Page 22 of Desire's Ransom
When he recovered, he gave the lad a grim grin of threat. “Oh, ho.”
It was obvious now that the lad’s most powerful weapon wasn’t his stick. It was his trickery. He feinted in one direction and attacked from another. He alternated which end of the stick he used and which hand he used to wield it. He chose unconventional targets for his blows—ribs, ears, ankles. And he struck when Ryland least expected it.
For Ryland, who was accustomed to the rules of chivalry, that kind of reckless fighting went against all his instincts.
But he could learn.
And if he was going to live in Ireland with packs of unschooled savages like this one, he supposed he’d have to learn fast.
“Ye know,” the lad taunted, casually resting the stick across both shoulders, “’twould be a bloody shame to lose such a fine blade in the stream. I’ll give ye one last chance to throw it back on the bank ere I toss ye in.”
Ryland grinned and shook his head. He’d never heard such ludicrous boasting, especially from one so unseasoned.
It was apparent he wasn’t going to win this battle using regular tactics of sword fighting. He’d have to improvise. And he’d have to catch his opponent off-guard.
The lad had quite a reach with that stick of his. The knobbed end packed a wallop when given sufficient momentum. But if Ryland could get in close, he could minimize the lad’s ability to strike. Of course, he’d also be unable to use his sword effectively at that proximity. But he had another idea.
The lad swung the stick off his shoulders and whipped it through the air so swiftly it whistled. Ryland let him approach, using his blade defensively, encouraging the lad to draw nearer.
When the lad cocked his arm back with the stick, Ryland lowered his blade and rushed in suddenly to stand toe-to-toe with the outlaw.
The move startled the lad. Ryland heard his sharp intake of breath. At this proximity, though the lad’s forearm struck Ryland’s shoulder, his stick swished ineffectually at the empty air behind him.
Ryland could have ended the battle then and there by giving the outlaw a good shove. The lad was nearly as tall as he, but he seemed to be mostly skin and bones. A light push would have sent the foolish wretch sprawling in the water.
But Ryland wanted to see the look on the cocky outlaw’s face when he realized he’d been bested.
So before the lad could recover, Ryland reached up and snagged the hem of the gray scarf covering his face, wrenching it down in triumph.
But the outlaw had one last weapon in reserve. A weapon that stunned Ryland just long enough to make him hesitate. And that hesitation cost him the battle.
As Ryland gaped in shock, one swift kick dislodged his foot. He wheeled his arms wildly and careened sideways into the stream with a great splash.
His final thought before the water closed over his astonished head was that it wasn’t possible. How could Sir Ryland de Ware have been bested by a wench?
