21
Elizabeth left the picnic on the blanket. There was a duel to fight. Time was wasting.
Stephen held open the rooftop door for her and she stepped into the darkness. She kept one hand firmly around the handle of her cane and the other palm skating the cold stone wall as she descended the narrow, uneven spiral steps. Each wedge seemed to fit only half her foot, and be of vastly different height than the one before or after.
When she reached the landing outside the corridor that led to her private quarters, she picked up her sword stick and jogged the short distance to her bedchamber. In no time, she’d exchanged her cane for an appropriate sword.
All right, it wasn’tnotime. There had been decisions to make. Length, girth, weight, how the handle gripped. She was leaving nothing to chance.
She also had to do her stretches. Her body still hadn’t fully recovered from the toll of the strange contortions she’d had to assume during her search of the castle. She was operating well below peak competency levels.
“Densmooore,” came the muffled cry outside of the castle.
“For the love of God,” she muttered. “I will come and kill you in a second. Have patience!”
As soon as she was ready, she burst back into the corridor.
“Do not kill anyone,” Stephen reminded her.
“You sound just like Jacob. Were you listening to me talk to myself?”
“One needn’t eavesdrop to reach an obvious conclusion. I know you. Please convince Reddington to duel to the disarming, not to the death. That’ll be more than enough. The mortification of being bested by a woman will send him scurrying off into the night.” Stephen paused. “I hope.”
“Humph.” Elizabeth pushed past him. “We’ll see what happens.”
She made it to the stairs and hurried down the triangular spiral steps faster than she ought. In her eagerness to spar with her enemy, her foot failed to gain purchase on a thin sliver of stone, and shot forward into nothingness.
She flung out her free hand to grasp the banister—but of course there was none.
A strong hand grabbed her flailing wrist, righting her before her foot’s terrifying skid sent her over the edge of the staircase, and tumbling into an early grave.
“Slow down, Berserker. Are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” she said quickly, and gave what she hoped passed as a carefree laugh. “Just eager to cut off heads.”
She wasn’t fine. Not completely. After being jarred like that, her left hip spasmed every time she put weight on that side, causing her to walk out of rhythm and out of balance. She took each step gingerly, determined not to make a permanent mistake on the staircase.
“I thought you said you were in a hurry,” Stephen said with a chuckle. “Now what are you doing?”
Trying not to die.
“Making him sweat,” she answered lightly. “I decided he doesn’t deserve unnecessary promptness. I’ll slice through his throat when I’m good and ready.”
Stephen touched her side. “You’re limping.”
“I’m not.”
“You’relimping. If you’re already in pain, we need to call off the duel—”
“I’mfine.” She put her full weight on her leg to prove it, and regretted it immediately. “Once I best him, we can negotiate for more time.”
Stephen frowned, but seemed to take her at her word. “And a cease fire. No killing, unless he tries to kill you first.”
She brightened. “You’re saying… Icankill him? If he deserves it?”
“Of course. If he tries to murder you and you let him live, I’ll kill him myself.”
She kissed him. “You are a prince amongst men.”
