Strength may have failed him, but his wits did not, and Ranulf stuck out his foot to trip the boy as he made his escape. His opponent sprawled on the ground as Ranulf brought the sword down in a killing thrust, soon to bring a blessedly swift end to the fight. But with sinking heart, he watched as a boy not even near knighthood turned over, quick as a snake, and deflected the thrust only inches from his fire-brightened face. The sword continued on its downward journey, skewed just enough to the side to catch on the boy’s noseguard. It was the opening Ranulf had needed, but the boy was not without wit of his own – he moved, twisting his head and deftly escaping the helm.

Ranulf’s sword lodged in the metal of the helm, but his eyes were locked on his foe. The boy rolled away toward the firelight, and in that moment before he levered himself up, the moment that Ranulf’s blade came free, he saw the boy’s face. Her face.

Her face, revealed in full light at last, without the shadow of the helm to bedevil him or mud to hide her. Wide gray eyes, sweeping dark lashes. A mouth like ripe fruit. It was her gaze more than her features that bespoke who she was: calm in the storm, patience amidst the fire, a ruthless strength set to strike at him but restrained by quiet will.

A woman. His lady, his angel. It seemed too huge a betrayal to conceive.

She did not give him time to conceive of it. In the moment that he failed to act, too stunned to pull his sword arm up, she moved forward with the swiftness and strength he had so wanted from her in that dark hut. A woman, a woman, a woman, he thought incredulously, stupidly, as she came toward him. His sword was knocked from his hand with a heavy blow, skidding across the earth as he fell, as he was pushed with deadly accuracy, losing his balance and hitting the tree on his way down, all his weight falling against his shoulder.

He kept his consciousness just barely through the sickening pain in his shoulder, only to regret it when his eyes opened to look up at bitter defeat. She stood over him, sword-point poised at his throat, boot on his chest, and enough light on her face to bring the humiliation home. A war of beauty and ugliness waged on her face – homely and stern, some misalignment of the features preventing the beauty that her eyes and mouth promised. Black hair plastered against her flushed cheeks and she breathed heavily.

“Has my lord had... enough of my... womanly comfort?” she huffed. And there was no mistaking the light of triumph on her face.