"I might hope," Geoffrey answered, "but I would be a fool to think I could."
"And are you a fool?"
"Perhaps for you," he agreed, "but not so great a fool as to let you continue to flout the King's Law."
"Do you threaten me, then?"
"No," Geoffrey said quickly, before the Amazons could start to growl again. "But I tell you frankly, that I will take you back to Runnymede, to await Their Majesties' justice."
The bodyguards howled, flourishing their swords, but again Quicksilver held up her hand. "Withold. He is a warlock."
The Amazons stilled, not because they feared magic, but because Quicksilver had told them to.
Geoffrey nodded. "You are wise. There is no shame in using magic when I am so greatly outnumbered—for I can see through the trees that your band now continues to gather; there must be hundreds—and I would be loathe to hurt women."
"Loathe?" Quicksilver demanded. "But you would do it?"
Geoffrey nodded. "She who takes up weapons forfeits her rights to the protections of chivalry—for a knight must defend his life."
"Yet even so, he must do no more damage to a female than he needs," Quicksilver reminded him.
Geoffrey's eyes gleamed again. "Who are you, to lecture me on the rules of chivalry? Are you nobly born?"
"Only the daughter of a squire," Quicksilver returned, "but thereby did I learn of the Knights' Code."
"Then do you live by it?"
"So far as a woman may."
"Why, that is completely," Geoffrey said, frowning. Quicksilver finally smiled in amusement. "Yes, that is so—and that is how far I do live by it."
Geoffrey's eyes burned, but his voice sank to a caress. "Yield yourself, I pray—for I would be loathe indeed to hurt you."
"And if I do not," Quicksilver said, equally softly, "you will shatter my army with witch-power."
"I shall," Geoffrey confirmed.
"Why, then, the fight must be between the two of us, and we two alone." At last, Quicksilver reached up to draw the broadsword that was slung across her back, and stepped forward from among her women. They cried out in alarm and leaped forward to stop her—but she waved them away. "I shall fight without my band, if you swear to fight without your magic."
"Why, that is honorable indeed!" Geoffrey said, the glow in his eyes spreading across his face. "I swear I shall work no magic, if you forbid your troops to fight!"
"I forbid you all to fight in my defense!" Quicksilver called out. "This is my fight, mine alone, for this man is my meat!"
Eighteen of her bodyguards cried out in protest—but the other two stood silent, staring at their chief in understanding. Slowly and reluctantly, they sheathed their swords and waved their sisters back.
Quicksilver stepped forward, sword on guard, a lioness stalking her quarry, a panther readying herself to spring. Geoffrey lifted his own sword and stepped forward, ignoring the weakness in his knees.
CHAPTER 3
Reluctantly, the outlaws drew back, the bodyguards most reluctantly of all, leaving a bare circle of ground fifty feet across with Geoffrey standing near its center. Quicksilver stepped out in a fighter's crouch, sword in both hands, and began to prowl about him. Geoffrey caught his breath; she was a magnificent figure, red gold in the sunlight, her movements fluid and sinuous. Geoffrey watched her as a good warrior should, trying to watch her whole body but still notice every slightest movement—and notice them he did, for something within him thrilled to each tiniest quiver. He had heard it said that it was the female's movement that caught the male's eye, and if that was so, this was certainly the most intensely feminine being he had ever seen.
But she was a feminine being with a sword, and its edge was whetted and glittering.
Finally, Geoffrey realized that she had no intention of striking the first blow—she would wait for him to do so, and try to take advantage of any opening he might reveal. Well, that was fine with him—he was more than glad to wait, too, and watch her move.
It must have shown in his face, for she flushed, then suddenly struck in a blinding blur of swordcuts, hammering and pounding at him from every angle with unbelievable speed. He retreated a couple of steps, stunned by her skill, struck by the beauty and precision of her attack. He parried every cut, of course, but had no time to riposte until she leaped back, eyes smouldering, sword at the ready, breast heaving with the exertion. He stared, and knew, with a sinking heart, that he could not possibly risk hurting this gorgeous creature.
Then she was on him again, so quickly that he scarcely saw her advance, only knew that her blows were raining about him again, so that he seemed to be inside a smithy, inside the anvil itself, with a hail of blows clanging about him. This time she did not leap back, but stayed and kept slashing and cutting. The technique worked; he parried every cut, but some by a very narrow margin, and when she finally leaped back with a cry of satisfaction, he knew she had struck first blood.
She was easily the most skilled opponent he had ever met with a sword. He had fought stronger, but what she lacked in strength, she made up for in speed and deftness—and precision. "You are excellent," he breathed.
She must have known how he meant it, that he meant it in every way, for she' blushed and snapped, "Come, sir, where is your skill? Where is the vaunted swordsmanship of Geoffrey Gallowglass? Can you not match me blow for blow?"
He felt the taunt stab home, but he knew the game, which was to make him attack in anger, losing his own precision. He grinned instead and said, "Your sword may be sharp, but I have not yet felt its edge."
"Be assured that it has felt your flesh," she snarled, then suddenly leaped forward again.
But Geoffrey was ready this time—when she landed, he wasn't there, but had skipped nimbly to the side. She whirled even as she landed and parried his cut with an oath, then thrust without riposting—a risky move, but effective, if he had been there. But he flinched away, sword tip flicking out to test his own reach against hers—and sure enough, her blade was inches away from his waist, but his tip nicked her shoulder.
He knew he could not bring himself to strike lower.
A shout went up, rage at seeing their chief's blood, and Geoffrey was suddenly alert for the blow from behind but it did not come, for Quicksilver, in a rage, leaped in to shower blows upon him. Geoffrey blocked and parried, waiting her out, sure that she was nicking him in a dozen places, giving ground slowly.
Then a cut swung under his guard and thrust straight for his heart in a full lunge.
Geoffrey barely managed to slip aside in time, and felt the sword score his ribs instead of severing his aorta—and a chill seized his vitals, for he knew without a shadow of doubt that she had meant that thrust to strike home, to slay him completely. She might be attracted to him, every ounce of femininity in her might be aching for him, but she would nonetheless kill him if she could, skewer him like a trout, slay him without regret. Well, not perhaps without regret—but she would slay him nonetheless. He wondered if she treated all her suitors this way—then felt the realization strike him, with the force of a body blow, that he was indeed a suitor!
He leaped back out of her reach, to recover from the shock of the discovery—but she mistook the move for weakness and pressed in with a shout of triumph. It was a mistake; he parried the thrust automatically, then with equally unthinking skill counterthrust without riposting, scoring a trickle of blood across her upper arm. The scarlet thread was almost a physical pain to him, too, but habit as well as the chance of death made him keep on, thrusting here, there, high, low—but never too close to the center, never too close to her torso, always at her arms or shoulders or, Heaven help him, her thighs. She howled with anger, blocking and parrying, matching him blow for blow but too quickly to be able to riposte or attack. She gave ground, face pale with fury, then suddenly caught his sword in a bind, thrusting it up just long enough to slam a kick into his stomach.