“No.” The word burst from my lips, and I glared at him.
“Then show me.” He held his hands up on either side of him, one toward Ben and one toward me. Then he stepped back and, with a whoosh, lowered his hands.
Ben slid toward me, employing some fancy footwork not unlike dancing in a ballroom. He thrust his sword forward, and fear pierced my heart. I stumbled backward, shocked at his intensity. This was only a game, after all. My brother would never meaningfully jab a sword at me.
“Good,” Mr. Winston said to me. A slow smile crept upon his lips. “Your instincts are sound. Listen to your feet. They’ll tell you where to go.” He motioned to Ben. “Again.”
Ben, whose attention had been entirely on Mr. Winston, snapped back at me. Standing with one foot in front of the other, he raised his stick again; I held mine at the ready. This time I wouldn’t let him get so close to me.
Mr. Winston lifted my elbow higher, and I started at his touch.
“You know your brother.” He spoke in my ear so Ben could not overhear him, and my spine straightened. “Can you anticipate his movements? Where will he aim?”
Mr. Winston retreated, and all the while I kept my eyes on Ben.
Who started forward and glanced at my neck.
He wouldn’t. Would he?
I moved backward, one foot following the other. Ben’s stick jabbed forward, and I felt an overwhelming impulse to move sideways. But Ben was too fast. He bore down, and I shrank in my spot, crouching low. His stick hit my shoulder in a thud.
“Ben!” I whined, rubbing my shoulder against a sharp, though fleeting, pain.
Mr. Winston offered his hand to me and helped me stand.
“I should’ve moved left,” I muttered.
He smiled kindly. “The instinct to protect ourselves is overpowering for a reason. We must simply retrain your mind to associate protection with your capabilities instead of your fears.”
Mr. Winston strode over to where Ben stood. He muttered his approval and relieved him of his stick, then returned to my side.
He patted my leg with Ben’s stick. “One foot out in front of the other,” he said, businesslike. “You’ll not need to learn en garde or fencing to defend yourself, but in pugilism—and fighting in general—your footwork is just as important.”
“She’s an accomplished dancer,” Ben said. He’d retreated farther back to lean against a wide oak tree. He watched Mr. Winston with interest.
Mr. Winston grinned and looked back to me. “Very good. Let us use that skill here. Back and forth, just as you’ve done. Your feet should move in one-two steps. One-two, one-two in quick succession.”
“We are stretching propriety paper-thin,” I said. I had agreed to spar with Ben, not Mr. Winston.
He shrugged. “We’re just having a bit of fun.”
Is that not exactly what he’d said about the man whose arm he’d broken? I gave wide eyes to Ben, to the trees, to anyone or anything that would see reason.
Mr. Winston walked a half-dozen paces in front of me, stopped, and faced me.
“En garde!” Ben called, smiling stupidly to himself.
I stepped my right foot out in front of my left.
“Just lift your arms comfortably,” Mr. Winston said. “I shall be slow to engage. We’ll talk it through as we go.”
I swallowed. My breaths came in rapid speed, and my nerves started to seize. I glanced nervously at Ben. How had he and Mr. Winston switched places so suddenly? And why in heaven’s name was I holding a stick twice as long as my arm?
Mr. Winston took slow strides toward me, and I found myself balancing my body’s weight between my feet as though my muscles were prepared for action in a most unladylike fashion. What would I do? Hit him with this stick? What if I hurt him? What ifhehurtme?
His eyes were set, and his lips were a straight line. “On three, I want you to step forward just like we talked about and strike me,” he said, still stepping forward. “One ...”
I froze. My heart was thumping wildly in my chest. I’d never used a weapon to injure anyone. But the pain from Ben’s hit on my shoulder still stung, and I would not let Mr. Winston near enough to add to that pain.
