Page 151 of Laird of Steel
And maybe—just maybe—shedidhave a chance of beating him.
“Aye, Your Grace.”
She replaced her helm and unsheathed her sword as she strode toward Gellir.
He gave her a sly smile just before he donned his helm and faced her at the ready.
Merraid would have to count on all her skills. Her agility. Her speed. Her reflexes. Her powers of misdirection.
The one thing she hadn’t counted on was the support of all the Rivenloch ladies.
“Kick his arse!” someone cried.
“Throttle him!”
“Don’t hold back, lass!”
“Give him all you’ve got!”
“Show him who’s in charge!”
That last one was from Laird Deirdre, his own mother.
Bolstered by their encouragement, she blew out a steadying breath, bent her knees, and prepared to fight.
They slowly circled each other. Their first contacts were tenuous, as if they were testing the other’s mettle.
Soon they became more aggressive, launching series of attacks that moved them back and forth across the field.
Before long, urged on by the crowd, they were exchanging blows that might have killed lesser fighters. But Merraid wasn’t afraid. Indeed, she was fairly sure he was letting her seize the advantage. Allowing her to show off her skills. Matching her rhythm to ensure no one was seriously injured.
“Ye wouldn’t be holdin’ back, would ye?” she muttered as their swords tangled.
“Why would you think that?” He shoved her blade away.
“’Tisn’t a real battle,” she said, spinning and coming across with herjian, which he dodged. “’Tis more like ye’re dancin’ with me.”
“Dancing? You think so?” He thrust at her, making her leap aside. “Thrusting forward.” Then he dodged back from her attack. “Lunging back.” He advanced. “Thrusting forward.” Then he retreated from her strike. “Lunging back.” He charged again, this time snaring her hilt with his and bending close enough to whisper, “I think ’tis more like swiving.”
When he cast her off mid-gasp, she staggered and fell onto one knee. And that was when he dove in to set the tip of his blade at her throat.
There was a sigh of disappointment from the Rivenloch ladies and a cheer from everyone else.
“Do you ask for mercy?” Gellir teased.
“Never.”
He laughed and took her hand to help her up, murmuring, “You’ll be asking for mercy tonight.”
His words sent a shiver of desire through her.
If it were up to Gellir, he would have left the tournament right then and there. Spirited Merraid away to their bridal chamber. And spent the rest of the day trysting with his wife.
He definitely would have skipped the melee. The melee was always his least favorite part of a tournament anyway. It was chaotic and dangerous, like a real war.
There was little room to move. No delineation between ally and foe. No clear strategy, other than every warrior for himself. Knights were expected to slash and clout and raze until they were the last warrior standing.
After a day of bouts, warriors were tired. They were careless. Some of them were drunk. Fighting in close quarters meant opportunities for accidental gouging and bruising and slices from stray blades.
