Armored Hearts - By Melissa Turner Lee Page 0,14

when he became the Earl of Pensees and owned half the shire.

At Mr. Strong’s door, Gareth pushed himself up the ramp and knocked his usual three raps. At first there was no answer. When he lifted his hand to knock again, he heard a slam from the back of the house. He leaned in and listened harder as booted feet stomped toward the door. Mr. Strong yanked it open and stood, panting.

“Ah, Lord Smyth, what a nice surprise.” The old man held the door open and motioned with his arm. “Please come in.”

Gareth pushed himself into the foyer and turned to face the man. His eyes looked red and puffy. “Are you unwell?”

The old man reached into his pocket, pulled out a handkerchief, and rubbed at his eyes. “I’m well. Just received bad news today. A very old and beloved friend passed on.”

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear it.”

“It wasn’t totally unexpected. Sorrow brings death early to some. He’d known too much of it in the last of his years.”

Gareth motioned for the door. “I can leave and come another time.”

The old man shook his head. “Nonsense. Your leaving won’t bring him back. We must move on and get the next generation ready to take over for the last. You’re here for swordplay?”

Gareth nodded. “Yes, it helps settle my nerves.”

Mr. Strong headed for the cupboard. “Rapier or claymore?”

“Claymore. It’s more exhausting.”

The old man tossed the long blade to Gareth, who caught it easily by the hilt. Bearing the full weight of it in one hand forced his arm muscles to flex.

“Oh, ye want to work up a sweat and forget everything but the fight do ye? Must be a lady involved.” He laughed and rolled up his sleeves.

Gareth noticed a slight change in Mr. Strong’s accent. “Tabitha’s got friends over. One in particular is quite irritating. Pretty but annoying.”

The old man grinned as he took his position and Gareth leapt to his stance, away from his chair. Strong had won that argument long ago. If Gareth wanted to continue his swordplay, he’d have to get himself to and from his chair.

“Pretty and she gets under your skin? That’s always the best combination. Makes life exciting.”

Gareth shook his head. “No, it just makes it annoying.” He leapt forward, raised the claymore high above his head, and brought it down hard over Mr. Strong. The old man ducked and blocked Gareth’s blow with his own sword, creating a loud clang. Strong pushed up with both hands and forced the sword away. Gareth jumped back, landing legs apart for balance.

“You’ve always amazed me, old man. Most aren’t as strong.” Gareth spun and swung the claymore with two hands, watching as his tutor adjusted and blocked him.

“Strong is my name.” The old man laughed.

He followed with his own attack which forced Gareth to his knees with his claymore overhead. He grunted and pushed the man away.

“How old are you?”

“Older than I look.” Mr. Strong charged at Gareth, letting out a guttural war cry, swinging the blade over his shoulder in a diagonal motion. Gareth retreated, eyes wide, working furiously to block and get out of the way of the attack. He found himself backed into a corner as Mr. Strong was bringing down a deathblow.

Gareth shot out to the side, between the old man’s arms and legs, flying forward and low. He feared his speed had been too unnatural and tried to cover the flight by curling and rolling on the floor before popping back up to a standing position. The old man’s chest heaved in the same rhythm as his own. Gareth wiped the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve, brushing back the wet tendrils against his head. “You take our play too seriously at times, old man. If I hadn’t jumped out of your way, you could have killed me.”

“When you find yourself in a real battle, it won’t be play. I need to know you can handle it when your life is threatened for real.”

“Who’s going to attack a man in a wheelchair? He’d have to look at me first.”

“There you go again, acting like your wheelchair keeps everyone out. It’s not true, you know. It’s you who pushes them away. The annoying, pretty thing that sent you here, I bet you pushed her away, too.” The old man broke his stance and walked over to a table. He poured two glasses of water and carried one to Gareth.

Gareth shook his head and rested the claymore’s point in the floorboards. He