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Lessons
Asher waited until he was sure that Ross’ potion had done its work before puttering around the kitchen to make himself some extra-strong tea. Coffee would be even better, but they’d used up the last of the beans on their camping trip and there’d been no opportunity to go into town for more.
He let the tea steep until it made him wince when he drank it, and then sat at the table to try and order his thoughts. Clues in abundance he now had—he nudged the strange dagger with the tip of a finger—but what the thread was that tied them together was still something of a mystery.
Unfortunately, his wayward mind kept returning to Charlie: her fortitude, her patience, her courage, especially after this last event. With a few notable exceptions of his acquaintance, something like that would give any woman the vapors, and yet Charlie had belied her delicate appearance to show a spirit made of steel.
He shook his head. This was getting them nowhere; he had to think, and not about the shape of her lips when she spoke, or the way her eyes lit up when she caught his attempts at humor—no, still not helping.
Come on, Asher, you’re supposed to be the clever one, not the impulsive woman-obsessed seducer. That’s Quinn, not you.
He went into the study for a moment to retrieve some paper and a pencil. What did they know, and what could be inferred?
One: no sign of a struggle at the campsite, from which one might infer that he knew his attacker and was unafraid, or fell prey to a seemingly benign ruse. Two: the creature was real, and it seemed that Elias had found it. Given that this was his sole reason for being in Lochmuir, it seemed fair to assume that his disappearance was somehow related. Caveat: the relation to the creature might well be indirect, and that was what Lorna Alvin seemed to imply. That she knew more was obvious, but he did believe that she was saying all she could. The ways of the Fae were murky at best, and having seen all he had, Asher had no mind to accidentally put Lorna in danger.
Which brought him to the current crux of the matter: the presence of a Fae, somewhere in Lochmuir. Lorna had said it, and the note on the door, stuck through with a weirdly ornate dagger, seemed to confirm it. Charlie had mentioned the threat of death, but had evidently missed what had jumped out to Asher: the word ‘mortal’.
Mortal, a warning.
Equally, the wording of the note was vague. Think not to interfere, and the natural impulse was to connect it to Elias’ disappearance—and if that was the correct reading, then Elias was being held by this mysterious Fae for some no doubt esoteric infraction. And if that was the case... Asher rubbed a hand over his face. If that was the case he had no idea what to do, for the Fae were a law unto themselves and he was as likely to get them all turned into frogs as get Elias released.
It was barely possible that the note referred to something else, some other way in which Asher and Charlie were interfering, but what that could be escaped him at the moment.
He sat at the table making copious notes, trying to fit the pieces together this way and that. Every so often he’d get up and stretch his legs, or think while pacing. At one point he retrieved his boots and coat and stepped outside to check the yard, making sure that nobody was creeping about again.
He turned his attention to the dagger. The handle was some kind of black wood—dyed, perhaps, or charred—deeply incised with exotic, evocative designs, potentially symbolic. He picked it up, held it as though to attack, and immediately felt queasy. Definitely symbolic and potentially magical, he mentally revised, and put the dagger down.
The blade was another point of interest. It was curved, translucent, iridescent, with an edge and point as sharp as a freshly-stropped razor. Asher scratched at it with a fingernail: not metal. Some kind of crystal was his best guess, though he’d never seen anything like this. Most obsidian or flint points were crude: flaked or chipped into shape. This had been... shaped, polished... honed, for lack of a better word, and Asher felt he’d give a good deal to know how it had been created.
The rosy light of dawn spread across the surface of the loch at last, glinting and gleaming on the rippling water. The sun edged its way over the horizon, the light chilly but bright, and Asher got up to tidy the kitchen from the night’s depredations and make a start toward breakfast.
A short time later Asher heard the door to Charlie’s bedroom burst open and then slam shut. In another moment Charlie herself charged into the kitchen muttering and clutching her hair in a tight fist. “That is quite enough! Won't come untangled? We shall see about that!” She grumbled, digging through a basket in the corner. “Where in heaven's name did I put those scissors!”
“What?” Asher exclaimed, appalled. “Miss Whitfield—what are you doing?”
“I cannot get the brush through it,” she said matter of fact, continuing her search for the missing scissors. “I'm just going to cut it off and be rid of it, snarls and all!” Her eyes were slightly red-rimmed, lines of stress at the corners of her mouth.
“No, indeed you shall not!” Asher grasped her hand. “It would be a sin to destroy such a beautiful thing. Here, let me help.”
Charlie stopped digging and looked up at him, her green eyes even more emerald with those golden tresses loose and framing her face. “You know how to dress a lady's hair?”
“Sit.” He indicated the kitchen chair. “Let us say I am a man of many talents.” He began to tease out the snarl, one small piece at a time.
Charlie sat quietly, her hands folded in her lap as he worked through her long, thick hair. After a moment she spoke, her voice so soft that Asher barely caught what she said. “You... you have a gentle touch, Asher.”
So engrossed—so entranced was he in his task, that he nearly jumped when she spoke. Lord have mercy, her hair felt like satin in his hands, and smelled of lilacs and summer rain, an intoxicating combination. Asher cleared his throat. “Nearly done,” he murmured softly.
“Already?” Her voice was low, and Asher almost thought he detected a note of disappointment in it.
“Almost.” He was as reluctant as she to end this particular chore. Once he'd rid her of the snarl, he took the brush to the rest of her hair, smoothing the silky strands in long, slow strokes.
She sighed and her head tilted back ever so slightly as he ran the brush through her hair. “Perhaps you could braid it for me as well? Lest it tangle at my own clumsy efforts, of course.”
He let out a breath and began to separate the sections, his fingers gently brushing her neck, her scalp.
Charlie’s breath hitched a bit when his fingers moved across her skin, but she said nothing. She simply sat in her chair and allowed him to dote on her. Asher’s fingers slid down the column of her neck, and he heard another sigh, even as her head tilted slightly.
He took his time over it, pretending that he owed her the attention when he knew, deep down, that it was pure self-indulgence. But no matter how long he wished the moment would go on, at last the braid was done. Asher tied it off and moved away from her. “There we are.”
“Thank you, Mr. Burton,” Charlie replied in a voice barely more than a whisper. She stood up slowly, fingers smoothing down the length of her braid, cheeks flushed. “You are,” she paused and cleared her throat, “You are kind to have helped.”
Asher shrugged and began slicing bread, hoping the sensation of the locks of her hair sliding along his fingertips would both leave and stay. “I have a younger sister,” he told her by way of explanation. “Her hair is as curly as mine, so I used to help her with it.”
“Ah,” was the only response she gave, and after a pause he heard her opening and closing the cupboards. “I used to wish I’d had a sister, or even a brother, I suppose.” She appeared at his side, setting a jar of preserves down. “Have you many siblings?”
That made him chuckle. “I’m the fourth of five brothers, and we have a younger sister. Mother was determined to have a daughter, so they just kept going until Clover came along.”
Charlie shook her head, laughing a little. “Five siblings! It must have been great fun at times. I don’t imagine you ever felt lonely.”
“No.” He was still smiling. “Truthfully I would have appreciated a little more loneliness—or no, stillness is the word I want. School was boisterous, home even more so. And in London we had few bucolic pleasures. Growing up here must have been magical,” and perhaps his choice of words wasn’t an accident.
Charlie was quiet and when Asher looked at her again, he caught the ghost of a frown. But just as quickly her expression changed, though there was still a shadow lurking in her expression. “It is a pity the weather isn’t warmer. There’s a meadow not far from here that would be a lovely place for a picnic. I often went there as a child—all the flowers reminded me of my mother.”
His interest—and his compassion—was caught. “Will you tell me of her, if it doesn’t give you pain?”
“It doesn’t. I think of her often. My uncle did not know her well, but he said that my father was captivated by her from the first time he laid eyes on her.” Charlie pulled a couple of plates from the china cabinet and laid them on the table, and Asher realized she was using the time it took to order her thoughts. “Her name was Lillian, though to my recollection everyone called her Lily. I remember that she kept flowers in every room.” She leaned against the counter, smiling a little. “She used to make up stories about all the different varieties, giving them each their own personalities and voices.”
“That’s a lovely memory.” Asher offered her a smile. “She must have been like you, I think: full of imagination. And your father was Elias’ brother?”
Charlie’s cheeks pinked a little. “Thank you. I don’t know that I consider myself that imaginative, but I appreciate the compliment.” She seemed to grow thoughtful for a brief time before speaking again. “I remember even less about my father, sadly. Uncle Elias is his older brother. Father was an officer in Her Majesty’s Royal Navy, and so gone more often than not. He did have the most wonderful laugh though, I remember that—and how much my parents loved one another.” She sighed. “I suppose, if my memories must be limited, the love and the laughter are the important ones to hold onto.”
“Very true.” Asher regarded her for a moment before cutting some slices of bread. “What happened this morning? You seemed all right when you returned to bed. Did anything else happen last night?”
Charlie wrapped her arms around herself and turned to lean against the table, the look in her eyes growing distant and troubled. “You’ll think me silly for being so distraught.”
“I won’t, you know.”
She traced her fingers along the edge of the table. “I had... a nightmare. It was so real, so vivid—almost like remembering something.” Charlie shuddered. “It must have had to do with the note. I wandered into a cave and there were... creatures there. They called me ‘mortal’, just as the note was addressed.”
He was silent for a moment. That was a bit close for comfort. Some kind of spell? A forgotten memory? Maybe they should ask Mrs. Alvin, although she was constrained in some way and might not be able to tell them anything. He set a plate of bread and a crock of butter on the table, pouring out some tea. “Tell me everything you remember about the dream.”
“I remember the sense that I was being hunted, and that something terrible happened,” Charlie replied slowly, her tone was distant and a little sad. She looked at Asher, and from the shadows in those green eyes, it seemed to him that the feeling remained. “It was only a dream. I'm a grown woman. I shouldn’t be so disturbed by a dream in the light of day, but I cannot banish the sense that there is something more out there.”
Lorna Alvin’s words echoed in Asher’s mind. You need to tell her. He let out a breath. “We should talk.”
“That is a rather ominous response to a dream,” Charlie answered, though she settled at the table and looked at him expectantly. “Tell me what it is we should talk about.”
And now that they were at the crux of it, he had no idea how to begin. Asher rubbed the back of his neck, debating. Despite Mrs. Alvin’s assertion, there was the small matter of his duty to consider, and the nature of the tasks that were entrusted to him, of which the whole kerfuffle with Geordie and then with Ross was a part. By Agency rules, he ought not say more, he knew it, but... it would be such a relief to tell someone. He could hardly discuss Ross’ death and subsequent resurrection with Ross himself—Lord knew the man had enough pain to cope with, having been at the center of it all. But he hadn’t had to watch his best friend die before his eyes, and that was a different sort of agony than what Ross had endured. Asher was more than thankful that his friend had a new wife who adored him, to help blunt those memories; but he himself had no such buffer to help stave off the nightmares when they came creeping in.
He supposed he could talk to Geordie or Quinn, but somehow... well, Geordie had his own new wife, and was still grieving the loss of his father. Losing Ross had to have been a special kind of hell for him from that standpoint, and Asher hadn’t the heart to bring it up. Quinn, meanwhile, was wrestling with the guilt of having been the catalyst to everything that happened to Ross, up to and including his murder. There was no way Asher would add to that pain by asking his friend to share his personal burden.
Which left him raw and alone. He’d been here before–no doubt would be again–but that didn’t make it any easier. And somehow Miss Whitfield—Charlie—seemed as though she might understand. Surely it wouldn’t hurt to follow Lorna’s advice, enough to ease this weight he carried, and perhaps ease some of what she was carrying too?
She was waiting for him to speak. At last he began slowly, “There is more out there. It’s... I’m not supposed to...” He let out a breath. “Damn,” he muttered quietly.
Charlie reached out a hand and lightly brushed his wrist. “The Agency will not hear of this from me, if that is your concern.”
He vouchsafed her a glance. “No. I know you can be trusted. It’s... difficult for me to break rules, that’s all.” Asher took a breath and settled his shoulders. “But you need to know, and I... think I need to tell you, if it won’t be a burden to you.”
“You are anything but a burden, Asher Burton.” Charlie offered him a slight, but warm and encouraging smile. “It’s been quite the contrary, you’ve eased the burden I’ve felt since my uncle disappeared. If I can do the same for you, I’m happy to do it.”
He nodded, taking a deep breath. “I recently had an experience—a series of experiences—which taught me... which helped me to understand exactly what you said: that there is more out there.” Asher cleared his throat. How to do this without revealing Lorna Alvin’s secret? At last he began slowly, “I saw something recently that might fit into the same general category as the creature of the loch.”
“Ah, during another mission?” Charlie asked. “Some sort of yet undiscovered animal.” She nodded slowly. “That must have been fascinating.”
Hardly, unless you mean in the same way prey is fascinated by a cobra. “It was terrifying,” he replied. “Huge, with rows of teeth in a vaguely human face.” He shuddered. “It saved us some trouble–and caused a miracle. But—fuel for nightmares.”
Charlie frowned and cocked her head a little. “I believe I’ve missed something. It caused a miracle?”
When it came to the point, losing Ross was still nearly impossible to verbalize. Asher quirked a small smile, drawing invisible pictures on the tabletop with his fingertips. “You’ll think me mad.”
She laid her hand on top of his, stilling it. “You listened to my dream without judgment. I will not return your understanding by jumping to conclusions about your sanity.”
After all, it would be a relief to tell someone. “Our quarry–the man we were after–was a murderer,” he told her. “The creature dispatched him and then—” He took a breath, eyes prickling with unshed tears. “It brought his latest victim back to life. I was there—I saw everything. The victim was undeniably dead, and yet... he lives still.”
“You’re certain you were not mistaken about his condition?” Charlie’s question was in much the same tone that Asher used when interviewing witnesses.
Asher nodded, clearing his throat again. “He was unquestionably dead. No breath, no heartbeat; his skin was grey and his body had begun to cool.”
Her fingers wrapped around his. “Are you all right, Mr. Burton?” She gave his hand a little squeeze. “You’ve gone pale.”
He shook himself and tried to smile. “Perfectly well, Miss Whitfield. It’s a... difficult memory, that’s all.” Understatement, Asher, old boy, he thought, and hid behind sipping his tea.
“You know the victim, don’t you?” It was her face that paled a little now.
He had to take a moment before he could get the answer out. “I do—a very dear friend, as it happens. One of my closest.”
She stared down at the table in silence. “And this creature... it brought him back? He’s safe and sound now?”
Not just the creature alone—it had gifted the power to Ross’ wife Elsie, and she—her will, her gift, her love—had brought Ross back, had done what Asher himself could not. God bless Elsie McInerny. This time his smile was more than perfunctory. “He is, thank God.” Asher turned his hand to close his fingers around hers.
He could see her weighing his words carefully. Of course she was. Even in so short an acquaintance, Asher knew Charlie rarely reacted to a situation without thought. When she finally spoke, her words were very careful. “May I ask what happened to the man who hurt your friend? You said the creature dispatched him.”
Something else that haunted him: the frenzy of unearthly bodies as the creatures swarmed, the truncated scream of a man in unimaginable agony, the bloom of blood in the water. Asher rubbed a hand over the lower half of his face and nodded. “It... forgive me—it ate him.”
“Oh...” Charlie leaned back in her chair, but her hand remained warm and comforting in his. She swallowed, and her lower lip trembled slightly. “That is... as you said before, terrifying.” Her eyes met his, large and clouded with concern. “Mr. Burton, I believe you.”
“Thank you, Miss Whitfield. And thank you for allowing me to speak of it. I hadn’t been able to, before now.”
Her lip trembled again. “Thank you for trusting me with such a thing. I’m honored that you did, and... I’m glad that your friend is all right now.”
He gave her fingers a last squeeze before releasing her. “So am I. Thank you.” Asher shook his head a little. “I did have a point in telling you all this. The Fae do exist, and I think...” He thought about Mrs. Alvin’s words. “I’m certain we’re dealing with one now. The warning on the note, addressed to ‘Mortal’, the dagger... possibly even the beast in the Loch itself, though of that last I’m not positive.”
Charlie was very quiet indeed, fingers wrapping around the teacup in front of her, cheeks having gone pale again. Asher was beginning to worry that despite her assurances, she did think him touched in the head. She took a slow and very deep breath. “Everything I’ve been taught tells me that I should dismiss such things as nonsense, that the stories of the Fae and magic are nothing more than a way to explain what we do not understand.” She looked up, eyes locking with Asher’s. “But I trust you, and as mad as it all sounds, I know it’s true.”
His lips quirked in a half-smile even as he sighed and nodded. “In the interests of full disclosure I will say there’s yet more, but none of it is for me to share. I do trust you, Charlie, but when the secrets aren’t mine...” He shrugged. “I hope you understand.”
“I do, and I respect your discretion.” She got up and began to pace the kitchen, nibbling on her lower lip thoughtfully. “Very well then, where does that leave us? We are clearly dealing with something out of the ordinary scope of things, and judging by the message we received last night our adversary is not concerned about keeping a distant watch.” Charlie stopped, finger resting at the corner of her mouth as she turned back to Asher. “It seems to me that our first order of business would be to fortify the farm against any further unwanted visitors of folklore.”
“A very good idea,” Asher agreed. “Unfortunately, I’m afraid it’s not the sort of thing covered by Agency training.”
Charlie made for the door. “Then I suppose a bit of research is in order.” She paused on the threshold and beckoned for Asher to follow, waiting until he was on his feet before she continued. “While I cannot claim that my uncle has much in his personal library about the Fae, he does have a limited collection of books pertaining to folklore, mostly in relation to the creature, but there may be something of use there.”
Asher nodded. “Quite possible. We can divide up the books and see what we may see.”
The books containing any relevant information on the Fae were indeed limited. In fact, there were only two that had anything of potential value to offer. One was a rather worn and beaten volume that seemed to have been written by a former resident of the area. It cataloged accounts of the beast, and a few colorful remedies for common ailments that the author felt were the result of Faerie mischief.
Asher pushed his spectacles up his nose. “Ash trees,” he read, “red verbena, yarrow, daisies... something called St. John’s wort?” He shook his head. “I know what daisies are and I understand that ash trees are a type of tree, but I can tell deciduous from evergreen and that’s about the extent of my knowledge. Does any of this mean anything to you?”
Charlie looked up from the book in her lap and leaned over to examine the pages Asher was studying. “Fortunately, it does, and as it would happen I have a few of those on hand. St. John’s wort I use in a tea for my uncle, to help him when his joints ache. I have a bit of dried yarrow as well.” She returned her focus to her own book, holding it out for Asher and pointing to a particular passage. “I realize this is only a story, but the hero sat inside a circle of salt so that he could watch a faerie feast without being taken into their realm. I did restock our supply of salt the last time I was in town.”
“A ring of salt, hm? I suppose we could just...” Asher thought about it. “Line the doors and windows, or even surround the house, although that seems like something of a waste. I’ve never heard that a Fae could walk through a solid wall. But if it would help...?”
“Have you heard that they cannot?” Charlie asked, but from the slight smile on her face, Asher decided the question was not a serious one. She closed her book and put it aside. “This is all theoretical, and we can hardly be assured of the validity of our sources. However, this is our course and we may as well commit to it. Therefore I suggest we use the yarrow and St. John’s wort to make four...” she paused and shook her head slightly. “I can hardly believe I’m saying this, but I believe we should fashion charms of a sort, bundle them and hang them at the edges of the property, one in each of the four directions. Then we apply the salt at the windows and doors just as you’ve suggested.”
Asher got up and rubbed his hands together briskly. “No time like the present. What’s the yarrow for?” he asked as an aside. Ross would no doubt know—or he might have a different application for it entirely. Either way, Asher was curious.
Charlie was busy putting the books back in their proper places. “Oh, it helps with a number of things, according to Mrs. Alvin, but I most often use it when Uncle Elias or I catch a chill.”
According to Lorna Alvin, hm? That seemed to answer that, at least to a point, and Asher grinned to himself.
He took the small wooden barrel of salt and walked around the perimeter of the house, leaving a trail in front of each doorway and window, and then did the same inside, climbing the stairs to the cupola to make sure it was lined along the inside as well. He didn’t, after all, know what this Fae was capable of, and it was imperative that Charlie be protected.
When he came back down the stairs it was to the accompaniment of a growling stomach and he was reminded that he’d had nothing more than a slice of bread for breakfast. “What do you say to an early luncheon?” he asked Charlie, who had finished up her talismans. “We can hang these along the property line first.”
Her stomach answered for her, gurgling as if in response to the question. “That would be a yes,” Charlie laughed as she placed the roughly-made charms in a basket and headed for the door.
They made quick work of posting the charms around the farm, and were back inside with luncheon laid out in record time. The tension of the morning seemed to have evaporated with the work of their research and the proactive—albeit eccentric—steps being taken toward the security of their home base.
Asher was thoughtful during the meal. Something more needed to be done to keep Charlie safe, in case this bastard targeting her managed to get past him—the very idea of which infuriated Asher, but he had to be practical about the situation and put his pride and worry aside. Most women of his acquaintance, with only three possible exceptions, would be unsuited for what he was about to propose, but he rather thought Charlie Whitfield was exactly the right sort of woman required.
He let out a breath and took his dishes over to the sink. “Miss Whitfield,” he remarked calmly, “I believe you should know something of self-defense, just in case. Would you be willing to learn?”
Charlie paused in the process of gathering her dishes, and seemed to think the proposal over before giving him a small nod. “Under the circumstances I believe it would be utterly foolish of me to refuse.”
He offered her a smile. “Then let us adjourn to the yard as soon as we’ve finished cleaning up.”
In a quarter of an hour they were outside facing one another. “Have you done anything of the sort before?” Asher asked, wanting to gauge any potential knowledge. He thought likely it was zero, but on the other hand, Elias was a practical man and might have taught her something.
To Asher’s surprise, Charlie’s cheeks colored a little. She glanced at him and then quickly shifted her gaze to the lake. “Uncle Elias did tell me where to strike a man, should he try to force... unwanted attention.”
Asher couldn’t help the grin that curved his lips. “Well done, Uncle Elias. I wish all men cared enough to convey that sort of vital information to the women they love.” He chuckled aloud. “As my intentions are benign, I trust you won’t feel a need to practice that particular maneuver on me.”
“Oh, certainly not! I’d never hurt you, Mr. Burton.” Her response was so quick and genuine that it seemed to have overpowered her earlier bashfulness. She cleared her throat and squared her shoulders, offering him one of those dimpled smiles. “At least, not intentionally. I suspect lessons in defending oneself might prove a little hazardous to both teacher and student.”
“I’m prepared for that,” he allowed. “The point, after all, is to teach you to cause harm if necessary.” Asher organized his thoughts. “Of paramount importance,” he began, “is that there are four places on any person that are most vulnerable. Hitting someone in the chest, for example, is pointless—Nature has devised excellent protection in the form of the ribcage. Those vulnerable areas are the eyes, the nose, the throat, and—er—the area your uncle mentioned.” He watched her to be sure she was following him and not being overcome by finer feelings.
She was nodding thoughtfully, and Asher could all but see the notes being written in her mind. “Eyes, nose, throat, and groin,” she repeated back, apparently moving past sensitivities to focus on the technical aspects of the lesson. “I assume there are right and wrong ways to attack, methods that are more effective than others?”
He ought to have known she would engage that scientific mind of hers, Asher thought, and ceased to worry about the niceties. He moved next to her to demonstrate how to properly make a fist, and various ways to strike an opponent without harming herself too much. Charlie repeated his movements a few times, first slow and precise and then at the proper speed.
Asher nodded with approval. “Those strikes and the use of your legs—to kick or to run—are the main components in defending yourself. Of course the primary objective is to prevent any assailant from approaching too close in the first place, and the best way to do that is to do exactly what your uncle advised. First you must stabilize yourself, prepare to lift one leg with good balance.” He demonstrated how and where to kick a man to disable him quickly, giving Elias’ instruction some added clarity. “Once he’s down, as always, run.”
Charlie practiced as instructed, only wobbling a little when she kicked forward, her foot catching slightly in the fold of her skirt. She huffed in irritation. “There are times I think men’s fashion far more practical than all of this nonsense,” she muttered, gesturing to her attire.
“A fair point. Here–forgive me,” he said, and moved around behind her, his hands settling on her hips. “Shift this way a bit, to put your weight behind the kick, and try grasping your skirts as you move forward to pull them out of the way. You want to make contact with your shin or the ball of your foot, not the top.”
Charlie repositioned herself, her hips moving easily under his hands. She shifted her weight as he recommended and repeated the action. This attempt was met with more success, and she turned a bright, triumphant smile toward Asher. “Excellent suggestion! This is quite enjoyable.”
The weight of her hips in his hands coupled with her sudden shift back toward him caught Asher by surprise, and his mind went to some very untoward places before he reined his thoughts back in. “I’m glad you’re enjoying it,” he returned, though his voice was a bit rough and he had to clear his throat. “What was I going to say—oh, yes. If somehow the person gets too close for you to do a full kick, abruptly raising your knee will have the same effect.”
“Raise my knee, yes,” she nodded, and followed the statement by demonstrating her understanding, gathering her skirt to make the move a smooth one.
“Well done.” Asher stepped back so her hips would stop grazing against his. “Unfortunately not every assailant will have the good manners to approach from the front, so I think it would be wise to learn how to escape from an attack from behind. But before we do that, let’s discuss how to land an effective blow at close quarters. In these cases it’s often more effective to use your elbow. The advantage to this, as you see, is that you can strike both forward and back.”
“Repeat those motions, if you would,” Charlie replied, and as Asher demonstrated again she moved around him, watching thoughtfully. When she finished her inspection she came to stand in front of him again, a finger resting lightly on her plump lower lip. Charlie studied him briefly before she turned her back. She angled her head, chin just over her shoulder. “Ready, Mr. Burton.”
He closed his arms about her, setting his jaw, pointedly ignoring the scent of lilacs as it rose from her golden hair.
She gave a very quiet gasp, and then the slightest of tremors. “I doubt anyone bent on harm will be so gentle. You’ll need to apply yourself, Mr. Burton.”
Focus, Asher. “Very well,” he went on after a moment. “To escape from such an attack, the steps are thus: bend forward—suddenly is better, to throw off your assailant’s balance—and from that slight crouch, hit backward with your elbows, one after the other.” They went through the moves slowly. “Very good. When your attacker’s grip loosens for you to step away, turn to apply a closed-fist downward blow to the neck, grasp his shoulder for leverage to lift your knee into his groin, and then run.”
Charlie stepped out of his arms and turned to him with a look of confusion. “A downward blow to the neck?”
“Yes. You see, when you bend suddenly you will pull him forward, off balance.” He showed her again. “Here–perhaps we are doing this too slowly. I shall apply myself, as you said.” Asher moved behind her again and this time pulled her snugly to him. Charlie bent forward, her hips pushing back against Asher’s. Her whole body tensed against his as she prepared to strike.
He was genuinely caught by surprise when desire roared to life, so much so that she landed the first hit to his head with rather more success than either had intended, knocking his spectacles askew. She completed the rest of the maneuver with ease, fortunately sparing him the knee to the groin. Asher lay in the dirt for a moment, contemplating the sky.
She dusted her hands with a look of satisfaction that quickly turned to concern when her eyes came to rest on Asher. “Are you hurt, Mr. Burton? Oh dear, I should have asked if you were ready for me to begin.”
“You did exactly as you should,” he demurred. “Manners have no place in this sort of activity, and I suffered no hurt that I won’t recover from. Do you want to run through it again?”
Charlie offered him a hand up. “Manners may not have a place in a true fight, but you’ll hardly be able to complete the lesson if I knock you senseless.”
That made him huff out a laugh. “Miss Whitfield, if you knock me senseless, you may consider the lesson completed.” This time he gave her no warning, grabbing her around the waist roughly from behind. He was prepared now, and thus the maneuver was completed with him once again on the ground but far less discombobulated. “Very well done! I have one other variation to show you.”
“I’m ready for it!” She lifted her chin and folded her arms across her chest. “Do your very best, Mr. Burton.”
“As my... er... personal wellbeing will be even more in jeopardy, let us walk through it first.” Asher positioned himself behind her again, wrapping his arms around her upper torso to trap her arms in his grasp. “All right. You cannot attack with elbows in this case, so what you will want to do first is to shift your weight not forward, but to the side, thus exposing your attacker’s... um... liabilities.” She moved as instructed. “Now: closed-fist strike downward, aiming for the groin.” Charlie brought her fist down, stopping short of connecting. “Thank you. I promise you that if you hit hard enough your assailant will be temporarily incapacitated,” he let go of her, directing her to spin out of his grasp, “but if needed, keep attacking with your knee—to the groin, yes,” when she hesitated, then carefully followed his instructions, again without making contact, “and with a kick to the face, if the opportunity presents itself. And then, as always, run.”
Charlie ran through the process a few more times, moving slowly and with careful precision. After a fifth attempt she stepped back. “I would suggest we try it in earnest, but I believe this step ought to remain theoretical. I’m not certain we could run through it without you suffering for your efforts.”
“I heartily agree,” he replied good-naturedly. “Do you feel you have the theory in hand?”
She gave him a confident nod, and then an assessing look. “I will wash your clothes for you. After all, you were only laid flat in the dirt to help me. Fair is fair.”
“Not at all,” he replied, waving a hand. “All part of the service.”
“In that case, back to work,” Charlie replied. She turned on her heels and headed for the house. Halfway there, she looked back at Asher. “Thank you. Knowing I’m equipped to defend myself, at least to some extent, helps.”
“Good.” He gave her a nod. That confidence was what this lesson had been intended to confer: a formidable woman made yet more so. The fact that he had his own lessons to take from the experience did not escape him, but those thoughts were better left to a more contemplative time.