Page 21 of Kings of Sherwood

I chew my lip. “I guess I contain multitudes,” I say. “Especially when the tequila is flowing.”

He snorts. “Well, we’re going to work that out today.”

I tip my head just slightly. “Work that out as in...?”

“As in, you’ll see,” he says shortly, nodding to the sparring mat.

“Well. Okay, then,” I say. Adrenaline has my heart fluttering.

“Are you warmed up?” he asks.

Now it’s my turn to snort.

“Of course not,” I reply. “Didyoutell me to warm up?”

He blinks, frozen briefly, and I realize the implication in what I’ve just said.

That I do, in fact, need to be told. My ears feel hot.

“I mean...I didn’t think of it,” I conclude. I do a quick jumping jack or two. “There. Plenty warm.”

The barest hint of a smile warps his lips, and then it’s gone. “All right. Face me.” He crouches slightly to demonstrate, then straightens up. “Like this.”

I do another sort of crouch, putting up my dukes as best I can. This already feels ridiculous. The first time he tried training me, I guess I picked up a few things—but mostly more of the life-changing-revelatory-secret variety than the how-to-handle-an-attacker variety.

“Good,” he says. “Now watch as I—”

“Ah!” I cry. With a single sweep of his leg, he’s taken me out at the ankles and sent me flying to the mat—just in time to catch me and brace me before I smack my head.

“See what I mean?” he says, voice rough and dark. “Now imagine trying to defend against that in your little high heels and with three shooters in you.”

“I get the point,” I say, rolling out of his arms and rubbing my elbow. “But maybe not so fast—”

Before I realize what’s happened, he’s sprung forward, grabbed my arms, and pinned me—hands above my head.

“You’re going to get up before I tell you to?” he says.

I pant, inadvertently. My pulse is still skyrocketing. “I...guess not,” I say slowly.

His arm flexes over my head, tensing his grip, and I realize there’s no way I could wrangle my way out of his grasp if he doesn’t want me to. His body is maybe five inches from mine, as hard and strong as mine is soft and trembling.

“I don’t like being tempted like that, Princess,” he grits out.

Without loosening his grip at all, he lowers his head toward me and whispers in my ear.

“Seeing you like that, and not being able to touch you?” His fingers flex, without slackening. “Drives me fucking crazy.”

The low rumble of his voice sends heat flooding into my belly, but no sooner do my eyes flutter shut against the feeling than I feel him let me go. When I look up, he’s gone—standing, arms folded at his back, waiting for me to join him, I guess.

I do, pushing myself up a little bewilderedly.

“Jiu jitsu,” he says.

“Say what?”

“Jiu jitsu,” he says again. “Martial art. Japanese. Designed for when you’re bare-handed on the battlefield and have to take down a guy the size of a Sumo wrestler. It’s about leverage, not strength. It’s how someone smaller can fold someone twice her height in half.”

“Oh,” is all I can say. This has suddenly gotten serious. I feel goosebumps rise up the back of my neck, and I look downat myself—at my skin, my arms, the pearly but distinctive scars from razor wire and dragon fire and, once, a long time ago, a cigar or two.

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