“I’m glad.” Sidestepping, she picked up a wooden sword—one the men usually used for sparring. She brandished it with a flick of her wrist, making it whirl in a circle as an experienced swordsman might do. “I’ve always wanted to learn to wield one of these.”

“Have you ever done so?”

“Nay—only watched me da swing an old rusty blade that had been handed down from his father.”

“By the way you’re holding that waster, I might have guessed you’d had a lesson or two.”

She made a cross slice, showing a natural ability. “Never.”

Kennan sheathed his sword and picked up a wooden waster identical to the one in her hands. “A sword is too heavy for a woman.”

She sliced the practice weapon back and forth. “This isn’t heavy in the slightest.”

Without unsheathing it, he removed his sword belt and handed her his Scottish great sword. “There’s a fair bit of difference between the waster and the actual blade.”

She weighed it in her hands. “I see—this might be difficult to wield in a long battle, but not too heavy at first.”

“Many a man has lost his life on account of being ill prepared for a long fight.” He took the sword and leaned it against the fence. “I’d hate to see any woman embroiled in strife, but you are so skilled with a rock and a wee strip of leather, I’d advise you to keep your distance and take out your enemies one by one.”

“So, ye’re saying ye think I might be useful in battle?”

He eyed her. What was she driving toward? He opted for a neutral reply. “I reckon if you were a man, you’d be invaluable.”

She drew a deep inhale through her nose, leveling her gaze with unquestioned fury. Again she brandished the waster. “Will ye show me how to use this?”

“One doesn’t learn to wield a sword in one session.”

“One can begin to learn.”

“But a little knowledge can be fatal.”

“So can nay knowledge at all.”

“Very well.” He addressed the post, holding the weapon in both hands. “There are eight basic positions and from each you can either defend a strike or attack. If your opponent is advancing, you defend until you see an opening.”

“Ye mean a mistake?”

“Of sorts. Say I aim for a killing strike to your neck.” He demonstrated, carefully placing the waster against the pulse throbbing at the base of her slender neck. “Bob beneath my blade.”

She ducked under and wove to her left as if he’d told her to do so. “Like this?”

“Aye. And since my strike missed, I’m carried to my left with more force than I’d intended.” He followed through and pointed to his side. “Now my flank is open to you.”

Divana lunged with her weapon. “So I go in for the kill?”