“You wield it well,” he said begrudgingly to the snail working its way slowly across dark gray rock toward his thumb. He thought briefly of crushing it, the delicate shell. “So well that no man would suspect a woman beneath the helm.”

He intended to follow it with another jibe, another pointed look at her flat chest and a remark on her manliness. But she spoke before he could, and all thought of insult was driven from his mind by the war of curiosity and pride her words touched off.

“I have never been so close to failing as when I faced you. Were it not for my training...” She trailed off and turned her attention once more to the sword she held.

“You were trained as any other man?”

She looked up at him, startled, her eyes a quick flash of gray across the murky green. “Aye. No quarter given for my sex, and trained as hard as any. From the time I learnt my balance until now, I have never lost it.” She spoke to the sand beneath the clear water. Her toes were pink.

“Your balance?” he asked sharply. “Ruardean trains its knights from infancy?”

She looked puzzled, her black brows drawn together. “I trained from the age of ten, no sooner. I meant. . .” She shrugged. “My balance. It is my advantage over you and other men. Is why I win.”

The reminder of it shook him. It was not easy to forget it, but now she declared that she won. That she won over him and other men. And the sight of her with blade in hand did not let him forget his defeat. He wondered if he could cross the water, take her unawares, grab the other sword and challenge her. But her hand so sure on the hilt stayed him.

What if it were not to blame – the night, or his injuries, or the surprise of seeing her face in the firelight? What if it were true, that she had an advantage over him? He could not bear it, to lose again.  And he was not sure that he wouldn’t, did he test her now.

His eyes went from her hands where she held the sword, to her face – and he remembered afterward. He remembered her mouth, the taste of it. The soft, sweet victory of her kiss. Her lips like a banquet, so unlike the spare flesh of her body. He met her eyes over the sword and held her gaze, gave her a slow and knowing grin.

Her color rose, red creeping up from the collar of her mail to suffuse her neck, her cheeks. It was impossible to tell if it was shame or anger. But it was not shame that brought the challenge to her eyes, nor was it embarrassment in the lift of her chin.