“Oh, we’ll fence. But let the record show how adamantly I insisted that this was a terrible idea.”
“The record will show. Have no fear.” She turned toward the door, but not before he glimpsed a small smirk on her face. “I’ll grab you some of my brother’s gear. You’re about the same size.”
In fact, he was not the same size as her brother. He was slightly larger in every way, and he was pulling at the sleeves that rested a couple of inches above his wrists. And his trousers were…tight to say the least. Notwithstanding, his ankles seemed to enjoy the breeze. She had left him to change behind the screen in a large hall arena. Gymnasium clad with weapons. So…an armory of sorts? But the weapons were not on display. Atleast, they didn’t look as though they were only on display. They looked used. Well-used.
Futilely, he tugged on his sleeve again. With a grunt, he bent down to adjust his trousers, then reconsidered how far he could bend. This would severely limit his movements if he wanted to maintain propriety. Cursed gel! He had already determined that he would play left-handed against her so as not to completely annihilate her. He was a man after all, and he had nearly won the last cursed fencing tournament against his cursed best friend, Samuel. Thankfully, he had not had a match against Lord Tamely. The man was a notorious cheat. And briber. He had seen the knave trip a man and claim a point while the referee turned a blind eye. Despicable, that. But there was no recourse for the call. Infused with the ugly memory and uncomfortably clad, he waited for his enigmatic opponent.
Clearly, he was in great spirits at the prospect of parrying with Boudicca.
But even with the cringe-worthy fit of his gear, and the sensory onslaught of the unique armory-slash-gymnasium, he was altogether a complete slack-jawed mess when Boudicca entered the hall.
Chapter Nine
When Boudicca finallyentered the Practice Hall, as she and her family members had come to call it, and met him on their equivalent of a piste, she should have realized it would be a shock to Wesley to see her in trousers. His gaping jaw was abruptly clamped shut, but she had momentarily seen the man’s tonsils. It was an adorable reaction. His lingering gaze from toe to head was enough to make her blush. If she had allowed it. Instead, she shook his gaze, grabbed her rapier, and decided to spare conversation.
She wanted to see what he was made of. See if he changed at all when pushed, for she knew she was about to push him past his expectations. This was what she and her sisters had discussed.Show yourself to him, and he’ll be compelled to do the same.That was the idea anyway.
Having fenced with very few men, her nerves were as frayed as the hem on a three year old frock. Worse. But she was not the kind to back down from a challenge. One need only reference her involvement in the asinine sororal dare. Botheration. Really, the best way through something was the direct approach.
No holds barred, Boudicca took her stance.
“En garde, Wesley.”
“Prêts?” She watched as he passed his sword to his left hand. She wanted to growl her response to his question as to whether she was ready or not. Frayed nerves aflame, a new emotion was set ablaze in her. Absolute, pure fury. Without a doubt, she knewhe was right-handed, for she had seen the man eat. Ostensibly, he felt his skills were far superior to her own if he was choosing to apply his weaker hand.
She hopped her blade to her left hand as well. There would be no mercy. “Allez,” she thundered to start the bout.
And immediately she took the attack. Advancing with a lunge to the high outside. One. He parried and made a riposte. A passé, missing her completely. She feinted left, then struck low outside. Two. With a quick appel, her foot stomped the ground, temporarily distracting him. She struck low inside and pulled back. Three.
Her ears were thundering and her pulse was hammering through her. As if there were an attaque au fer, blade to blade, blood to limb assault in her own body, she could barely contain her rage. If eyes were blades, hers would steal another point, but she had already won. She retreated.
“That’s three.”
Clearly dazed, he was huffing.
Good. She pointed her rapier to his left hand. “Don’t ever insult me like that again.”
“I—”
“Again,” she demanded, while striking her pose.
He flipped his blade to his dominant hand. When she did not mirror his actions, he tilted his head. But the commands had already been called.
She scored three to his two. By then she was having a little bit of fun.
“Again,” she shouted, her blade flipped to her right hand. This time she would leave nothing on the mat. The duke could love her or hate her for it, but she would show him everything she had.
Advance-lunge. High inside. One.
Retreat. Advance. Feint. Low inside. Two.
Retreat. Retreat. He lunged. A passé. And then…
She wheeled her blade high, swung it over her shoulder and the tip of her blade swung under her arm and tapped him low inside. Three.
“What the deuce was that?” Wesley shouted, eyes wide, voice rumbling. He sounded more than a little angry.
“What was what?”
