Pointedly, she brought the sword around, her eyes holding his as she stood, turning her wrist and swinging the blade in an arc at her side. She stood there, poised with the blade downward, just scraping at the surface of the water, eyes narrowed at him. From woman to warrior in an instant, she did not let the merest challenge go unchecked.

When he did not move, her look dismissed him, and she walked to the bank. There, her legs dripping, she let the sword drop on his discarded hauberk before turning to face the pool again. She knelt with flask in hand, holding it under the water to fill it, and looked up at him again.

She had been trained well, and he felt her awareness of him, tensed and expectant, waiting for him to stand and walk through the water toward her. She did not move as he came on, water sloshing with his stride. He only looked at her mouth and watched her falter minutely as he reached her, her breath drawn in sharply as she straightened and looked to where he towered above her.

She did not move. Oh no, not Gwenllian of Ruardean, who never gave quarter. He looked down at her, thinking of how brief the sweet victory over her had been, and how he craved more of it, as he craved that lush, ripe mouth, so attractive when not boasting of his defeat. And he knew without a doubt that this was one battle he could win against her. Perhaps it was the only one.

He dropped to his knees facing her, his toes still submerged in the water. He leaned slowly toward her, her eyes still locked defiantly on his, accepting the challenge of his nearness, until she saw that he bent to her lips. She inhaled sharply and drew her face back, a faint shake of her head.

It made him smile, her quick retreat. “Yield you so soon, Gwenllian?” he taunted.

“No.” Her answer came swiftly, breathless but firm. It told him everything, that she did not look him in the eye. “I fear no man.” The words were measured and rhythmic, like a prayer she had been taught, something to chant in evil times.

She wanted the fight. He could see it in her, that she wanted him to reach for the sword, preferred it to his lips on hers. Every inch of her was tensed for it, anticipating force and violence. He took a cue from her own victory over him and opted for surprise, bringing his hand up to her cheek. He held it there, fingers spread across her skin, thumb pressing gently on her lower lip. And still she did not move.

He moved his thumb up, crossing her mouth like a bar. He would not take what she did not yield. But he could make her yield.