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A li stood in the lists with the sun beating down on her head and thought back with fondness to the time when she’d imagined that being Colin of Berkhamshire’s bride would be what killed her. Now she knew that having him train her in the gentle arts of war would be what did her in.

“We’ll do that stroke again.”

Ali wanted nothing more than to leave her sword where it was—point down in the dirt—and crawl off to somewhere cool and have herself a long rest, preferably without any mail, swords, or other trappings of war.

Unfortunately, that wasn’t a possibility at present, not with the Butcher of Berkhamshire at the helm of her ship, as it were.

They’d been at this training business for only three days, but Ali suspected that Colin very much begrudged the sun its going down, for it robbed him of time to grind her further under his heel.

And he didn’t even have her death on his mind. She pitied those who weren’t as fortunate as she.

Not that she actually considered herself all that fortunate, and not that she’d lost any of her fear of him. He was, after all, who he was, and every moment in his presence reminded her of why she’d fled in the first place and what she had to lose if he discovered her.

Colin reached out and tapped her blade with his. “Again, Henri.”

Ali swallowed back her fear, cast a final desperate prayer heavenward, and lifted her blade.

Her arms shook as she did so, even though her newly fashioned sword was much lighter than her brother’s had been.

It was a beautiful sword; even she had to admit that.

And it flashed quite nicely in the sunlight.

She finished her stroke, then looked at the blade with admiration.

That she should have a newly fashioned sword was possibly the most noteworthy thing that had ever happened to her.

She’d never owned anything so expensive.

She’d watched the smith during his various labors and realized quite fully all that had gone into its construction.

She’d also watched Colin hand over substantially more coin than she’d ever seen, and surely far more than she herself had tucked into one of Blackmour’s passageway walls, and hand it over as if it meant nothing to him.

When he’d given her the blade with but a “ ’tis yours now, may it serve you well,” she’d been tempted to weep.

Her very own sword.

It had been almost enough to give her the desire to learn how to use it properly.

Of course, that enthusiasm had faded with every subsequent day that passed—especially given that those days had begun at dawn the very morning after her sword had been finished, and lasted without fail far into the afternoon.

On the first day, she’d passed half the day learning to draw her sword, then put it away again.

After a hearty meal, Colin had taken her back out to the lists where she’d learned to hold her blade properly.

The only reason she’d known he had been satisfied with her work was because he’d then moved on to a proper fighting stance.

That had been followed the next day by an examination of the previous day’s work, then an immediate commencement of the first few swipes with her blade.

And, as Jason continually reminded her each chance he had, the true business of training had scarcely begun.

She had wondered often during the past few days if dousing him with that pitcher of ale had been wise. He’d certainly missed no opportunity since to describe in the most glorious of detail all that she would face whilst Colin did his best to make her over in his image.

She’d asked him archly the night before if all lads from Artane had such a finely honed sense of vengeance.

He’d only grinned and reminded her that he would hardly be the one meting out any portion of justice over the next period of indeterminate length.

That hadn’t seemed to stop him from thoroughly enjoying his seat on the bench in the shade of the wall, watching her go through whatever torments Colin saw fit to inflict on her.

And damn that Artane lad if he hadn’t come up with anything useful for her to be. His suggestion the night before of a fierce mercenary had almost earned him his supper in his lap.

“Henri!” Colin bellowed.

Ali snapped to attention and grasped her blade with both hands.

“My lord,” she said as bravely as she could.

She dragged her full concentration away from thoughts of Jason’s demise, the sheen of her blade, and her future, to the matter at hand.

Whatever might come after, for now learning swordplay was a goodly work and one she didn’t intend to fail at.

A pity Marie couldn’t have seen her, or been the recipient of Ali’s finished lessons.

“Are you finished thinking?”

Ali raised her blade. “My apologies, lord. Your reputation intimidates me.”

Colin nodded as if such a thing were merely his due. “No doubt it does. But I am your master now, and I’ve no mind to separate your head from your shoulders. Unless,” he added, “you continue to lose yourself in foolish dreaming.”

Ali forced herself to ignore the complete ridiculousness of actually having the cheek to train with the man facing her. Apparently he thought nothing of it, so perhaps she shouldn’t either.

She struggled to ignore the pain in her arms that progressed to pains in her back and then in her legs from such unaccustomed labor.

Colin, though, seemed to find nothing painful about the day.

He continued to deliver his instructions with calmness and a surprising amount of patience.

His expression, however, gave new meaning to inscrutable.

He neither smiled nor frowned at anything she did, no matter how many times he made her do her strokes over again.

Then again, perhaps there was nothing to be excited over yet in her quest for mastery of her blade, though Jason had told her earlier that morning that she was a good student. Despite herself, she felt as if she were actually succeeding at something.

How ironic it was that the something was swordplay—and learned at Colin of Berkhamshire’s tender hands, no less.

“Henri, I vow you’ve the concentration of a witless serving wench!” Colin bellowed. “Your head will never remain atop your neck if you cannot do better than this!”

Ali shook herself and gave up thinking. The remainder of the afternoon passed with her standing next to him, trying to copy the precise movement of his blade with her own. And, for the first time, the simple discipline of it gave her an odd kind of peace.

Of course that peace began to fade a bit as Colin kept her at her task the whole of the afternoon. By the time the shadows grew long and she had been released from torment, she was dripping with sweat and trembling with weariness.

Colin, still looking as fresh as if he’d just woken from a fine night’s sleep, put his blade up and looked around him.

“Are they all gone?” he asked, sounding very disappointed. “No one left for a little swordplay?”

Jason rose from where he’d been lounging on the bench. “All save me, my lord, but I’m weary from just watching you train our poor Henri. ’Tis enough to make a lad consider something else as his life’s calling. Smithy work? Masonry? Cobbling? What do you think, Sir Henri?”

What she thought wasn’t at all what a young lady of her station could utter. Obviously she’d passed too much time in hose. She contented herself with glaring at Jason, then she turned back to see what Colin would require of her further.

She found him staring at her in a most unsettlingly probing manner.

“Henri seems to be holding up well enough,” Colin conceded. “Or,” he said slowly, looking at Jason, “does he seem a bit weak to you? Not as strong as a lad his age should be? These girlish tendencies he shows—”

“Not everyone can have your strength, my lord,” Jason said, jumping to his feet and coming across the lists.

“Aye,” Ali agreed quickly. “I crave your patience with my feeble nature, my lord.”

“But ’tis a most womanly nature,” Colin insisted, looking at her from under his eyebrows.

“Ah, leave off tormenting the boy,” Jason said, slinging his arm around her shoulders. “Perhaps he comes from poor stock. Will you shame him beyond measure by reminding him of it?”

Ali could only nod uneasily.

“Hmmm,” Colin said, stroking his chin thoughtfully. “I suppose so. Very well, Henri, I will torment you no longer. A meal, then some rest for you. Perhaps you’ll overcome your weak stature at some point.”

“No doubt,” Jason said heartily, pulling Ali toward the great hall. “Come, Henri, and let us seek out sustenance. I’m weary from all your hard labors today.”

Ali watched as Colin strode past them, making quick work of reaching the great hall before them.

She looked up at Jason. “My thanks.”

“I could do nothing less.”

“Think you he suspects?”

“Who you are? Never. What you are? Aye, perhaps. Unfortunately, the man is far less dense than you might think. Then again, he is so wrapped up in swordplay, he wouldn’t notice you were a girl if you stood there naked—as long as you had a sword in your hand and were pointing it at him.”

“I suppose,” she said doubtfully.

“Don’t worry. We’ll put him off the scent.”

“You’ve saved yourself another drenching, my lord.”

“Oh, I’ve that still to repay you for,” he said with a laugh, “but I’ll bide my time.”

“No doubt,” she muttered, but went with him willingly back to the hall. It meant supper, and she found that she longed for meals like she never had before. Could the rigors of a convent life possibly be this difficult? Or the smells of pigs? Or the labors of brewing ale?

She followed Jason into the hall, but found herself sitting alone at one of the lower tables.

It didn’t trouble her overmuch. She had eaten more than one meal without Jason at her elbow and survived well enough.

What could possibly happen to her before Jason finished his obligations to Lord Christopher?