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Connor pointed to a spot on the ground between his feet. “Here.”

“Gods, you tyrant,” Reggie muttered, rolling his eyes, but stepped in close, and propped his free hand on his hip. “What?”

Connor dropped his voice to a murmur. “You need to be careful.” He lifted a glance over Reggie’s shoulder as Reggie said, “Gods, yes, obviously.” A flicker of movement had drawn his attention: Leif’s head cocking a fraction. He could hear them. Shit.

“Stop,” he whispered, and something in his tone or face finally got through to Reggie. His expression went quizzical. “I know you’re quick on your feet and good with a sword – but you’ve not sparred with anyone like him before. The closest is one of those golden bastards – but he’s stronger.”

Reggie’s brows knitted, and he chewed his lip a moment. Then he nodded, set his jaw, and said, “Right. I’ll manage.”

“Reg–”

Reggie winked, a fast slice of grin lighting up his face the moment before he turned around. “Just because you think I’m pretty as a girl doesn’t mean I fight like one.”

“I’m telling Amelia you said that.”

Reggie laughed, turned, and tossed his head back to march toward the center of the yard, a peacock through and through.

Connor was smiling – couldn’t help but smile in the face of that youthful, cocksure strut – but his stomach was twirling with butterflies. He smelled wine, and glanced down the wall to the man sitting nearest, an unstoppered skin resting on his knee. “Pass that here,” he said, and got a few long swallows of sweet red down his throat while the opponents circled one another and worked in a few final stretches on the move.

Connor sent a quick prayer that the gods might smile down on the blond head that he cared about, and then watched as Reggie lunged forward in the first assault.

Hewasquick on his feet, light as a striking snake as he rushed forward three strides and sent a thrust straight for Leif’s heart.

Leif was quick, too; startlingly so for a man his size. He batted the strike away with ease, almost lazily – but Reggie appeared to have anticipated, and twirled away, sword lifting so the blades never met. The whistle of steel through midair was met with boos and jeers from the crowd.

Reggie fell neatly into his next stance, and came again, flowing this time into a series of quick strikes, changing direction again and again. Leif met each one. Clang – clang – clang! On the last, he twisted his wrist, and attempted to get his sword round Reggie’s and down to the crossguard to disarm him. Reggie pulled free, though, dancing back, more lithe than any ballroom tumbler. He was grinning, white teeth bared in a face gone grimy from the dust they’d already kicked up. His golden hair was curling, dark at the roots from sweat. He was resplendent, and clearly enjoying himself.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself, lad,” Connor murmured. “He’s notthathurt.”

“Oh, he’s hurt worse than he’s letting on,” a Northern-accented voice said just to his left, and Connor applauded himself for not jumping out of his skin.

A glance proved that Ragnar had appeared, as if from thin air, and stood now with his elbows braced back on the edge of the wall, knotted hair gathered in a loose tail at the base of his skull, bare arms gleaming with suntan and sweat. Connor wasn’t used to feeling self-conscious about his looks, and found that it wasn’t a flattering trait, even to himself.

Leif launched the next assault, charging forward with a powerful swing that sent Reggie leaping back, smile freezing, then falling away as he kept retreating, and searched for an opening.

“He looks hale and hearty to me,” Connor said.

“Oh, aye,” Connor said easily. “He’s as stubborn and foolish as his uncle. Cut off both arms, and he’d stagger back up and tell you he only had a flesh wound. But he’s in a fair bit of pain. He’ll power through now, but then won’t be able to walk later.” He snorted with amusement, and lifted a skin of his own to his lips.

“Forgive me if that’s not all that reassuring.”

Reggie had regrouped; he went low, slashing at Leif’s ankles – and then had to throw himself to the ground and roll out of the way as Leif brought his sword straight down, like a club. The prince didn’t overbalance; his sword didn’t land in the dirt, the way it would have with a clumsier opponent. He checked the swing at the last moment, and used his forward momentum to step, turn, and slice a neat triangle out of Reggie’s flapping sleeve.

Connor’s stomach grabbed.

Ragnar chuckled. Bastard. “Yeah, well. We’re built a bit different up North.”

Connor snorted. “I noticed.”

“But you needn’t worry too much. He’ll give your wee princess a scare, all right, but he won’t put him in a sick bed.”

Connor had been taking a swallow of wine, and nearly choked on it. He spat on the ground, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Gods,” he said, breathlessly. “Wee princess. I’ll have to remember that one.”

Ragnar shot him a wide, lazy grin. “I’m right, aren’t you? About you and him?” He lifted his hands, briefly to make a lewd motion with the fingers of both working together.

Connor sent him a quelling look that seemed to have no effect. “You’re awfully bold in your assumptions for a man who’s a ‘war prize,’ wearing another man’s collar.”War prize. The phrase was still a bit radical; he’d turned it over in his mind since Edward first said it yesterday, and found he couldn’t quite understand the urge to turn a man into a plaything and slave. He’d never had the desire to keep an enemy around, live and kicking, not even his own brother – though the Sels had beaten him to that particular execution.

He saw the way the phrase affected Ragnar; the shuttering of his gaze, the brittle turn of his smile. He shrugged, though, and turned to face the action, tone deceptively light. “You have your customs, and we have ours. Still: I know a boy who likes being bent over when I see one.”