Opening a chest near the railing, he picked up a light training blade, flipping it in a circle. Probably still too heavy for her. Handing it to her, he frowned when she dropped the point to the deck. “Don’t ever hold it like that. This isn’t like picking up a rapier in a parlor for sport. When you hold it, life and death are at stake.”
He settled a hand on the hilt of his sword, the familiar comfort of the weapon grounding him. Already he regretted his decision. From the corner of his eye, he caught Silas’s gaze from the wheel. His first officer’s eyes had narrowed, face carved with disapproval. Isaac didn’t need to hear it aloud to know what he thought—send her back to the cabin. Do not indulge her.
“So?” Miss Montclair waved the blade in front of him, pulling his thoughts back. “How should I hold it?”
“First, don’t hold it so tight. You’ll tire yourself out before you get your first swing in.” He reached out, hands closing around hers, guiding her fingers into position.
“Here.” His palm brushed the inside of her wrist as he adjusted the angle of the blade.
She didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.
Neither did he. The softness of her skin beneath his—warm, familiar—sent his pulse racing. He pulled back, clearing his throat. “That’s better.”
With a swallow, he drew his sword, the soft rasp of steel ringing across the deck. “Keep your stance light. Feet apart, knees bent. Just like last night.” Again, memory tugged at him. He shook his head.
She mimicked him, brows drawn in concentration.
“Good. Now, we’ll start with the simplest guard. Blade up. Angle it to glance the blow aside. The trick is not to catch the blow, but to deflect it.”
She raised the sword and he stepped forward, bringing his blade down in a smooth arc toward hers. Steel clanged and she winced.
“You’re holding it too tight again. If I strike hard, you’ll jar your arms out of the socket.”
Her grip shifted and she gave him a determined look. “Again.”
He repeated the blow, harder, and the clash of blades echoed across the deck. Muffled voices came from the rigging as men swung down to watch. Isaac’s jaw tightened. A woman on board was already enough to stir unease among the crew. But a woman being trained with a blade, by their commanding officer? So much for earning their respect.
He kept his voice low. “Next move is a sweep. If someone comes in low, this is how you stop them. Drop your blade. Here.” His hand came to her hip, the heat of the brief touch igniting his senses. “Don’t twist your spine. Let your knees absorb it.”
Her breath hitched, and again, he put space between them. He swung his sword toward her, keeping it low, and she blocked it. Raising his arm, he forced her into the first block he’d shown her, walking a slow circle around her. “One of the most important parts about a sword fight is the movement of your feet. Keep them moving. If you stop, you give your opponent an opportunity.”
With a nod, she twisted to the side, circling with him. They danced that way for minutes, blades rising and falling, and he slowly increased his speed and intensity. Soon, her curls stuck to her sweat-dampened forehead, shoulders rising and falling in quick breaths. After a heavy blow, she stumbled to her knees. In a blink, she pushed herself back up and leveled her blade at him. Her gaze met his, flushed and fierce, and something dangerously close to affection stirred in his chest.
He lowered his sword. “Enough.”
She frowned, swiping a lock of hair from her face with the back of her hand. “Already?”
He didn’t answer. Instead, he reached to his belt and pulled his dagger free. He held it loosely, the worn leather grip familiar against his palm. A much different weapon than his sword—personal, meant for close quarters. The kind of fighting that happened when all other options had run out.
“You won’t win a fight with a sword. But…” He flipped the blade in his hand and offered it to her. “This could save your life.”
He moved behind her. “Imagine someone grabs you. One arm around your waist, pulling you back.” His arm wrapped around her front—not touching—but close enough to let her feel the idea of it. “Don’t panic. Drop your weight and drive the blade back. No warning. No hesitation.”
She turned the dagger in her palm, and nodded once before turning to face him. “I can’t take this.” Her fingertip grazed his engraved initials at the base of the blade, and she offered it back to him.
He closed his hand around hers, wrapping her fingers firmly around the hilt. “Keep it. I will feel better knowing you carry a capable and well forged blade.”
She stared at it, running one slender finger along its length. Again, heat coursed through him and he chewed on a curse. After last night, he wouldn’t be able to look at her without remembering… remembering it all. He twisted, staring out over the sea behind them.
He didn’t like complications. They clouded judgment. Fractured focus.
Got men killed.
*
“She’s a dangerousdistraction.”
Isaac jerked his gaze from the main deck, where Miss Montclairhad just walked out into the midday sun. Silas gave him a level look, daring him to argue. Truth was, he couldn’t. His first officer was right.
