So- (grin) here is another snippet from my current wip which will be the third or fourth book in my Gasquet Princes series.
She was good, better than good, she was excellent. It didn’t take him long to get her measure, and yet— instinctively he knew something deeper lurked beneath her concentration, fuelled it.
Deliberation flared in her eyes and fury curled her lips into a snarl.
A snarl that birthed the ghost of a memory, a memory that vanished more quickly than mist on the wind.
This for her, he realised, was more than a simple challenge. It was personal.
The sound of steel whistling through the air, millimetres from his ear cut through his distractions. Personal?
He’d see about that!
Simeon didn’t know what had crawled up her arse, but nor did he intend to take the rap for something he knew nothing about. He closed out all thoughts except those focussed on the woman in front of him and the foil in her hand.
In one corner of his mind he estimated the difference in their height. Eight inches, he decided and wondered whether he could he use those extra inches to his advantage.
The skill she’d displayed so far discounted any hope she’d charge at his manhood. No, she’d not risk leaving herself open to the obvious retaliation such a charge would engender.
He circled, watching her back foot, weighing his options, always maintaining the straight line between them.
The circle widened.
He waited— knowing neither could lunge until they closed in again. Not unless they wanted their opponent’s point in their chest. And while the foil points may be protected, Simeon had no intention of allowing this woman to best him.
Her lunge pierced his waving concentration and he almost failed to close in time, and countered with a tempo that forced them to circle once more.
The sound of steel sliding along steel shimmered in the air, cut through the ring of clashing blades. He saw it now— her strategy. This woman was enticing him to risk a pass on her lunge. To do that would dismiss his height advantage. Not that his height gave him anything more than a split second of time.
She lunged again, moved to his left, to his right and stepped forward.
With a twist of his body he pushed her foil clear and brought his own down on her leather-gloved hand.
Only her gasp broke the shocked silence before she leapt back and lunged again.
She had a point, he’d used a moved barred by almost all fencing clubs, but this, he reminded himself, wasn’t a fight of his choosing, nor was it being played within club rules. The woman fought with a skill and intensity that moved this fight beyond personal to malicious.
He wished he knew why.
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