Chapter 7 #2
The action made her breath catch. He felt it and chose not to notice. That was difficult with her standing close enough for him to see the pulse beating at her throat and the stubborn set of her mouth.
“Again,” he instructed.
“Really?”
“Aye. And faster this time.”
She failed twice more. On the fourth try, she pulled free, stumbling back with triumph bright in her eyes before she could hide it.
Connor gave a short nod. “Better.”
Violet paused, as if the small praise had struck harder than criticism. Then she quickly squared her shoulders. “Less terrible than before?”
“Less terrible than five minutes ago.”
“How generous.”
He moved behind her and put his hands on her waist, turning her hips into a safer line. She went still under his touch and suddenly grew aware of him. He felt it in the way her back stiffened and her breathing hitched.
“Must all lessons involve yer hands?” Violet asked.
“Only the ones where ye stand wrong.”
“How fortunate for ye that I am apparently terrible.”
“Ye are improving.” The words came out lower than he had intended.
She did not answer at once as he stepped away before his attention became the problem. He picked up a short practice staff his men must have left behind and tossed it aside.
“What if he is too strong? What do I do then?” Violet asked.
“Always assume they are.”
She nodded, grimacing. “Comforting.”
Connor’s gaze dropped briefly to her hands, then returned to her face. “Ye must understand that the fight willnae always be fair or honorable. In cases where the odds are stacked against ye, ye have to become unpleasant.”
That earned him a look of interest.
He took her wrist and moved slowly through it. “Let him think he has ye. Then ye stamp hard on the instep. Heel of the palm under the chin or nose. Then, an elbow to the ribs or throat when he recoils. After that, run or go grab the bairn.”
Violet listened without interruption, which told him she understood the difference between instruction and argument.
He demonstrated once, careful and slow.
“That,” he said, “is what I call The Yellow Lady.”
She stared at him. “What?”
“‘Tis a name I came up with.”
“I can tell. ‘Tis hideous.”
“Well, pretty names do not drop men now, do they?”
Violet muttered something under her breath and tried it. Her first attempt was too gentle, and her second struck the wrong angle. On the third, she stamped hard enough that Connor had to shift his weight, and her palm drove upward with enough force that he caught her wrist before she hit his chin.
For a second, they both went still.
“Good,” Connor said as her eyes lifted to his.
The dawn had grown pale enough to show the flush on her cheeks and the loose strands of chestnut-brown hair stuck near her temple. She was breathing harder now, but there was no complaint on her face. Only hunger for the skill, and anger that she did not yet have it.
“Again,” he said.
Violet blew a breath through her nose. “Good Lord, do we have to? Is this how ye train yer men?”
He looked at her for a second before responding, “Nay.”
She raised her hands in mild protest. “So, ‘tis just me?”
“Well, this is a matter of life or death.”
That made her quiet, and he immediately regretted the words the moment they settled between them. They were too plain. Too close to the truth of why he had risen before dawn and crossed the yard with more attention than he gave most new soldiers.
Violet looked down at his hand still on her wrist.
“Alright then,” she said, her voice sharp. “Let’s do this one more time. Always remember, when trying to use The Yellow Lady, daenae pull against the grip.”
Those words should not have affected him. But for some reason, they did. He continued to speak anyway.
“Turn with it and drop yer weight instead. The Yellow Lady wins because the fool expects her to flee straightaway.”
He attacked slowly at first, then faster.
She missed one turn, recovered badly, swore under her breath, then tried again before he ordered it.
She broke free from his grip once, but he caught her again.
Then she changed the angle, stepped in, and drove her shoulder hard enough into his chest to force him back half a step.
“I told ye I could learn,” Violet said, breathless, her face lighting up.
“I never said ye couldnae.”
“Ye thought it.”
Connor didn’t respond. Instead, he reached for her again, and she twisted free too quickly, lost her footing on the damp grass, and landed with a startled sound.
He stepped forward and offered his hand. “Up.”
Violet looked at his hand, then at his face.
Oh nay.
Connor could see the exact moment the next idea formed in her head, but before he could do anything to stop it, she gripped his hand, shifted her weight, and pulled at the weak angle he had shown her. He had not expected her to use his own tactic against him so soon.
He fell with her, and they hit the grass and rolled. He recovered first by instinct, bracing one knee beside her hip and planting one hand near her shoulder. His other hand caught her wrist before she could strike again.
Violet lay beneath him, chest heaving, hair loosened across the grass, eyes wide with triumph and shock.
“That was foolish,” Connor chided.
“Well, it was effective, was it nae?”
He should have moved. He knew it. He felt the damp grass under his palm, the heat of her body beneath his, and the wild, bright challenge still in her eyes.
Training had placed them here. Desire kept him here.
“This doesnae seem like a lesson,” Violet said.
His gaze dropped to her mouth before he could stop it. “Depends on what ye have learned.”
“That ye are too pleased with yerself? Good thing we daenae have a mirror here and I—”
Connor didn’t wait for her to finish. He lowered his mouth to hers.
The kiss was not gentle. It could not be, not after the dungeons, the argument, the rules, the feel of her wrist in his hand and her courage sharpening under his instruction.
Violet stiffened for half a heartbeat, then her fingers gripped his shoulder, and she kissed him back with a shocking fierceness that shot right through him.
Connor deepened it before sense returned. Her mouth opened beneath his, and the small sound she made nearly shattered the last of his restraint.
He wanted to press her into the grass, to feel the full length of her under him, to teach her something far more dangerous than how to break a man’s grip.
He lifted his head first, and for once, he had no order ready. Violet, on the other hand, stared up at him, lips parted, eyes wide with the same shock burning through him.
The training yard was quiet around them, and his hand was still braced beside her head.
Damn ye, Connor.