Geoffrey saw it coming and rolled with the blow, but it still drove the breath out of him, and he fell, rolling along the ground. He heard her shout of triumph ringing in his ears, saw her boots pound close, and rolled aside just as she stabbed down, then rocked back a split second before she stabbed again. His lungs clamored for air as his belly strove to pull, to inhale—and finally the first breath came, finally oxygen flooded in again, and he surged up to his feet, inside her guard, sword arrowing straight for her throat—but the tip veered aside to nick her shoulder instead. She cried out in alarm and leaped back; the delay had been just long enough for that, but not long enough to recover. Geoffrey pressed the attack, raining cuts and thrusts at her from all sides, keeping her sword too busy parrying to be able to stab at him, for he realized with a sick certainty that the only way he could win was to disarm her; he could not bear to do anything else—but she could, and would.
He did not intend to let her.
Her sword was slowing just the tiniest bit, but his was not—yet, though it soon would. His blows were coming closer to her body now; the sphere of safety about her was shrinking. Geoffrey saw and rejoiced—if he could slow her enough, he could catch her sword in a bind. She knew it, too—or knew that she would be at his mercy, for she was tiring faster than he, and she glared her hatred at him.
Then, suddenly, she leaped back to give herself a second's breathing space. Her left hand shot up to the nape of her neck and loosed a knot—and her halter fell away, revealing her naked breasts, full and golden in the morning sunlight.
Geoffrey stared, frozen for an instant of sheer admiration—and in that instant, Quicksilver struck.
Here was no testing rain of cuts—here was only a single, clean, full-body lunge; her whole form seemed to straighten into a single line of steel that culminated in a point to lance straight through his heart.
The streak of silver snapped Geoffrey out of his daze; he stepped aside and parried, then leaped in close, wrist circling to catch her blade in a bind—but she leaped in, too, corps d corps, body to body, each long quivering muscle of hers against his, thigh to thigh, arm to arm, breast to chest ...
For a moment, he froze; but she had outsmarted herself, for she froze, too, and their gazes locked. For an instant, it seemed to him that he could see all the way to the depths of her soul, so clear and pure it was, and he could not take his gaze away ...
Then her lips writhed in a snarl, and that clearness filled with fire.
She leaped back, sword cutting and thrusting—but he parried and waited, for the thrusts were slower and slower now, though he must keep his eyes resolutely on her face, his gaze on hers, taking in the sword but never looking squarely at it, for her torso would be behind it ... Then she thrust, but just a little too slowly now, and he caught her blade in a circle again, a double circle twisting hard against her thumb, and the sword snapped free from tired fingers to go spinning through the air. Her whole band shouted, but even now he did not trust himself to look down to her heart, only touched his sword to her throat, rested the tip against the delicious hollow at its base that he longed to kiss and taste, but held himself back, panting, and said, quite clearly (which amazed him), "Yield!"
She stood frozen, her chest heaving as she panted, glaring murder into his eyes, but not daring to move. "Yield yourself unto me," he said more gently.
"I must, must I not?" she said, with full bitterness. "No!" cried the chief of her bodyguard, and the Amazons shouted as they leaped, their swords out. Her whole army pressed forward with one mighty shout.
"No!" she cried, but not quite quickly enough; the earth erupted in a ring all about them, blowing up in a cloud of dirt that flung outward with a huge booming, and the outlaws cried out in fear and alarm, crowding backwards just long enough for Quicksilver to shout again, "No! I gave my word!" Then, never taking her eyes from Geoffrey's, "If you strike, he is freed to use his witch-power—as he has done even now; but where only dirt flew up here, he could bring flame! Could you not, sir?"
"I could," Geoffrey called loudly and clearly, but wondered how she knew. Had she fought a warlock before? Was that the source of her bitterness?
"Then rain fire!" the leader of her bodyguard shouted. "We will die before we leave her to you!"
The whole army roared agreement and pressed in.
There was only a moment to begin slaughter, or find a way out—and Geoffrey stepped right up against Quicksilver, caught her body up against his and bent all his attention on a little glade by a river that he had studied, a dozen miles away. The double crack of imploding and exploding air battered their eardrums, and his concentration slipped; he could only hold it for a split second, with that wondrous body pressed against his, especially as it began to writhe; but Quicksilver raged, "Let me go! Oh, let me go!" and wrenched herself free, leaping back.
Automatically, Geoffrey brought his sword back up to her throat.
She ignored the threat, only glared into his eyes. "What have you done with my band?"
With peripheral vision, Geoffrey registered the presence of the glade he had pictured, of the absence of battle cries and rattle of steel, of a silence broken only by the purling of a brook and the calls of songbirds. "They are where they were. It is we who have gone, not they."
Her voice shook. "What warlock's trick is this?"
"Only teleportation," he told her, "only moving myself, and whatsoever I clung to. It was the only way to arrest you as I said I would, but without hurting your people, as I said I would not."
"So you have kept your word," she said bitterly, "and I am your captive. Have your way with me, then, since I cannot prevent you—but never dare turn your back on me, or I shall slay you!"
"Nay," Geoffrey replied. "I have never forced a woman, and shall not do so now. Yet I wish you were not an outlaw and a murderer, for I would rather woo you than arrest you."
"I am what I am," Quicksilver snapped, "and what men have made me."
"Yet it was not I who made you so." Geoffrey lowered his point, frowning, still exercising every jot of willpower to keep his gaze on her eyes. "It was not I who gave you cause for grief. Why then do you hate me so?"
"Because you fight for them, you fight to enforce the law that upholds them, though it allows them to commit sins that would be high crimes, were a peasant to seek to behave so to a lord's daughter! Yet I am only a daughter of a squire, so the law you claim to enforce will not protect me! Aye, and I do not doubt that you would have done as they did, if you'd had the chance!"
"I would not." Geoffrey's voice lowered. "And certainly never against you."
Quicksilver's lip curled. "Oh assuredly, you would not! And how can you prove that, sir?"
"Why," said Geoffrey simply, "because I have the chance now, but will not do it."
For a moment, there was stark fear in Quicksilver's eyes, and she flinched away a step—but Geoffrey made no move to follow, only kept his eyes on her face and said softly, "Do me this courtesy, at least—make it less trying for me to keep my resolve. Bind up your halter again; cover yourself, so that my blood may rage less fiercely through me, and my own loins may not rage at me for a fool."
For a moment, she stared at him in surprise. Then a smile spread slowly, and she said, "Nay, I think not—since it causes you pain."