Chapter 14 #2
Lady Annabelle listened to his corrections, modifying, and trying again.
Within a few moments, she was breathing heavily, and sweat shone on her face, but she continued, lips pressed together and jaw tight.
She was determined to get it right. The stubbornness that had been so exasperating to him before was, in this, her greatest asset.
Hawke called a stop, allowing her to rest.
She sat down on a hatch cover, rubbing her sword arm.
Grieg brought a cup of water.
Shadbolt, for his part, had not even broken a sweat.
Hawke sat beside her, stretching out his legs.
“You must practice often. Repeat again and again until you move into a defensive block without even thinking about it. Without hesitating.” He took the sword from her hand, returning it to its sheath. “Shall we be finished training for now?”
“No.” She wiped her sleeve across her forehead. “I wish to continue.”
“Are you certain?” Her arm must be aching. Even though Shadbolt hadn’t been using his full strength, his blows were forceful.
“I’m certain.” She rose and returned to the forecastle, standing in the middle of the open space and turning to him. “Once I’ve blocked the blow, what do I do?”
Hawke drew his sword, motioning for her to do the same. Without warning, he swung.
Lady Annabelle’s sword flashed, darting forward to block the blow. Her eyes widened, and then her face shifted to a smug grin. One that was entirely warranted.
Pride flared in Hawke’s chest. He held her gaze, their swords crossed. “Your second advantage is the element of surprise. Your opponent will expect you to jump back, to move away. But instead, you will step forward.”
Lady Annabelle stepped toward him, their swords scraping as she moved.
“Come in close enough to shift his balance,” Hawke said.
She moved even closer until he had to move his feet. “And now what do I do?”
Hawke smirked. “You use his weakness.”
“I don’t know—”
Hawke moved back. “Lift your knee. Drive it upward as hard as you can between your enemy’s legs.”
Lady Annabelle gasped, clamping a hand over her mouth. Her entire face went red. She pulled her sword away, taking a step back. “Hawke, I can’t . . .” She wouldn’t even look at him. “I can’t do that. It is . . . I just can’t.”
Hawke sheathed his sword. He took Lady Annabelle’s shoulders, turning her to face him.
“The man you fight will hurt you without a second thought. He will try to kill you. He will not fight fair. He will not care that you are a woman. You must be ready to do whatever you can to defend yourself. You must—” Hawke’s throat constricted, and his voice shook.
He swallowed, reining in his emotions. He realized he was squeezing her shoulders and loosened his grip, but he didn’t release her.
“You must not hesitate. You strike him hard enough to shock him, and then you run as fast as you can. Do you understand?”
She nodded but still looked uncertain.
Hawke released her, stepping back and mentally shaking himself. There was a fine line between impressing the gravity of the situation on her and frightening her to the point that she would not even make an attempt. He tried for a casual smile but didn’t think he quite managed it.
“Let’s practice.”
Lady Annabelle’s face reddened again. “You . . . I . . . I can’t.”
“One, two, three,” he said. “Block, step, kick. You can do this.”
He drew his sword, swinging forward, and she intercepted his strike
“Block,” she said. She moved forward. “Step.” And she lifted her knee. “Kick.” It bumped into Hawke’s waiting palm with all the strength of a kitten.
Crewmembers snickered, gathering closer.
Shadbolt’s lips twitched.
Hawke gave a long-suffering sigh, fixing her with a flat stare between the crossed blades of their swords. “Try again. Harder.”
“I can’t watch this,” Grieg grimaced, turning away.
Lady Annabelle thrust her knee upward. The impact against Hawke’s hand was a bit more forceful, but she was still hesitant. Against a real enemy, it would have little effect.
“You can do this,” he said again. “You must. Remember those men in the alley. How frightened you were. You cannot hold back. You must fight. Fight with everything you have.”
The muscles around her eyes contracted, and her expression turned fierce. She let out a yell, driving her knee upward with such force that Hawke dropped his sword, jumped backward, and barely avoided a collision with the mast. He sucked in a breath through his teeth.
That was too close.
The crewmembers winced, and one let out a soft whimper.
Hawke laughed at Lady Annabelle’s horrified expression.
“Well done,” he said, picking up his weapon. “Perhaps a little too well done. Unless you have an objection, training is finished for now.”
He ordered the other crewmembers to return to work and turned back to his student. “My lady—”
“Oh!” She took his arm and pushed him down to sit on the raised hatch. “You’re injured.”
Hawke glanced to where she pointed. The shoulder of his shirt was slit, blood soaking into the fabric. Lady Annabelle’s sword must have grazed him when he’d jumped back from her kick. He hadn’t even felt the wound—a testament to Shadbolt’s skill with the sharpening stone.
Lady Annabelle called for bandages and pulled on the tear, assessing the cut.
“This is my favorite shirt,” he grumbled.
She frowned. “Never mind your shirt. The cut is deep. It may need to be stitched.” She tugged on his cuff, gently helping him to pull his arm free, then pushed his shirt over his head, drawing it away from his other arm.
Hawke may have enjoyed that if his shoulder hadn’t started to sting. Blood ran down his arm and dripped from his elbow. Murray arrived with bandages, and Tim with the mop. After a consultation with Grieg, they determined the wound was not serious enough to warrant stitches.
Grieg, who apparently acted as the ship’s doctor as well as the boatswain, washed and wrapped Hawke’s shoulder. “It’s a clean cut, Captain. Should mend itself quickly.”
Tim had already started to mop the blood from the deck.
Hawke thanked them both, glad the injury was to his left shoulder. It wouldn’t cause too much trouble, though it would sting for a few days.
He went to his cabin and dug into his sea chest for another shirt.
The door opened behind him. “The blood washed out of your shirt easily enough,” Lady Annabelle said. “And I will be able to mend the tear once—” She gasped.
Hawke spun, glancing around the room for the source of her alarm. “What is it?”
Her gaze was locked on him. On his bare torso. She drew closer, speaking in a soft voice. “Hawke, what happened to you?”
He glanced down, imagining how appalling he must look to her. His body displayed a motley collection of old rope burns, blade nicks, and battle scars.
Lady Annabelle reached toward him. She brushed the scar from a stab wound on his side, and traced another, a curved track from a saber strike on his sternum.
Her fingers were soft, her touch gentle as she examined the evidence of so many wounds.
She pressed her palm flat against a raised patch of burned skin on his chest and looked up, brows pulled together and eyes shining with concern.
He’d expected pity or disgust, but this .
. . His heart contracted and then released, thumping hard.
Had anyone ever looked at him like this?
Shown such care? Treated him so tenderly?
He remembered only a few memories of his mother.
And Molly, though she’d loved him in her own way, hadn’t shown affection.
Hawke hadn’t realized how much he longed for it.
“Who did this?” she asked.
“I’ve been at sea since I was seven.” He pressed his hand over hers where it rested on his chest, feeling as if he needed to reassure her. “It’s an occupational hazard.”
She slid her hand slowly from beneath his and continued around to examine his back.
She drew in a sharp breath. He knew what she saw there. Evidence of punishment and discipline doled out over years on ships, ports, prisons. Flogging left gruesome scars. And Hawke’s were particularly severe. He was not always inclined to obey orders, and it showed.
“There are so many,” she whispered, tracing her fingers over the furrows, ridges, and divots.
Hawke shivered at her touch.
When he did, she stopped, pulling her hand away. “Does it hurt?” She moved around to face him, and the care in her expression nearly brought him to tears.
“Not anymore,” he said, shrugging. “They’re old injuries.”
“Except for this one.” She winced at the already bloody bandage on his shoulder.
Hawke had forgotten, and her reminder brought back the sting. He glanced at it, thinking he should have it rewrapped before he ruined another shirt.
“I am so sorry,” Lady Annabelle said.
She must not be afraid of using her sword, otherwise she would hesitate when quick thinking was vital. “You should be proud,” he said, giving a teasing smile. “You drew first blood.”
His attempt at humor didn’t erase the furrows between her brows. “I will bring some new bandages.” She pressed a soft kiss to his cheek and left.
And in that moment, the pain in Hawke’s shoulder eased, the worries of sailing through the Devil’s Triangle felt lighter, and the fears of what awaited them on Isla de Plata seemed entirely unfounded.