorn.
“Enough of your antics,” she said, squaring her shoulders and bending her knees as she pointed her sword forward. “Have at thee. Or whatever it is you people say.”
My smile died on my lips. I studied her for a moment—her stance, posture, position. When I walked forward slowly, sword pointed toward the ground, she hesitated, unsure whether to attack or put her guard down.
My sword flicked up and clanged against her steel, forcing the blade higher. “Never lower your blade against an opponent. Doesn’t matter if he looks friendly.”
“You never look friendly.”
“Exactly. Imagine if I was actually your enemy.”
She frowned.
“Simple things like that will prevent you from getting a spear haft in the side of the head.”
“Enough,” she growled in frustration. “You’ve made your point.”
“Next: position. Look where you’re standing.” I marked the dewy grass around her boots. A few feet ahead, between us, a ray of sunlight brightened the patch. “If you take this trajectory to charge me, you’ll be running directly into the sun. It takes only a split second of blindness from the sun hitting you at the right angle, and—” I sliced my sword across the air.
Her jaw worked, tongue punching against her cheek as she mulled that over. She was nodding, which told me she finally thought I was giving her good advice. “Never would have thought of that.”
“You’re welcome.”
She rolled her eyes again.
“Why do you bend your knees?” I asked.
“Erm.” She scratched her head, then quickly raised her sword to point at me before I could smack it again. “Because I see everyone else do it?”
The corner of my lip tugged. “Why do they do it?”
“To have a sturdier foundation?”
“Aye. And?”
“To . . . make it so you can lunge and react faster?”
“Aye. And?”
