Page 51 of Laird of Steel
“Ha!” she crowed as his back hit the shutters and he could retreat no more.
He pushed his staff forcefully against hers, casting her off. While she was scrambling backwards, he used the bristle end to sweep her apron up in front of her face.
She shrieked out in surprise and whacked her apron back down with one hand. Then she jabbed blindly forward with the handle of the besom.
“Whoa!” he cried, dodging out of the way.
At her second poke, he grabbed hold of her besom.
“A-ha!” he cried in triumph. He jerked the handle back.
Unwilling to let go of her weapon, she careened forward. And would have collided with him. But at the last minute, she dropped, skidding on her skirts and sliding onto the floor at his feet, besom still in hand.
“Let go,” he warned.
“Nay,” she said, laughter twitching at her lips.
“Let.” He raised a brow. “Go.”
“Never.”
He’d warned her. While she lay helpless on the floor, stubbornly clinging to the handle of her makeshift quarterstaff, he angled the bristled heads of both besoms to bat repeatedly at her skirts, like a maidservant beating dust from a tapestry.
She squealed in dismay. But she couldn’t help giggling at the absurdity of the situation.
“Surrender your weapon, wench!” he demanded with a grin.
“All right!” she cried at last, coughing at the rising cloud of ash. “’Tis yours!”
She let go of her besom. But she used his instant of inattention to seize his weapon with both hands, tearing it out of his grip. She rolled away with it and managed to scramble to her feet.
When she faced him, tendrils of her bright hair had come loose from her braid. They made a wild fringe around her glowing face. Her bosom heaved with each breath. Her nostrils flared. Her eyes were fiery with challenge. And her teeth were bared in triumphant delight.
She was beautiful.
Before he could fully absorb just how beautiful she was, the wicked lass dipped the bristles of the besom into the bucket of ashes, like a plasterer loading a brush with lime. Then she renewed her attack.
Now when their bristles tangled, they created a ghastly cloud of ash. But Merraid kept thrusting and blocking. Soon they were coughing and laughing as they continued their farcical battle.
He finally made some progress, backing her toward the hearth. But her eyes widened as she began to fall backwards over the bucket he’d dropped, waving her besom as she tried to catch her balance.
He reached for her arm, managing to keep her upright as the bucket clanged and rolled away against the hearthstones.
She wasted no time in thanking him. She immediately spun out of his grip, widening the distance between them.
In a show of intimidation, she began twirling the besom through the air. She traced swift, intricate patterns, as skilled as a quarterstaff master. While he stood thunderstruck, she whirled toward him in a graceful swirl of skirts. Then she swung the besom around in an upward arc.
Unfortunately, the bristles stretched out a few inches farther than she anticipated. She caught the clay pitcher on the table. It tipped. And rocked. And plunged off the edge.
Gellir dove for it. By some miracle, he managed to catch it in his hands just before it hit the floor.
Aghast at what she’d almost done, Merraid dropped the besom. She brought both hands to her mouth. Then she started laughing in relief at his dramatic rescue. Which made him laugh as well.
Shaking his head, he got up and replaced the pitcher.
She assumed the battle was over. “Shall we call it a draw ere we destroy Feiyan’s solar?”
“A draw?” He wasn’t going to let her off that easily.
