The Artist's Healer - Regina Scott Page 0,23
said we wouldn’t strike each other.”
“And so we won’t. I merely ask you to attempt it. I’ll parry. Watch.”
Face still tight with obvious doubt, Ethan gave a half-hearted swing, and she knocked the blow aside.
“See? Now, my turn.”
She jabbed toward him, and he scrambled back.
“Escape is always wise,” she said, pursuing him, “but you may have to fight at some point. Try striking me again.”
He lunged, as fast as a wasp, and she barely managed to parry in time. “Oh, well done!”
Even as Ethan grinned, a voice from the shore shouted, “What do you think you’re doing!”
~~~
Linus stormed down the beach, unable to believe what he’d just seen. Was she intent on maiming herself or his son?
Ethan lowered his sword and backed away, even as Mrs. Archer hurried up to put her arms protectively around him. Abigail brandished the weapon at Linus.
“It’s only a game,” she informed him, tone turning icy again. “No harm done.”
“No harm done?” He skidded to a stop on the pebbles to stare at her. “Have you lost your senses entirely? What about your arm?”
She rolled her eyes heavenward. “Why do you think I’m fighting with my left hand?”
“I did suggest this might not be wise,” her mother put in.
“So you don’t listen to her either,” Linus said.
Abigail glared at him, chest heaving. “I listen. I simply choose to take a different path.”
He could almost hear Catriona’s voice instead of hers. Why couldn’t he get through to her? She’d come far from her injury, but she must understand she wasn’t out of danger yet.
But if she wouldn’t listen to words, perhaps she would heed action.
Linus held out his hand. “Ethan, give me that sword.”
His son edged warily forward and handed him the weapon. Wood. Painted silver and nicked any number of times over the years. As he’d been coming down the hill, he’d been certain they were metal, and his fears had propelled him to their sides. Still, wood could bruise, and the right strike could break open her wound.
“I wouldn’t have hurt her, Father,” Ethan said, brows tight together.
Linus nodded. “I believe you, Ethan. But accidents happen.”
His son washed white, and Linus only wanted to call back the words. Ethan knew more than most what harm an accident could do. Before Linus could respond, his son scurried to the safety of Mrs. Archer’s arms. Her generous mouth was a tight line as she too glared at him.
Well, he was used to playing the villain. It was a small price to pay to keep his patients safe and healthy.
He turned to Abigail. “Here’s my proposal: you defeat me in a sword fight, and I will allow you to attend Miss Chance’s wedding. I defeat you, and you stay at home and put away these things for the foreseeable future.”
“You are not my father, sir,” she retorted. “You have no authority over me.”
He inclined his head. “Only that of a physician caring for his patient.” He brought up the sword. “Of course, if you think me too likely to win…”
“Never.” She brought up her own sword and saluted him with it. “Lay on, sir.”
He had barely assumed the stance before she drove at him.
He shoved the sword away, circled out of reach, but still she came, like a storm sweeping across the Channel. How she managed not to tangle her feet in her skirts was beyond him. Right, left, lunge, swing. If these had been real, he might have feared for his life with such ferocity.
“Give him what for, Miss Abby!” someone called, and he realized they had an audience. Besides the fishermen, Mr. Ellison and his son had come out of the bakery, and the Misses Pierce and three of the lady spa guests were hurrying out of the linens and trimmings shop to watch the spectacle.
Abigail shot them a grin, and he lunged. She parried in time.
“Oh, no, you don’t!” She returned to the attack.
“How are you fighting left-handed?” he demanded, giving way before her.
“Jesslyn and I learned both ways,” she said, feinting to his right and lunging to his left. “Her father said you never know when you might lose an arm.”
So, she’d listened to the previous doctor, just not to him.
He redoubled his efforts, but she was quicker than a cat, and now they were all cheering for her. He even heard Ethan’s voice among the calls.
It was lowering.
It was exhilarating.
Back and forth they went, up and down the shingle. He’d learned the blade from soldiers serving with his father, done rather well