Fifteen minutes turned into an hour and an hour turned into two. By the time they remounted their horses, the sun was already high in the sky. Tristan was none too pleased at the late start to the day, but attempting to wake him before he was ready was akin to poking a sleeping tiger with a stick. He was to blame for their late start, and he knew it.

They left Haywood with little fanfare. The duke, in typical fashion, did not bother to see them off; now that Tristan was no longer to wed his daughter, he likely had lost interest. Haywood, swept up in the madness of the Grand Fair, just two days hence, barely acknowledged their departure. It made for a quick exit.

Tristan set a breakneck speed in an effort to make up for lost time, riding their horses at a near gallop. Haywood was soon but a speck in the distance, the curved road wide and open with nary a soul in sight. Sam wondered if she would ever see her home again.

When the horses began to flag, Tristan led them to a nearby stream and told his trainees to dismount. “We’ll rest here,” he said.

“For the evening?” Sam asked. “We still have a few hours of daylight.”

Tristan patted his horse’s flank, encouraging it to drink from the stream. “The horses are already fatigued,” he said. “Besides, you and Braeden have hardly trained since we arrived in Haywood. Now is as good a time as any.”

Sam bit back a groan. Nothing like training after half a day’s hard riding, and on top of a night of drinking to boot. “More calisthenics? Or will you actually let us hold weapons?”

“I was planning on the latter, but in light of your impertinence, I’ve changed my mind,” said Tristan archly.

“Wonderful. I just love calisthenics.”

“Someone will cut out that sharp tongue of yours one day, and when I say I told you so, you won’t be able to reply, sarcastically or otherwise. And to be clear, I said no weapons; I didn’t say no fighting. Some hand-to-hand combat practice is in order, I think.”

“Okay,” said Sam, feeling more optimistic. Sword fighting would be more useful when it came to killing demons, but she’d enjoyed the few grappling lessons she’d had. She certainly remembered the hip toss well enough.

“Now that I have your hard won approval,” said Tristan, “let’s begin. We’re going to start by practicing the three basic tie-in positions, so you’ll need to face each other. Braeden, move closer. Closer. There, that’s good.”

Braeden and Sam stood a little over a yard apart, their nearness emphasizing Braeden’s significant height advantage. He stared straight ahead at a spot above Sam’s head, avoiding eye contact.

“Now, step your right foot forward--no, Sam, that’s your left--so that your legs cross at the knees,” Tristan went on. “Burn this foot position into your memory. It’s the same for all three starting stances. Okay, now, Sam, I want you to grip Braeden’s upper arms around the outside, and Braeden, you grip Sam’s upper arms from the inside."

To Sam’s embarrassment, Braeden’s hands easily encircled her upper arms while her fingers couldn’t touch. She squeezed a little, surprised at the hardness of Braeden’s triceps muscles, and a little unnerved. Though Braeden still refused to meet her eyes, he wasn’t as apathetic as he pretended; a faint blush stained the ochre of his skin.

“Excellent,” said Tristan. “Both of you, drop your right hands and shift your left hands to each other’s elbows. Good. This is the single arm tie-up.” After they executed the starting stance to his satisfaction, he continued, “The next and final starting position is the double-waist tie-up. Braeden, reach around Sam’s waist and grab your wrist with the opposite hand. Sam, you do the same to Braeden.”

Braeden and Sam now stood in an embrace, their arms around each other’s waist. The only air separating their bodies was in the small space between their hips. Their knees rubbed against one another as they shifted and the back of Sam’s head rested on Braeden’s shoulder. Their embrace was like that of lovers, not fighters.

Braeden broke off their embrace and stormed off into the surrounding woods.

Tristan scratched his head. “What’s wrong with him?”

Sam shrugged helplessly and focused on calming her racing heart. She neither wanted nor appreciated this new awareness of Braeden. Had touching him always felt so strange or was it the result of the new dynamic of their relationship?

Braeden reappeared moments later. “Sorry. I had to deal with something.”

“Verbose in your explanations as always,” said Tristan. “If there are no more interruptions?” Braeden shook his head. “Splendid. As you were.”

Expressionless, Braeden wrapped his arms around Sam’s waist once more, and she trembled, damn her traitorous body. “I won’t tell,” he whispered into her ear, his breath tickling the sensitive skin. He must have mistaken her reaction for fear, not…whatever this new sensation was.

“Sam, don’t interlock your fingers,” Tristan instructed. “We’re going to practice the lift and throw next.”

They practiced the Lift and Throw--the counterattack’s official name, according to Tristan--until Sam grew sick of thumping her skull against the earth. She’d learned how to fall properly long ago, but that didn’t mean she enjoyed it any better. Moreover, she was convinced Braeden was going easy on her, tipping her over like a teapot instead of throwing her like he should. When it came to her turn to practice on him, she made a point to drop him unceremoniously on his head.

As dusk drew near, Tristan allowed them to spend the last few minutes of their training grappling. “Let’s make this quick,” said Tristan. “First one on the ground is the loser and has the fine privilege of digging the latrine.”

They began in the first tie-in position, gripping each other’s upper arms as they spun in a slow circle. After a moment of inaction, Braeden removed his hands from Sam’s arms and grabbed her behind the neck with a clasped grip, dragging her head forward and down until she butted his chest. She struggled against his firm hold and shoved hard at his elbow until it was high enough that she could duck underneath it.

He was too quick, though, locking her in a one armed chokehold. Wheezing, she swung her arm backwards and pushed against his body with as much force as she could muster. He stumbled back a few inches and she wormed her way out of his grasp.

Sam circled Braeden, her competitive instincts now fully engaged. A bead of perspiration rolled down her forehead and off the tip of her nose, landing on the rim of her mouth. She tasted salt as she ran her tongue over her upper lip.

Braeden’s eyes zeroed in on her mouth, which seemed an odd place to focus during a fight. Seizing the opportunity, she bent over, hands forming small bridges against the ground, and shot forward, streaking across the grass. In seconds, the crown of her head connected with Braeden’s solar plexus, sending him sprawling. She’d won.

It was too easy.

Braeden came up onto his elbows. Before he could rise to his feet, Sam jumped on top of him, shoving his chest hard. “You wretch!” she snarled. She shoved him one more time for good measure and then stalked off, muttering to herself.

“First you, now Sam. Am I missing something here?” she heard Tristan say.

“It’s nothing,” Braeden murmured.

But it wasn’t nothing. Braeden had let her win, for the gods’ sake. Was there anything more humiliating? Or more insulting?

She found Braeden deep in the woods, after she’d helped Tristan set up camp. He was bare to the waist, muscles rippling as he shoveled dirt. When he saw her approach, he dropped the trowel and hastily stuck his arms into the sleeves of his robes.

“Stop it!” she snapped. “I’ve seen your bare chest a hundred times before. Don’t be modest on my account.”

Braeden ignored her and continued dressing. “It was different then.”

“That’s just it,” she said. “It’s not different. Not to me, and not to Tristan. Stop treating me like I’m a woman.”

“We’re alone now,” said Braeden, knotting the tie of his robe into a bow.

“I’m not talking about when we’re alone! Today, at training--what do you call that?”

Braeden blushed--not exactly the response Sam was anticipating. “You mean when I walked off?” he asked. “That was…” he floundered.

“Not that, you idiot! Our fight, at the end. Did you think I wouldn’t be able to tell?”

Now Braeden looked well and truly confused. “Be able to tell what?”

Sam searched for something to throw at his head--a medium-sized rock would do nicely. “That you let me win!”

His face darkened. “That’s complete shite, Sam.”

“It’s not shite and you know it. You could have easily evaded my lift and throw. Why didn’t you? Because I’m a woman? Because I couldn’t possibly handle a real fight?”

“Gods, Sam, give me some credit,” said Braeden, mussing his silver hair. “I may have just learned you’re a woman, but I’ve known you’re an excellent fighter for much longer. I’m not trying to take that away from you.”

“Then why did you let me win?”

Braeden let out a huff of frustration. “I didn’t let you win. I was caught off guard.”

“By what?”

“Nothing of import,” said Braeden evasively. “It was a momentary distraction and it won’t happen again."

“Hmph.”

“Harrumph away. I didn’t intentionally allow you to win. Satisfied?”

Sam nodded begrudgingly, though she remained skeptical.

“Then let me go back to digging the latrine. And give me some more time to adjust, okay? It hasn’t even been a full day.”

Sam’s face grew hot and her stomach churned with renewed guilt. Selfish--she had been unconscionably selfish and self-centered. “Sorry. I’ll leave you be.” She turned and headed for the camp, the wind carrying Braeden’s quiet sigh to her ears.