Edward sidestepped the blow in the nick of time. He puffed out his chest. “That’s King Lily-Livered Scut to you.”
She laughed. “Yes, Sire,” she said. “Of course. How could I forget?”
His heart was pounding from more than just the exertion of the fight. This whole sparring-with-a-girl situation made him wildly uncomfortable. It wasn’t proper, of course. What if he were to hurt her? But Gran had said that was nonsense and sent them outside to “work up a sweat.”
Right. Edward was definitely sweating now. Gracie was making sure of that, what with the distracting trousers that hugged her in all the right places as she parried and thrust at him, her eyes bright and cheeks flushed, the sheen of her own perspiration on her forehead and what glimpses of her neck he could see around the tumble of black curls. It was outright unfair, he thought. How could he be expected to concentrate?
“Your Majesty.” She grinned and swiped at him again. He struck back at her lightly, a series of moves designed to impress her with his vast knowledge of swordplay, and she retreated.
“You’re not bad. For a girl,” he said.
Her next blow glanced off his shoulder, not hard but certainly unexpected. Somehow she’d made it past his superior defense techniques, but it must have been blind luck. He darted away, regained his footing, then advanced on her again. She retreated. She was open; she left him all kinds of vulnerable places to strike. Still, he could not bring himself to really hit her.
“Come on, Sire,” she scoffed as his broom gently grazed her leg. “Enough with the chivalry.”
“My lady,” he said gallantly, “I’m willing to stop whenever you are. Perhaps you’d be better off sticking to more womanly pursuits, like embroidery or music or—”
She bashed him in the ribs. If it’d been a real sword in her hand, instead of half of a broken broomstick, he would have been done for. As it was, he went to his knees, the wind knocked out of him. She rapped his hand then, hard enough that he dropped his broom, and she kicked it out of the way. Before he could reach for it, she lifted her foot and sent him sprawling into the grass. When he looked up, the blunt end of her broomstick was at his throat.
Beaten. By a girl.
Inconceivable.
His mind whirled with excuses. He was still getting over the effects of the poison, of course. His twisted ankle remained a bit tender, not to mention the dog bite on his leg. A broom was not the same as a good sword in your hand—it was a poor replacement, in fact, different to balance, difficult to hold. The sun was in his eyes.
“Do you yield?” she asked.
He laughed up at her and rubbed his knuckles where she’d struck him. “Hey, that hurt.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry, Sire,” Gracie said, but she didn’t look sorry. “Now, does England yield?”
“To Scotland?”
“Aye.”
“Never.” He grabbed her broom, a move he’d never be able to pull off with a real sword, and pulled her down to him. They wrestled, which gave Edward some lovely opportunities to touch her, to feel the gentle curves of her body against his. But Gracie was a wild thing is his arms, and not in the good way (although it certainly wasn’t in a bad way, either). Within moments she’d somehow managed to flip him and was sitting on his chest, pinning his arms.
Inconceivable.
“Do you yield?” she asked breathlessly.
He was going to say no again, but then he got looking at her eyelashes, which were so long that they cast shadows on her rosy cheeks. And he knew he’d say yes to just about anything she asked of him.
“Yes,” he conceded. “I yield.” He looked up at her, panting. “I’m a bit rusty, I’m afraid.” That and, before now, people usually had let him win.
She got off him and picked up her broom. He tried not to look disappointed.
“You’re getting better,” she said, although he knew she wasn’t referring to his fighting, but his condition in general. He was getting better. Even after a mere two days at the abandoned castle under Gran’s torturous but effective care, his body felt stronger, his thoughts clearer. He hardly coughed anymore.
He was going to live.
Gracie reached down to offer to help him to his feet. “Do you want to make a real go of it now, Sire? Are we done playing with our dolls?”
“Call me Edward,” he said, scrambling up without her help.