Page 20 of Desire's Ransom
This seemed to vex the outlaw even more. Above the gray scarf, the lad’s steely eyes flashed with pure rage. He flipped the stick forward, and Ryland just had time to dodge back out of the way. He felt the breeze as the weapon missed his head by inches.
On instinct, he drew his sword.
The lad gasped once, but recovered quickly, holding the flimsy stick before him as if it were somehow a match for Ryland’s three feet of sharp Spanish steel.
Of course, Ryland hadn’t earned his illustrious reputation by being cruel. He would never slay a lad at such a disadvantage. But he didn’t mind teaching him a lesson.
“Never trifle with a noble swordsman,” he said. Perhaps the next time, the young churl would think twice before he attacked a seasoned warrior.
Just as Ryland was about to give the lad’s thigh a punishing whack with the flat of his sword, the lad’s infernal stick flipped forward through the air. This time the knob landed with a painful crack against Ryland’s ear.
The unexpected clout from someone so clearly his inferior goaded the normally even-tempered Ryland to fury. He raised his sword, biting back the urge to lop the cocky lad’s head from his shoulders.
The youth clucked his tongue again. “Noble, are ye? Usin’ a bloody blade against abatahardly seems noble.”
Ryland colored in shame, but managed a biting retort. “So says theoutlaw.” He’d never heard of abata, but his ear still stung where the damned wooden stick had unexpectedly hit him.
“Now out o’ my way, churl,” the lad said, “ere I rob ye o’ your coinandyour dignity.”
The lad’s brashness stunned him. At least that was Ryland’s excuse when, before he could lift his blade, the narrow end of the lad’s stick shot through his defenses to poke him hard in the chest.
Ryland staggered back a foot. He ground his teeth and tightened his fist around the hilt of his sword, determined not to let a paltry lad get the best of him.
But when he tried to cleave the offending weapon in two with his sword, the stick seemed to suddenly retract into the outlaw’s hand. Ryland’s blade whistled through empty air. A flick of the lad’s wrist, and the knobbed end of his stick flew round again, knocking Ryland in the ribs.
Bloody hell!
Ryland almost lost his balance. Only pride kept him upright. His side throbbed where the club had struck him. He could tell his ribs were badly bruised.
He had to admit to a grudging respect for the lad’s fighting skills, as unorthodox as they were. For a scrawny lad, the outlaw held his own fairly well.
Ryland had retreated. He was so close to his own bank, he could have easily stepped aside to let the youth pass. But now winning was a matter of pride. He’d cut that bloody stick in half if it was the last thing he did.
He wasn’t about to let an outlaw win the day.
Temair thought she’d never met a more stubborn fighter. She’d forced him to retreat until he was nearly all the way back across the log bridge now. It made no sense for the man to keep insisting on the right of way. It was obvious he was going to lose.
Of course, he didn’t believe that. Not for an instant. She could see that in the resolute set of his jaw and the burning determination in his eyes. He still thought he could best her.
Most men did. They saw her lack of size as a lack of power. And they always underestimated the advantage of speed. In particular, English swordsmen never anticipated the element of trickery that was second nature to Irish fighters.
She should probably just club the poor fool senseless with a good clout to his head, steal his purse, and leave him at the water’s edge. She didn’t have time for such nonsense. The day was growing late, and she needed to learn what Aife had discovered at the tower house today.
But something prevented her from making quick work of him.
There was something about him—the smoldering intensity of his gaze, the wild sweep of his dark, unruly hair, the broad command of his shoulders, the quiet strength in his hands—that intrigued her.
She’d prefer to play with him awhile.
So she let him advance.
When he lunged forward, she leaped back. When he pressed his advantage, she retreated. Gradually, she drew him back along the log to the middle of the stream.
The man cut a fine figure. His tooled leather armor fit snugly over his wide chest and narrowed at his waist, emphasizing the breadth and muscle of his arms. Under his long tabard, his powerful legs strained at the confines of his thick woolenchausses. Lush waves of hickory brown hair fell carelessly over his high, broad forehead and caressed his angular, resolute jaw, which was softened by the dusky shadow of a beard. His eyes were as deep and dark as chestnuts, and at the moment, there was a furrow between them.
To be honest, despite that furrow, he was one of the most handsome men she’d ever seen. Indeed, he was so alluring that as he came closer and the sun bathed him in golden light, her heart staggered in breathless wonder.
Only the swift pass of his blade startled her from her wayward daydreaming. At the last instant, she diverted the blow with herbataand took a giant step backward.
