Guarded Heart by Jennifer Blake

if he becomes importunate?”
    He gave a short laugh. “Then you are allowed a slap to remind him of his place.”
    â€œThis is the method you use to teach young men to defend themselves?”
    â€œBy no means. Instruction is much more direct in their case.”
    â€œWhy make an exception for me?”
    â€œYou suspect condescension? Or is it the comparison to flirtation that offends?”
    She would give much to see his face. It was frustrating to be unable to guess whether he was flirting in all truth or merely goading her. “Neither,” she answered. “I only seek the true value of the lesson.”
    â€œDone,” he said, his voice even. An instant later, he touched her again, a gentle probe of his sword point that landed squarely on her padded nipple. He stepped back, surveyed her for a long moment, gave a nod.
    They began again.
    Now his comments were an unending dissertation on the advance, the parry, the riposte. He called corrections for her form and how she moved, and as regularly as a ticking clock, he invaded her defenses for a light, expert touch.
    It was maddening.
    Her right arm felt on fire. Her lungs worked like a bellows and the fog of her breath slicked the inside of her mask. She wanted to cry quits but stubborn pride would not allow it. And she hated the man who faced her with a fierce heat that was the only thing that allowed her to lift her foil again and again.
    â€œSo you would be a Boadicea with your enemy lying dead at your feet,” he said after a small interval of silent combat. “What has this man done to make you long to shed his blood?”
    â€œThat is no concern of yours.” It was all she could do to rap out the words as her heartbeat thundered in her ears and she struggled to draw enough air into her lungs.
    â€œEven if I forge the weapon of his doom?”
    â€œYou do the same…for men every day. What is…one more?”
    â€œAn excellent question, one I would debate at length another time. My more pressing concern is that this enemy of yours may leave you lifeless on the ground or lay open face or breast. Where then is the glory of justice? Or my absolution?”
    â€œI should hope…absolution is not required.” Fury that he gave no sign of strain, much less laboring, made a red haze at the edge of her vision.
    â€œOh, a consummation to be wished, but is there basis for it?”
    His words were followed, inevitably, by another touch. This one was directly upon where her heart shuddered in her chest.
    Her anger boiled suddenly into rage, even as she stepped back for the usual pause in their play. “You must see to it,” she said in biting tones.
    â€œPreparation without guidance is folly. It could be beneficial to know what drives you.”
    â€œNothing you would understand.”
    â€œMake the attempt. I may surprise you.”
    The words were whimsical, but his stance was not. He faced her with challenge in every line of his body, every hard muscle of his form, even the way he held his foil and the tilt of his head. He stood waiting for her to speak, so armored in his strength, so certain that nothing she could say or do would affect him that she wanted to annihilate him. She also wanted, quite suddenly, for him to know the answer to his question.
    â€œHe killed my brother.”
    â€œKilled?”
    â€œCut him down in a duel so unequal as to be legal murder.”
    He stood perfectly still. His gaze seemed to pierce the grid of her mask. In the quiet could be heard the splattering of renewed rain as it fell from the eaves of the house into the courtyard. Finally, he stirred. “ Unequal. That suggests superior skill on the part of the murderer, and yet you expect to succeed where your brother failed.”
    â€œI do.”
    â€œThen gird your loins, my warrior queen, and sharpen your blade, for you will need everything I can teach you. That is, if he meets you.”
    He thought she