“Everyone else can pay their taxes—why not this fellow? By the way, can you cut me a slice of cheese, Mags? I’m starving.”
“Get it yourself,” Magdala said, terse.
“But you have to taste it, too, so there’s no point in me getting up, crossing the room, cutting a piece, giving it to you to bite, and then taking it myself, is there?”
Magdala resented his logic, but he was right. She lifted the knife and found her hand was shaking.
“This Seamus fellow was dreadful at upkeeping the house,” Asherton said as Magdala sliced into the block of cheese. The knife was sharp, and it cut cleanly through the hard rind and into the soft cream beneath. “The drains never work, and the roof leaks.” He smiled at her innocently and said, with precision, “He must have been an untidy person.”
Magdala gripped the knife until her hand squeaked on the handle. She was a steaming kettle, ready to burst.
“You seem negligible at self-defense,” she said, needing to distract him before the kettle boiled over. “How did you ever manage to kill someone the size of Julian?”
“I didn’t,” he said. “And my self-defense is fine.” He bent over the washbasin and splashed water on his face, then mussed his hair with a towel. Magdala glanced away. She was angry with him, so why was she imagining diggingher fingers into his damp locks, the smell of cedar and lye on his skin? His rough hand on her cheeks …
“Let’s see what that military school education did for you,” she said. She drew her knife, turning it between her fingers; it spun in a shining blur.
He narrowed his eyes. “Why right now?”
“Why not right now?”
“You’ve been here nearly five days and never a word about sparring until now. Why?”
“Because when I got here, I expected a prince to be competent and trained, not … whatever the hell this is.” She gestured to his rumpled clothes and dripping hair and pretended that he wasn’t more handsome for it. Pretended so well, she almost believed it herself.
Asherton took his own knife from under his pillow—she hadn’t realized he kept it there—and held it in a reverse grip.
Magdala smiled. “Is that the best you can do?”
“Why don’t you try me and find out?”
She charged him, her teeth bared in a fierce grin, and slashed at his arm. He dodged, spinning behind her and catching a handful of her shirt. She fell to her knees as he slid forward, yanking her against him, his legs pressing into her back below her shoulder blades. She looked up at him, her head touching his stomach.
“Is that the bestyoucan do?” he hissed.
Magdala’s lips curled in, her nostrils flared, and she slammed her knife down into the floor. He jumped aside as the blade scratched the arch of his foot.
“That’s why you wear shoes!” she yelled, spinning and slashing her blade across his leg. Her aim was precise—she could have severed his femoral artery—but she pulled back at the last instant, only cutting his trousers. He let out a bark of laughter. “Did you lose your nerve?”
“Predict my next strike,” she cried. “Block me!” She threw herself at him, her knife whistling past his chest. He backed up, dodging but not blocking. Her blows sped, faster and more frantic. Anger speckled her vision red. “YOU’RE NOT TRYING!” she roared.
He slid under her arm, caught her elbow, and flipped her cleanly over his leg. She landed on her back, her blade behind his knee. He pressed his knife against her throat. “I cut your artery and you cut mine. Aren’t we both clever?”
Shoving her away, he took a few backward strides. She was upon him in a blink, her blade under his jaw. His knife pricked her under her left breast.
Her heart was a bird beating against its cage. Her blood sang in her temples, and for the first time since she’d run over the downs in her bare feet, Magdala felt alive.
He was beautiful and erratic, wild as a fox. He reflected a lost piece of her own spirit back to her. She envied him.
With an airy laugh, he lowered the knife and wound his arm around her back, pulled her against his chest. His breath tickled her lips. “Kiss me or kill me,” he murmured. “Make up your mind.”
She leaned closer, her lips brushing his. “I don’t want to do either,” she said against his mouth.
“Is the knife at my throat for decoration, then? Enough games, Magdala. What are you going to do?”
Whatwasshe going to do? She promised herself that it was his anger that thrilled her, not her name on his tongue. Not the golden glint in his eyes.
“I’m not playing games,” she said.
