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SO, HE WOULD FIGHT Carrick after all. Regulus checked Adelaide’s token on his arm. He shouldn’t be so happy about it. But it would feel good to knock Carrick down. He had hardly kept himself from drawing his sword yesterday, when Carrick kept talking over Adelaide. The egotistical lowlife. But Adelaide had a fire in her and had proven she could and would defend herself. He wouldn’t assume she wanted or needed his help. He only stepped in because Carrick started acting aggressive, and he would not abide such behavior.
Anticipation and tension hung in the air as they walked into the arena. A low monotone of whispered conversations buzzed in his ears, too far away and too quiet for him to hear specifics. Did any support him? He saw a couple noblemen shake hands, both with smug expressions. Well, people were betting on him at least. But people bet on horses, hounds, and dice, so that didn’t say much. Maybe he had changed some of their minds. Or perhaps some of them would be more open to him. Probably not. He pushed thoughts of the nobles’ acceptance away. They had never accepted him. Why would it matter now?
He found Adelaide in the crowd. Maybe it did matter now. What if the other nobles turned her against him? She smiled and winked. “I don’t much care what they think,” her voice repeated in his mind. The tension in his shoulders dissipated. In the middle of the arena he bowed to the spectators, then turned toward his opponent.
Carrick gave him a haughty smile as they shook hands. “This should be fun, mercenary. Try to last long enough you don’t completely embarrass her. I want to win, but I don’t want to make her angry. I want her to see which of us is the real man, and which is, well...whatever kind of mongrel you are.”
Regulus clenched his jaw until his teeth hurt. He smiled. “You know what, Carrick? You’re right.”
“What?”
“This is going to be fun.” With that, Regulus pulled on his helm and drew his sword.
Carrick scoffed and put on his plumed helm. He drew his sword and attacked, moving blade from scabbard to slicing toward Regulus’ chest in one fluid movement. Regulus blocked, the impact of their swords meeting jarring his bones. He shoved back on Carrick’s blade, pushing it aside. He reversed directions and aimed for Carrick’s side.
Carrick recovered and parried with no difficulty. Regulus moved for another attack from above, adjusting his stance as he watched Carrick through the slit in his visor. Carrick inched his left foot back and drew back his right shoulder. Regulus adjusted, stepping to the right and pulling his sword around to swing from the left. Carrick couldn’t change course fast enough, and he blocked just as Regulus’ sword made contact with Carrick’s shoulder. Carrick parried with surprising force, then counter-attacked. Regulus blocked or dodged each blow. He countered with a flurry of combination cuts, thrusts, and swings. Carrick fell back but blocked or parried each attack.
Sweat dripped into Regulus’ eyes and trickled down his neck. Every muscle in his body strained with energy. Sunlight glinted off of Carrick’s polished armor, making Regulus squint. Carrick blocked another cut, and Regulus grit his teeth. Some part of his brain whispered you could end this right now. Stop holding back. You could stop his blade with your hand and pull it right out of his grasp. He licked his dry lips, tasting salty sweat. No. He would win this fight as Regulus Hargreaves, not as the magically enhanced Black Knight.
Move. Keep moving. He stepped into another stance reflexively as Carrick parried and swung for his head. Look for weaknesses. He leaned back as Carrick’s sword rushed past within a feather’s breadth of his visor. He aimed a blow at Carrick’s arm. Carrick’s grip faltered as Regulus’ sword bounced off Carrick’s bracer. Regulus pressed his advantage, landing several blows on Carrick’s chest and shoulders.
Holding back got harder by the second. His concentration threatened to break as he tired. The rush of the combat seemed like fuel on the fire burning in his veins and muscles, demanding to be unleashed. Focus! No foolish risks. Carrick swung for his torso, and Regulus moved to block. At the last moment, Carrick adjusted, lunging around Regulus’ side. The edge of his sword sliced into the back of Regulus’ knee.
A string of curse words rushed through Regulus’ mind as his knee smarted and blood seeped into his trouser leg. He would heal. This fight needed to end before anyone noticed. He spun and swung toward Carrick, who, as he expected, blocked the blow. Regulus pushed their swords to the side and slammed his shoulder into Carrick. Carrick stumbled back and Regulus thrust toward the gap in Carrick’s armor under his pauldron. Carrick parried, but Regulus kept moving closer, forcing him to retreat backward.
As they moved across the field, Regulus making attacks for speed, not accuracy, Carrick’s stance got weaker and less grounded. Regulus kept an eye on the terrain, and just before Carrick stepped onto an uneven patch of ground, he drew his sword back over his head, leaving himself open. Carrick did what he expected—he swung at Regulus’ shoulder. But as Carrick put his foot down and attempted to move forward into his attack, his boot caught. He faltered for the briefest moment as he regained his balance.
With every ounce of control, Regulus brought his sword down. Carrick realized too late he needed to move or block and made an attempt, but Regulus’ blade hit the side of Carrick’s helm and continued down to his shoulder. Carrick reeled, his grip on his sword slipping. Regulus pulled back his sword and thrust toward Carrick’s neck. Carrick parried, but Regulus flicked his blade in a circular binding motion and pulled against Carrick’s blade. His grip already weakened, the sword ripped out of Carrick’s hands.
Before Regulus raised his sword to Carrick’s chest, Carrick dove around him. Regulus turned as Carrick kicked the cut in the back of his knee and Regulus’ leg buckled. Pain shot up and down his leg. The cut had started to close, and the impact reopened the wound, making it feel like his flesh was sliced through all over again. He gasped and spun on Carrick, who snatched his sword off the ground. Regulus adjusted his grip on his sword and blocked a hastily thrown attack. Their swords clanged together, and Regulus moved forward, guiding his sword down Carrick’s blade. He slammed his head into Carrick’s helm.
The impact rang in his ears, made his helm vibrate against his skull. Carrick teetered and lowered his sword. Regulus slammed the pommel of his sword into the side of Carrick’s helm. A blow across Carrick’s back, and Carrick fell to his knees. Regulus put the tip of his blade against Carrick’s neck below his helm. Carrick froze. He let go of his sword and raised his hands.
Regulus swallowed against the dryness in his mouth and throat. His pulse pounded in his ears as he lowered then sheathed his sword and stepped away from Carrick. He offered his hand, but Carrick shoved it away.
“You’ll pay for this, Hargreaves.” Carrick’s voice sounded tinny and muted through his visor. “I’m not done with you.” He stomped away without removing his helm.
Regulus turned toward the spectators, his focus shifting from Carrick to the cacophony of applause, cheers...and booing. He removed his helm. Baron Carrick stood, clapping leisurely, but his expression was hard as stone. Regulus’ gaze wandered over the crowd. Many stood, some smiling and cheering. Some yelling. He looked to Adelaide. She beamed, her broad smile making her cheeks round and her eyes crinkle as she stood and applauded. Baron Carrick held out a hand and the crowd’s excitement dropped off to silence.
“The winner of this year’s Etchy Tournament’s sword competition,” Baron Carrick said, his rich baritone ringing out over the arena, “is Lord Regulus Hargreaves of Arrano.”
Most of the crowd cheered, although some jeered. The herald walked onto the field, carrying a miniature model of a knight with gold armor and a silver sword. He presented the little figure to Regulus, who accepted it with a deep bow.
Off the field, his knights greeted him with whoops and slaps on the back and shoulders. His pulse raced. He grinned and couldn’t stop. Their exuberance heightened his own soaring emotions. But Regulus locked eyes on the woman moving through the crowd toward him. He shoved his helm and the tiny knight into the hands of one of his men, he wasn’t even sure which. He pushed past them, only aware of her.
Adelaide’s smile and shining eyes made his breath come faster. He strode toward her, ignoring the congratulations of the men he walked past. He knew what he wanted to do. Grab her by the waist, spin around as he lifted her into the air, and when he put her back down, kiss her. But that would be crazy. They weren’t there. Not yet. But as they stopped, a little too close together, ideas of proper and crazy and logical and irrational blurred and then vanished. His chest tightened as he drifted toward her upturned face. His gaze drifted to her lips.
Searing pain prickled his right arm, and he winced. Her smile faded. His heart felt heavy. Not now. Why now, Etiros? Why at all? Anger rushed through him, followed by despair.
“Are you all right?” Adelaide placed her fingertips on his breastplate.
“Yes.” He forced a smile. “Just the cut on my leg.”
Her forehead wrinkled, concern in her eyes. “Is it deep? You should see the tournament physician at once.”
“It’s fine.” He took her hand off his chest and held it. “I’ve had much worse.”
Adelaide glanced at the scar on his cheek then met his eyes. “Still. Better get it stitched.” She looked like she wanted to say something else, but she pulled her hand out of his and smiled coyly. “The sooner you get that mended, the more likely you will be able to dance after supper tonight.”
She went up on her toes and planted a kiss on his unscarred cheek before he could react. His jaw went slack. He could still feel the soft, warm brush of her lips on his skin after she pulled away.
“See you tonight.” She darted away.
“Right,” he responded in a breathy whisper. “Yes.” Idiot. The mark on his arm continued to tingle. A dull pain like a minor burn. He turned and headed for his tent.
“Now that looked promising,” Dresden said, walking beside him. “So where are you headed in such a hurry?”
“I need to look to my leg.” His words sounded blunter and harsher than intended.
“Oh. Right. Yes, good.” Dresden dropped his voice to a whisper as they left the crowd behind. “Got to cover that before anyone notices.” He nudged Regulus with his elbow. “And then did I hear something about dancing?”
“I don’t think I’ll be dancing.” His throat pulled taut as he spoke in a low, sharp tone. I’ll have other business to attend to.
“Reg, what’s wrong?”
He wanted to scream. To punch something, or someone. To grab the sorcerer by the neck and shove him into a brick wall. He wanted to collapse to his knees and sob. Because he had known better. Now he knew more clearly than ever. His mark had burned right as he stood on the brink of careless joy. At the edge of love. It cut through his euphoria, pulling him back, reminding him what he was.
“Reg, slow down.”
He couldn’t risk hurting her.
“Is it the mark?”
He couldn’t tell her the truth.
“Regulus!” Dresden grabbed his shoulders, forcing him to stop.
He had fallen for a daydream. Tried to live in one of the happily-ever-after romance ballads Caleb sang. But his life wasn’t a romance.
“Reg?”
The truth crushed him, like his heart was being squeezed. His lungs compressed. His life wasn’t a romance. It was a tragedy. Even if she accepted him, he might hurt her. Not if you obey, a selfish voice whispered. “Such an obedient pet,” the sorcerer’s voice taunted. “Next time, you won’t get to choose.” He pushed Dresden aside.
“Regulus!”
Until he had paid his debt, he had no business loving Adelaide Belanger. Or anyone.
Because he wasn’t his own man.
And slaves don’t get the girl.
