worries, luv!” she growled under her breath in a graveled imitation of Nathan.
On a fervent cloud of one-upmanship, the Morgansers set to bragging that they possessed something unique to any other ship on the Caribbean, hell, the world: a sword-fighting woman. Under Nathan’s watchful eye, a reluctant Cate was dragged into the ring. His dark-framed eyes scanned the Grisellers, and then glanced to Thomas, who barely lifted one shoulder in consent.
The Grisellers eyed her speculatively. They knew her only as the Captain’s guest. A woman pirate would have been a novelty; that she could manage a sword expected. On the surface, however, she bore the aspects of neither, and they placed their bets accordingly.
So consumed by her apprehensions, Cate was only vaguely aware of Pryce coming up at her elbow. Grey eyes bright with the excitement of combat, he pointed with his chin toward her first opponent sidling into the ring.
“Mind what ye’ve lernt, lass. Keep yer elbows down and yer wrist firm. Watch them eyes; ’tis the window to his soul. Ahh, look at ’im! Scairt of ye already, he is. Two-thirds of the battle ’tis won already. But mind, he’s more afraid of embarrassin’ hisself. Take ’im quick, else ye won’t be takin’ him a-tall.”
Pryce was correct. If Biggins had been the ship’s baby, then this one was but a month older. He’d most likely been chosen on a wave of skepticism and reckless male pride, which meant they thought her a joke. To be dismissed so out-of-hand stirred her determination to prove them wrong. Dark of hair and eye, sweat rolled down the lad’s olive skin: he was as nervous as she. It was a good sign.
The sword shoved into Cate’s hand wasn’t a familiar one. This one had a thicker grip and was rough against her palm. The blade was heavier, a weapon built for labor, not finesse. She worked it in her hand, gripping and re-gripping, trying to gain familiarity. She struck her stance, feeling grossly disadvantaged as she touched her blade in salute.
Nervous and nearly frozen with self-consciousness, the startling swiftness of her foe’s—Rafa, according to his supporters—first move took her by surprise. Within seconds, she had been driven back, until her hem brushed the line in the sand. Irked by his temerity, and determined not to be embarrassed, she counter-attacked. Rafa’s eyes widened, caught unawares. She countered harder, pushing him further back. A twisting slash on her part, and his weapon fell to cheering approval.
An enthusiastic slap on the shoulder broke Cate from the astonishment of winning.
“I knew ye could do it,” Pryce exclaimed, vigorously rubbing her arm and shoulder. Tucking her sword under his arm, he massaged her hand. “Well, done, sir. Yer the pride o’ the Morganse, to be sure.”
Exhilarated by the flush of battle and success, Cate dabbed the sweat from her face. She saw Nathan at the circle’s margin, hip cocked and arms crossed, displaying a gold-bedecked smile of approval.
“Watch ‘im,” Pryce said, pulling her attention to her next opponent: a grizzled but wiry one. “Arabie, he is. He be a crafty cove. Mind his eyes; the sneakin’ scug is a-tryin’ to intimidate ye already.”
Pryce was correct. Her new opponent’s ferret-like eyes were stonily fixed on her.
Pryce nodded in affirmation as he massaged her upper arm. “I’ve seen his sort a’fore. He’ll be desirin’ to go high ’n bring ye up, so’s he can cut you low.”
Her abdomen knotted at the word “cut.” “I thought this was supposed to be in fun.”
“Aye! It ’tis! And don’t be a-worryin’ about the difference in swords.”
Cate blinked, only then noticing the weapon: a vicious-looking instrument, with a sweeping curved edge similar to the scythes used in the hayfields.
“They fight just the same,” Pryce assured, judiciously. “The curve’s the better to slit yer gut in tight quarters.” He patted her in a confident dismissal. “You’ll do fine.”
As she took up her position, the onlookers grew feverish, the hunger for battle etched on every straining face. These were pirates, blood and mayhem their bread and butter. The blood drawn in earlier exchanges had only piqued their hunger, and anticipation was a heady nectar.
Again, the Griseller took the early advantage. As predicted, he slashed high, the tip of his blade whirring past her ear. Angered at being played, she parried back. Her height was an advantage, providing a longer reach. Her opponent tried several more ploys, mostly intended to break her concentration, but to no avail. The spectators’ shouts merged into a unified, multi-lingual din.