“You’re out of your depth, Siqualian,” Bertrand said nastily. “You should have withdrawn when you could still do it with your honor intact.”
Theo ignored him. It wasn’t his own honor he was fighting for. Even the slight to his kingdom had no impact on him now. It was all for Elowen, nothing else mattered in that moment. Making the most of Bertrand’s distraction, he feinted toward his open flank, then whipped his weapon around ferociously the moment Bertrand parried.
The viscount barely managed to block the fresh attack in time, and Theo saw surprise and anger flit across his face.
“You’re mistaken, My Lord, if you think you’re fighting an ice statue.”
Theo’s calm words made Bertrand hesitate, thrown off at the possibility that Theo had heard him in the training yard. Theo once again took advantage of the moment and drove his blade forward. He scored a hit on Bertrand’s mail-clad side, and the point was loudly acknowledged by the master of events.
The two contestants drew back, taking the offered water and wiping their foreheads. Then the bugle sounded again, and they began to circle. Bertrand seemed furious that Theo had scored a hit, and he fought with dogged determination until he managed to sneak one under Theo’s guard as well. Both were in a strong position, but neither had come close to what would be considered a killing blow, which would automatically end the fight.
The third clash of their weapons was faster and less precise. Both were tiring, and both were angry. In fact, Theo hadn’t seen any fight in the whole tournament with half the emotion this one had. Neither of them was burly, their physiques and strength levels well matched, but Theo was sure he had greater skill. Bertrand’s confidence was unrivaled, and no doubt he’d won many more matches in his life than Theo. But the difference was that Theo had never had an opponent surrender out of deference to his rank. He’d grown up facing—and losing to—fighters more skilled than he was, and as a result he’d never stopped improving. He suspected Bertrand, while possessing some natural aptitude, had plateaued long ago.
As the bout continued, Bertrand’s increasing struggles to get close seemed to support Theo’s conclusion. It was also becoming clear that he had the advantage over Bertrand when it came to endurance. He was sure of the outcome long before the bout ended, drawing it out as he played with his opponent, enjoying the rising anger in Bertrand’s face. The viscountbecame increasingly desperate, his hacking movements no longer designed to tap. Theo could see in his eyes that Bertrand was losing control of himself, and would run Theo through in earnest if opportunity offered. The murmuring from the crowd suggested others were noticing it, too.
Theo wasn’t worried. He had full control of the bout now, and since he was starting to tire himself, he decided it was time to bring it to an end. They were close to the railing but some distance from the royal family’s seats when he performed another feint, letting Bertrand think he had an opening.
A stifled cry from behind him told him that Elowen had also fallen for his maneuver, but she wouldn’t be long in suspense. As soon as Bertrand took the bait, Theo’s foot shot out. He hooked it around Bertrand’s ankle, tripping him up. He’d barely hit the ground when the flat of Theo’s blade was laid against his throat.
The bugle blasted, and the master of events delightedly announced the end of the match. The crowd in the stands was cheering, but Theo ignored them all. Leaning down so that his face loomed over the viscount’s, he spoke, his voice clear and vibrating with veiled passion.
“Stay away from my affianced wife. You have mastery over nothing, and if you try to touch her again, you’ll feel my blade.”
He could see pure hatred on Bertrand’s face, but he didn’t care. He lifted his blade, stepping back but not taking his eyes off the snake on the ground before him. Movement to one side drew his gaze away, however, and he stilled as he saw Elowen standing right on the other side of the railing. Had she been concerned enough to run close when she believed him about to be bested?
Their eyes locked for a poignant moment, her lips parted slightly and her eyes wide with some emotion Theo didn’t know how to read. It was clear she’d heard what he said to Bertrand. Then Prince Patrick appeared at Elowen’s side, reaching out ahand to congratulate Theo on his win, and the moment was broken.
Theo turned to calmly acknowledge the crowd’s applause, doing the traditional lap around the combat strip before returning to stand before the royal family’s box.
A section of fence had been removed, and a small platform set up to allow Elowen to move forward. A squire ran forward with a wooden step, and Theo mounted to the platform to join the princess.
“Congratulations to our champion,” Elowen said, her voice clear and carrying. “It’s my honor to present you with your reward.”
Under cover of the crowd’s cheers, she asked Theo in a voice that wasn’t quite natural, “Do you remember the traditional options?”
“I think I recall something from my Torrenese etiquette training,” he said. “But why don’t you remind me?”
She gave him an exasperated look, but he just smiled at her.
With a sigh, she said, “Very well. Traditionally the victor receives from the princess his choice between a favor he can keep,” she held up a handkerchief embroidered with her initials, “or one he can treasure only in memory.” Theo raised his eyebrows expectantly and, looking even more exasperated, she said, “A kiss.”
“Surely I should choose the kiss,” Theo said gravely. “Don’t you think so?”
Elowen didn’t answer, casting a self-conscious look around at the eager crowd.
“Come, Elowen,” Theo said, each word hanging in the air between them. “I know you didn’t get to choose the champion of this fight, but even princesses have to live with disappointment.”
Elowen flushed, seeming confused and wrong-footed as she again snuck a surreptitious look at their audience.
“It seems my right to claim it,” Theo went on. “I won the competition, didn’t I? Haven’t I at last earned it?”
Something flashed in her eyes, and Theo knew she understood as well as he did that they weren’t speaking merely of a victory kiss.
“No.” Elowen surprised him with the strength of her retort. “You haven’tearnedit. What’s it to me if you can best Bertrand?”
Theo considered her for a long and thoughtful moment, noting that this time, she held his gaze with her chin lifted. A slow trickle of comprehension worked its way through his mind. Maybe it had never been about him competing against other men, but about him earning her heart. And no sensible woman would lose her heart over an arbitrary feat of arms. Her comment during dinner the night before came back to him, about preferring to be the monster rather than the maiden, and another flash of insight followed it. Her condition, which he’d chosen to see as petty and manipulative, hadn’t been intended to make a fool out of him. It had been a desperate attempt to gain some control over her own life.
He reached out, the back of his finger brushing featherlight against her jaw for the briefest of moments.
