Seven Wicked Nights (Turner #1.5)

Not true, indeed. Even as she concentrated on defending herself, her gaze darted toward him of its own volition, catching glimpses of his hardened chest through his loose, open-necked shirt. His sleeves covered muscled forearms that she knew would be flexing this way and that, and his biceps strained against the fabric despite its generous cut. Awareness washed over her, peppering her skin with goose bumps. Good heavens, he must be as strong as an ox now.

She bit her lip, forcing her mind back to their volleys, both verbal and physical. “You know Uncle Robert would never believe otherwise.” Her words came out in staccato puffs as she struggled to hold her ground.

“Because the man’s an idiot.”

The comment caught her off guard, making her grin. He immediately took advantage, surging forward with a volley that forced her backwards, pinning her against one of the tumbledown half-walls that once delineated the abbey’s courtyard. Drat it all—how had he gotten the upper hand so quickly? Her breath came out in a rush as he leaned against her; the X of their crossed foils the only thing preventing his chest from pressing against hers. She went a little lightheaded at the thought.

The crisp scent of sweat and soap surrounded her as his lips lifted in a slow, smug smile. “You’ve gone soft,” he murmured, shaking his head. “That was entirely too easy.”

Oh, no—there was no way on earth she would allow him to win this, their first battle in so long. Especially when her whole body seemed to be betraying her. Her nerves tingled at his closeness, her lungs willfully drawing in the scent of him. Forcing herself to relax, she offered a contrite smile. “I suppose I’m out of practice. Take your pound of flesh and be done with it.”

She turned her cheek, waiting for him to lean forward for the kiss he had long claimed as his prize of choice. Just another way to remind her of how he had bested her in their first meeting.

He bent forward, his green eyes alight with mischief. She held her breath, working to maintain the focus that wavered at his nearness. Just when she was about to spring, at the very moment her muscles tensed to counter attack, he stopped, tsking. “If you think,” he said quietly, his lips only inches from her flushed cheek, “that I would believe for a second you would just roll over and let me win, you have underestimated me, cousin.”

Smarter than she had hoped. Fighting to regain her flagging resolve in the face of his overwhelming closeness, she shrugged. “Then prepare yourself.”

With every ounce of her strength, she launched herself on the offensive, forcing him away and whipping her foil up between them.

He mirrored her position, his hand held out behind him with his legs evenly planted on the rocky ground. “See? Not feeble-minded in the least. Stubborn, willful, and scandalous, but never feeble-minded.”

They engaged once more, the clanging of their swords carrying across the dew-laden field. “I am not scandalous, thank you very much.”

He blocked her jab and countered with one of his own, but she saw it coming and danced back just in time.

“But stubborn and willful?”

She smiled. “A woman never argues with a compliment.”

Chuckling, he dodged her strike and repositioned himself. “That explains so very much.”

“Good. And a woman unwed is not scandalous. She is independent.” The fierceness with which she said the words felt good. The match was helping to give her back a bit of her confidence. Being with him somehow made her feel stronger.

He widened his eyes dramatically, gasping in mock disbelief. “Independence is so much worse than scandal. Malcolm would be in vapors to hear you speak thusly.”

Standing in the middle of the ruins, dressed in wholly improper clothes and clutching a sword of all things, she couldn’t help but laugh. Lowering her foil, she put her free hand to her waist. “Look at me, Nick. I do believe independence would be the least of his objections were he to see me right now.”

She hadn’t meant it literally, but still his gaze swept over her, taking in her flowing, wide-legged trousers and sturdy, well-fitting long-sleeve blouse made of padded linen. It was impossible to miss the flash of appreciation in his celadon eyes. The oddest tug answered low in her belly, as though gravity had released her for a moment. Or perhaps it was reason leaving her body.

He tipped his head to the side. “Point conceded.”

Purposely looking away, she tucked her foil beneath her arm and tugged off her thick gloves. “Speaking of which, it’s getting late. I’d best get back before I’m missed.”

“Too late.”

She frowned, glancing to the first pink fingers of dawn stretching into the sky, heralding the start of the day. “Not at all. I have a good quarter hour before sunrise.”

Leaning his sword against the abbey wall, he stepped toward her, shaking his head. “No, I don’t mean you will be missed. I mean you have been missed.”