Free Linda Barlow by Fires of Destiny Page B

yourself!"
    She felt a rush of excitement. They were going to continue, in spite of her. She knew instinctively it would be a match the like of which she had never seen before.
    Lacklin gave her a rare smile and took up his position opposite Roger. "Very well, my reckless friend, I'll give you a lesson or two. And Alexandra too if she pays attention."
    She sank down to the forest floor to watch. "I won't miss a moment of this, I promise you."
    But in fact she did miss some of it because it went too fast for the eye to see. Not only were their weapons unfamiliar, but they also fought in an atypical manner. Instead of using a long sword to attack and a dagger or buckler in the off hand to defend, they wielded slim and flexible rapiers, attacking and defending in an intricate series of beats, feints, and parries.
    They were both excellent swordsmen. Being younger, Roger had an edge in physical conditioning and speed, but Lacklin made up for this with the sheer brilliance of his technique. Every movement he made was fluid and precise, every flick of his wrist and arc of his arm as smooth and controlled as a dance. His blade wove silver threads in the air, perfectly, effortlessly. Roger attacked with great verve and energy, but clever though his offensive moves were, he had difficulty penetrating his old friend's guard.
    Smiling abstractedly, Lacklin played Roger until the younger man began to get a little careless. He then picked up the tempo and attacked more vigorously. Roger parried, faltered, and was hit, the blunted tip of his adversary's weapon touching him lightly on the left shoulder. He yelled in frustration and fought harder. Francis Lacklin laughed, sending Roger into full retreat, pressing him until he stumbled and missed a crucial riposte. Lacklin moved in mercilessly, and within seconds he had cut Roger to ribbons as much as it was possible to do with a blunted foil. Moaning with mock despair, Roger threw down his sword, and then his body, collapsing on his back next to Alexandra, breathing hard, running with sweat.
    "You're dead," she laughed. Her excitement in the match faded as her consciousness of his nearness increased. She caught the faint masculine scent of tangy exertion and was surprised that it was so pleasant, attracting, compelling. She envisioned him touching her breasts before the hearth at Whitcombe. Jesu! Every hard breath he drew sent tingles through her. His muscles had looked even more beautiful when he was flexing them in battle.
    "Aye," he acknowledged when he recovered his breath. He was grinning, and did not seem at all dismayed by his defeat. "God's blood, Francis, remind me never to have a falling-out with you."
    "You did very well," said Lacklin, sitting down on the other side of Alexandra.
    "A lot of good it does me—I'm still dead."
    "This time, yes. One of these days it could go the other way. You're edgy about your parries in quarte, aren't you?"
    "Aye," said Roger, rubbing several places on the left upper quadrant of his body where the blunt tip had struck him. "That's where you penetrated. I always feel vulnerable in that area. I was concentrating on parrying effectively."
    "Obviously so. You let me see your weakness, so when you got tired..."
    "Devil. Exploiting my weaknesses." He rolled over onto his side and leaned up on one elbow. "I said he was good, didn't I, Alix?"
    "You said he was the finest you'd ever seen." She was looking at Francis Lacklin with more respect than she'd ever felt for him before. "It was marvelous! I loved it. Thank you for allowing me to watch."
    Her enthusiasm must have been catching, for the two men treated her with great good humor as they continued to analyze the bout. Their rapiers were Italian, she learned, and their style of fencing innovative. In battle, said Roger, he would prefer to have a heavier sword and a shield, or perhaps a two-handed broadsword.
    "What's in here?" he asked, pouncing on her knapsack and rolling open the canvas that covered