Page 70 of The Cornish Princess
“Parrying?”
“Indeed,” he said, nodding. “Try the sword. Go on. Make use of the grip as needed for leverage. Aim diagonally by raising the pommel and pull back as you thrust forward with the hilt, but don’t forget to step and add your hip into the cut as you would any other strike.”
Smiling, Gwendolyn positioned her hand, one fist near the guard, the other on the pommel, then tried his crooked strike again.
This time, it felt better. Indeed, she sensed the longer grip would allow her to place more strength into a swing when she needed it most, thereby avoiding the impulse to spin.
In fact, if she used both hands and kept the swing closer to her body, she could parry quicker, and if she needed to, she could use it one-handed as well.
Feeling emboldened and thinking perhaps that while she had the advantage of his sword, she would test Málik again, she stomped her foot to bait him.
Without delay, he positioned her sword in his hand, closing the distance, stepping into her, and cutting the air before her, even as he stabbed the parrying dagger toward her side, right at the level of her heart, as he came to whisper into her ear.
He grinned. “Most knives will not reach the heart from this angle, Princess, but mine will.” His breath was warm, and sweet—like mint grass—and his mouth was far too close. Gwendolyn’s breath hitched as he withdrew and said, “Take heart, I never once saw your poppet parry with such skill.”
Warmth spread through Gwendolyn’s breast, into her face, and though she lifted a brow over the compliment, it thrilled her, nonetheless. “Truly?” she asked.
“Truly,” he said, and winked.
And then, once more, within another blink of an eye, he had Gwendolyn on her bum, red-faced and embarrassed to have been bested only by his simple praise.
His lesson for the morning complete, Málik grinned unrepentantly, like a wolf, his sharp canines revealed, and then re-sheathed both his blades, and offered Gwendolyn a hand, lifting her up from the dust. Only now she wondered if he’d anticipated her all along. “Did you know I was watching you?”
“Of course,” he said, with a smile as crooked as his strike.
“How so?”
He touched the tip of his nose, and his nostrils flared as he confessed, “I know your scent,Princess.”
ChapterTwenty-Seven
Over dinner that evening, the spirit between them was changed—something slight, though of major consequence.
Gwendolyn noted Málik smiled more readily, and he teased her mercilessly, taking their shared cup every time she drank, and turning the glass ever so purposefully, lifting it so his lips fell upon the very spot her lips had only just touched.
It sent a shiver to her womb each time.
Did he realize?
Was it a game?
And yet, no matter. Instead of rousing her pique, it somehow stirred Gwendolyn’s blood—a fact that was nearly as disconcerting as was the truth that she thoroughly enjoyed it.
Over these past few days, he had ceased with the chiding remarks. Reserved though he remained most of the time, he was more forthcoming when she dared put forward a question about something she longed to know.
“How came you to be in my father’s employ?”
“I was sent,” he said.
“By whom?”
“My father.”
“Your father? I thought you said you were summoned?”
“Both, if you must know.” He gave her a sad, cryptic smile, and Gwendolyn found she hadn’t more nerve to pry.
Perhaps on some level, she feared that knowing the truth about him would change her life in ways she wasn’t prepared to allow. Only for now, his newfound good humor was a welcome distraction. So were his outlandish tales.
