Gwen bit back her reply—that Isobelle no more wanted to wind up with Sir Awesome than she did Sir Ralph. Maybe it was the best solution in a sea of grim outcomes, even if it did consign Gwen to being nothing more than a well-kept secret, sneaking in and out of Isobelle’s life whenever no one was around to see. It wasn’t as if Gwen could offer her anything more, even if she won the tournament, even if she showed the world who she was, even if they accepted her skill. . . .

Could she?

Orson, unaware of Gwen’s roiling thoughts, patted Achilles one more time and then broke the silence. “Come on, let’s have a round.” He strode away from Gwen’s horse, who had dipped his head to lip at the ground experimentally.

The morning sun swept low across the canopy bordering the field, casting each dip and rise in the branches in stark relief. The long, swaying grasses reached to Gwen’s thigh, their elongated shadows bobbing and dancing in the slight breeze, providing a whispering backdrop to the thudding and crunching of Orson’s footsteps.

Gwen drew her sword automatically when Orson turned and drew his—he gave his a few swings, and Gwen could see he held it well, his grip confident and movements well practiced.

Orson glanced at her and nodded encouragement. “You haven’t had to use that yet in the tournament, have you?” He grinned. “I can show you a thing or two if you want. Just so if our match comes down to swordplay in the end, you’ll . . . well, you’ll look like you know what you’re doing.”

Gwen felt a tiny smile curve her lips, the ridiculousness of the situation momentarily supplanting the press of worries crowded inside her mind. Here she was, about to have a friendly bout with the man she’d be facing in deadly combat tomorrow, as he nobly offered to give her tips on swordplay.

Gwen flashed him a sweet little smile, letting her eyelashes lower demurely, and absently wondered if the guy would recognize Isobelle’s very look reflected in Gwen’s features. “I’m ready. Bring it, Awesome.”

Orson shrugged, bounced on the balls of his feet, and then lifted his blade for a slow, experimental swing. Gwen easily knocked it aside. Orson tried another attack, still ginger, with so little of his weight behind the swing that when Gwen stepped neatly out of the way, he didn’t even stagger.

Orson laughed. “All right, all right. For real this time.”

Gwen shifted her grip on the hilt. “As you wish.”

He met her attack with an automatic parry, his eyes widening in surprise—he stepped back, turned, swung. Gwen parried, sidestepped, pressed in harder. The clanging of blades punctuated the soft susurration of the grasses, along with Awesome’s increasingly loud grunts of effort and panting breaths.