Inkitt.com
Category:
Action/Thriller
Type: Fiction
Pages: 320
Copyright: march 20, 2025
Price: $0.99 (eBook)
THINK: JOHN WICKS MEETS KATNISS EVERDEEN
Sir David La Roche, Knight Templar, is a renowned warrior who hires his services out to weary travelers wishing to visit the Holy Lands, in the Year of Our Lord, 1229 A.D.
He is bored with such endeavors and determined to wed Lady Beatrice, a wealthy heiress whose lands Sir David will inherit upon her father's death, of course.
The Templar has it all planned out, until a wistful, energetic young woman enters his life.
His word is his bond. He has given it, which means it is set in stone. Why then, does his thoughts turn to Isabella Kingsley at night, why is his dreams haunted by that pretty face, that sensual body.
Lady Beatrice is a beautiful, desirable woman in her own right. But the good Lady does not cause the Knight's loins to burn with desire. His usually precise thinking patterns to shatter into chaos when near.
Why? Because, Sir David La Roche is to learn...
The heart wants what it wants. To hell with honor or righteousness or logic or decorum.
Is he strong enough to overcome this trial and tribulation? Only time will tell.
Sir David La Roche, Knight Templar, is a renowned warrior who hires his services out to weary travelers wishing to visit the Holy Lands.
He is bored with such endeavors and determined to wed Lady Beatrice, a wealthy heiress whose lands Sir David will inherit upon her father's death, of course.
The Templar has it all planned out, until a wistful, energetic young woman enters his life. His word is his bond. He has given it, which means it is set in stone. Why then, does his thoughts turn to Isabella Kingsley at night, why is his dreams haunted by that pretty face, that sensual body.
Lady Beatrice is a beautiful, desirable woman in her own right. But the good Lady does not cause the Knight's loins to burn with desire. His usually precise thinking patterns to shatter into chaos when near.
Why? Because, Sir David La Roche is to learn...
The heart wants what it wants. To hell with honor or righteousness or logic or decorum.
Is he strong enough to overcome this trial and tribulation? Only time will tell.
Excerpt
Guy LeFleur made his way down the high rock wall, his hand bracing occasionally on the cool rough surface for counterbalance.
The passageway was narrow flagstones marking a distinct path the entire length of the castle.
In the shade here, it was a bit brisk, this being late February. The snows were gone, thank goodness but the cold held on in these dwindling days of the month.
Guy was glad he wore his winter cloak, the heavy wool fabric protected him from the winds whistling down the make-shift tunnel.
Vines, crisp and brown bespoke of summer ivy which climbed to the top of the ramparts above.
The man glanced up the side of the stone structure, noting enclaves of windows on every floor, towering into the clear skies.
Three stories above, the rounded shape of a turret jutted out over a portion of the battlement. Each corner of the castle boasted one, each with tall, rectangular slits for observation and firing of weapons at any approaching enemy.
This castle had not seen a battle in many a year.
Only a very few would be foolhardy enough to attempt a siege with so many skilled, capable warriors inside.
The Citadel here at the Castle of Soure, in Portugal, was considered impenetrable.
Guy came out of the shadows into the sun, a flurry of activity catching his eye.
This section of the grounds was reserved for the lay person. Many were in attendance now, going about their workday.
LeFleur rarely gave these creatures any thought. They were like specters in his day, going about their unimportant, predictable little lives.
Many years ago, he promised himself never to be counted among their ranks, having pulled himself up from apprentice to respected Scholar and renowned sage.
Guy LeFleur had been given a brain by God. He used it to his advantage in life.
That he had grown jaded and cynical rarely occurred to the man. He considered those traits a virtue, at any rate. So, had he been consciously aware, the reality would have, in actuality, pleased him.
Guy searched the multitude of faces present, finding the woman he searched out easily enough.
Although dressed in the common, everyday work garb of her fellow constituents, the black raven hair, flowing down her back, set her apart from the other females milling about.
As the man watched her closely, his mouth tightened with visible irritation. “Stupid little twit.” he muttered his dissension, making his way through the hodgepodge of tradesmen and castle staff, crossing the slightly rising knoll swiftly.
Isabella Kingsley studiously concentrated on the task at hand, the tip of her tongue darting about the full pout of her lips, as she completed her chore.
“Where is that gargantuan female that lurks about continuously.” The man grated the inquiry, causing the girl to start visibly for his unexpected presence as she was deep within her own sphere when LaFleur entered unannounced, his blustery tone most effectively garnering her attention.
The woman stepped back for he continued his advancement into her space, her expression more than annoyed.
“You continually traipse about without a proper chaperone. Which makes you a tart in my book.” The man looked the small figure up and down disdainfully. “I have a good mind to write your father with the sad, unconscionable news of just how far down you have sunk into the mire of mediocracy since your arrival here.”
“That female is the bane of my existence.” Isabella snapped defensively. “Could I free myself of charges, I would push her off the nearest battlement.” She halted her retreat, facing her enemy squarely now. “As I would you, Sir. I am not a tart! How dare you call me names...and to my face! You are no gentleman!”
“Did not lay claim to the title and you are a tart. Dressing provocatively as you are, giving some unsuspecting male lascivious notions.” His eyes swept the demure mode of her dress this day, boldly appraising the ripe melons of her breasts. “You should be horsewhipped. Were you my daughter, I would chain you in the dungeon, securing a chastity belt to your nether regions until you were properly indoctrinated in the genteel ways of a chaste, modest female.”
“Were I your daughter, I would allow it.” Isabella rolled expressive eyes. “And what is wrong with my mode of dress? I wear what it tis all these women wear!”
“And you supposedly a Lady of the realm.” Guy shook a woeful head. “What would your mother say?”
“I should do manual labor in a gown of silk and ruffles, I suppose. You are from another century!” The young woman lamented.
“You should not be doing manual labor at all.” Guy made his opinion known. “What is wrong with you, woman that you believe it is all well and proper to do so?”
“You still exist in the dark ages.” Isabella was relatively certain of her facts. “My mother, since you asked, would applaud my noble goals of attempting to support myself instead of expecting my parental units to provide my every need. Which reminds me, you keep me from my endeavors!” she shooed the man away with her hands. “Why are you badgering me? I am no longer under your purview, thank the Good Lord above!”
“Because you are a little coward who runs from any sort of conflict.” Guy was glad she had brought up the matter, for he had been working on a way to do just that. “Why did you not stay and face me!”
The girl had the grace to be bothered by his accusation. “I...I thought it more prudent to s-simply move forward in life. When one door shuts, another opens. You said so yourself. Many a time.”
His keen eyes observed her labors. “So you decided to become a common laborer.” he smirked his distaste. “Or have you ‘moved forward’ to the Archeology department. There is a vocation for a female if ever there was one. Digging up the dead, right up your alley, I would think.”
“You are the one who attends to the dead, Sir.” she snipped. “Not I. Grave robbing is frowned upon by the Ton these days, is it not? And you worry over my mode of dress, indeed!”
“I hire it done, you Philistine!” the man’s tone dripped with revulsion but, he was enjoying himself immensely again, in truth. "Manual labor is beneath me." He had missed their lively exchanges.
“I believe God objects to the sacrilege of uprooting those he has put asunder, not the physical labor involved.” They were drawing quite an audience, but the man found, he did not give a fig.
This was fun and she was giving as good as he gave. She always had, of course. “I am more learned in the scriptures than a first-year student. Do not stand there and preach to me, Peripatetic.”
“Oh, now you align yourself with Aristotle?” she was dumb struck. “Is there no limit to your conceit?”
“None.” Guy assured airily. “Bainbridge has not had a dig in two years but suddenly he requires all these?” the man waved his hand over her handiwork. “Why so many?”
“He has a dig now.” Isabella informed. “His students prepare a trip to Iceland this summer.” she informed haughtily.
“What the hell is in Iceland but ice?” LeFleur demanded to know, pretending anger.
“Neanderthals. Or so the Professor claims.” Isabella’s hands came to those shapely hips, her cheeks pink with frustration and pique. “Your ancestors, yes?”
“I...am your Professor.” Guy did not like her referring to another male by the title she, herself, had bestowed upon him. “Or I was until your childish temper tantrum yesterday, when you stormed off the field of battle like the two-year-old you showed yourself to be!”
“What is it you want of me, you vile person!” the woman’s temper flared. “I have work to which I must attend!”
“Bainbridge has no right to demand his students carry out such menial tasks, especially a ‘Lady’...although that title is questionable on the best of days where you are concerned, granted.”
Isabella spewed inarticulately. “How dare you question my birthright, you...a mere Scribe!” she disdained the occupation and person attached, clearly.
“I am a mere ‘nothing’, while you, Madame, are one of Satan’s minions. My station in life is above scrutiny or suspect.” Guy was having difficulty holding his ever-growing amusement. “For I have earned my place. It was not given over because my sire’s loins burned for sexual release.”
Isabella’s cheeks reddened, her gasp of astonishment for such crudeness amusing Guy LeFleur all the more. “You are the product of a Chimera and a Centaur!”
“Well.” he allowed a small grin. “That lower half of a horse thing? You have hit upon it. I agree.”
“A jackass!”
His chuckle increased, a low, soothing sound that ran along the girl’s nerve endings, making her blush deepen. “I was speaking of...” He halted, giving a reprieve. “I believe you understood my meaning if that rosy complexion is any indication, yes?”
“It is said, all men brag in that area.” She swallowed hard, managing to keep her stare even and steady.
“Is that what is said.” the dark eyes of the man twinkled with suppressed mirth.
“I have no more time to waste. These shifters are required by the end of the day, and I fully intend to collect my pay so if you will excuse me then?”
The girl returned to her pastime, carefully nailing the corners of two pieces of wood into place on the makeshift box.
“You are doing it all wrong, as usual.” The man watched her progress, snapping his irritation. “Who taught you to construct a sieve?”
“No one taught me. Great intelligence is not required to piece a simple design together, but rather common sense and perhaps a certain amount of will.” She snapped right back. “But, let me harbor a guess...your way is so much better, correct?” She straightened, ready for battle. “Well, my way seems sufficient unto itself.” she waved a hand to the neatly stacked product to her right.
“You have forgotten your bonnet.” The man was noting the healthy pink cheeks and bright, shiny eyes glaring at him so belligerently. Those blue eyes mesmerized. “My god, woman. Your skin will be leather by the time you are illegible to come out to society if you keep this practice up.”
Isabella’s head fell back, and she issued a groan of growing misery. “I came out two seasons past for all the good it did me. I have had no takers to date, pining for my hand. Can you guess why?”
“I know why.” Guy assured confidently. “It is that even tempered, mild-mannered way you have about yourself which attracts so many of the opposite sex.”
“Because I do not suffer idiots gladly, I am penalized? This...I can accept.” She did not accept the criticism, apparently, however. “Should I pretend I find ineptitude charming and/or acceptable simply to sooth a male’s vanity? I think not, Sir!”
“Others of your kind seem perfectly content to do so. Are you so very discriminating and if so...why ever would you be?”
“Meaning I am no great beauty and cannot afford the luxury?”
“Do not put words into my mouth, you insolent pup. I can speak my own mind...have and do!” He thought her very beautiful, in truth but this was not the time to advertise the fact, he sensed.
“God has granted me a brain. I prefer to use it on occasion.” Isabella carefully stacked her finished shifter in the collective pile. “I shall pursue a career that allows I can provide my own way in life, ergo...never having to depend on anyone but myself in order to survive.”
She had made up her mind on the matter.
“Perhaps not as a physician as I hoped but surely, there are other avenues open for an enterprising person even if she is a lowly female.” She nodded curtly, dusting her palms. “I shall find one.”
“I wish you good fortune with that.” Guy laughed humorlessly. “What profession, but the oldest...is a woman good for then?”
“Can you be more crude?” the woman sighed her doldrums.
“Of course I can.” the man assured confidently. “Do you enjoy such exchanges, Isabella?”
Having studiously avoided this individual for days now, the woman was unnerved by his presence now, despite herself. Her fingers clutched the wood pieces tightly to stop the trembling of her fingers.
Why he had approached this day, baffled and amazed.
That he had, caused apprehension and chaos to her heightened senses.
“Enough sparring.” Guy LeFleur motioned curtly. “We must speak sensibly for a change. We can not do so here, among these gawking serfs, however.” He glanced about their surroundings.
“My classes start soon.” He had searched her out for he needed to see her again. Guy was pleased with the outcome of his expedition. “I have free time this afternoon. I shall expect you in my office then, yes?” He waited expectantly for her reply, the dark eyes anxious on the small, upturned face.
“No.” the last thing Isabella wished was to be alone with this man, her nerves spiking joltingly at the mere thought. “I have to finish these sieves. I have no time for...”
“Make the time.” he grated, turning, the matter settled in his world. He turned, his eyes flashing a challenge. “This is to your advantage, not mine. I have arrived at the solution to your dilemma. The least you could do is hear me out, if only for courteousness’ sake.”
“You are a fine one to speak of civilities, Sir!” Isabella reminded caustically. “You, the rudest, self-centered, pompous male ever to walk the face of this Earth!”
“Flattery will get you...” The man held his smile, admiring her gumption. “Well...everywhere with me, but none-the-less. My office, this afternoon, so do not be late.”
Again, the man turned, ready to depart.
“How can I be late when you have neglected to state an exact time.” The girl hated to remind.
“...Afternoon.” Guy patiently reiterated. “When I am...free. Seems logical enough to me.”
He took his leave, allowing his grin because he knew she could not see how much she amused and delighted. Or just how adorable he considered her manner and responses to his planned ‘attack’.
The man was learning from David La Roche’s tactics on the sparring fields. He would have to remember to thank his friend.
Guy LeFleur made his way down the high rock wall, his hand bracing occasionally on the cool rough surface for counterbalance.
The passageway was narrow flagstones marking a distinct path the entire length of the castle.
In the shade here, it was a bit brisk, this being late February. The snows were gone, thank goodness but the cold held on in these dwindling days of the month.
Guy was glad he wore his winter cloak, the heavy wool fabric protected him from the winds whistling down the make-shift tunnel.
Vines, crisp and brown bespoke of summer ivy which climbed to the top of the ramparts above.
The man glanced up the side of the stone structure, noting enclaves of windows on every floor, towering into the clear skies.
Three stories above, the rounded shape of a turret jutted out over a portion of the battlement. Each corner of the castle boasted one, each with tall, rectangular slits for observation and firing of weapons at any approaching enemy.
This castle had not seen a battle in many a year.
Only a very few would be foolhardy enough to attempt a siege with so many skilled, capable warriors inside.
The Citadel here at the Castle of Soure, in Portugal, was considered impenetrable.
Guy came out of the shadows into the sun, a flurry of activity catching his eye.
This section of the grounds was reserved for the lay person. Many were in attendance now, going about their workday.
LeFleur rarely gave these creatures any thought. They were like specters in his day, going about their unimportant, predictable little lives.
Many years ago, he promised himself never to be counted among their ranks, having pulled himself up from apprentice to respected Scholar and renowned sage.
Guy LeFleur had been given a brain by God. He used it to his advantage in life.
That he had grown jaded and cynical rarely occurred to the man. He considered those traits a virtue, at any rate. So, had he been consciously aware, the reality would have, in actuality, pleased him.
Guy searched the multitude of faces present, finding the woman he searched out easily enough.
Although dressed in the common, everyday work garb of her fellow constituents, the black raven hair, flowing down her back, set her apart from the other females milling about.
As the man watched her closely, his mouth tightened with visible irritation. “Stupid little twit.” he muttered his dissension, making his way through the hodgepodge of tradesmen and castle staff, crossing the slightly rising knoll swiftly.
Isabella Kingsley studiously concentrated on the task at hand, the tip of her tongue darting about the full pout of her lips, as she completed her chore.
“Where is that gargantuan female that lurks about continuously.” The man grated the inquiry, causing the girl to start visibly for his unexpected presence as she was deep within her own sphere when LaFleur entered unannounced, his blustery tone most effectively garnering her attention.
The woman stepped back for he continued his advancement into her space, her expression more than annoyed.
“You continually traipse about without a proper chaperone. Which makes you a tart in my book.” The man looked the small figure up and down disdainfully. “I have a good mind to write your father with the sad, unconscionable news of just how far down you have sank into the mire of mediocracy since your arrival here.”
“That female is the bane of my existence.” Isabella snapped defensively. “Could I free myself of charges, I would push her off the nearest battlement.” She halted her retreat, facing her enemy squarely now. “As I would you, Sir. I am not a tart! How dare you call me names...and to my face! You are no gentleman!”
“Did not lay claim to the title and you are a tart. Dressing provocatively as you are, giving some unsuspecting male lascivious notions.” His eyes swept the demure mode of her dress this day, boldly appraising the ripe melons of her breasts. “You should be horsewhipped. Were you my daughter, I would chain you in the dungeon, securing a chastity belt to your nether regions until you were properly indoctrinated in the genteel ways of a chaste, modest female.”
“Were I your daughter, I would allow it.” Isabella rolled expressive eyes. “And what is wrong with my mode of dress? I wear what it tis all these women wear!”
“And you supposedly a Lady of the realm.” Guy shook a woeful head. “What would your mother say?”
“I should do manual labor in a gown of silk and ruffles, I suppose. You are from another century!” The young woman lamented.
“You should not be doing manual labor at all.” Guy made his opinion known. “What is wrong with you, woman that you believe it is all well and proper to do so?”
“You still exist in the dark ages.” Isabella was relatively certain of her facts. “My mother, since you asked, would applaud my noble goals of attempting to support myself instead of expecting my parental units to provide my every need. Which reminds me, you keep me from my endeavors!” she shooed the man away with her hands. “Why are you badgering me? I am no longer under your purview, thank the Good Lord above!”
“Because you are a little coward who runs from any sort of conflict.” Guy was glad she had brought up the matter, for he had been working on a way to do just that. “Why did you not stay and face me!”
The girl had the grace to be bothered by his accusation. “I...I thought it more prudent to s-simply move forward in life. When one door shuts, another opens. You said so yourself. Many a time.”
His keen eyes observed her labors. “So you decided to become a common laborer.” he smirked his distaste. “Or have you ‘moved forward’ to the Archeology department. There is a vocation for a female if ever there was one. Digging up the dead, right up your alley, I would think.”
“You are the one who attends to the dead, Sir.” she snipped. “Not I. Grave robbing is frowned upon by the Ton these days, is it not? And you worry over my mode of dress, indeed!”
“I hire it done, you Philistine!” the man’s tone dripped with revulsion but, he was enjoying himself immensely again, in truth. "Manual labor is beneath me." He had missed their lively exchanges.
“I believe God objects to the sacrilege of uprooting those he has put asunder, not the physical labor involved.” They were drawing quite an audience, but the man found, he did not give a fig.
This was fun and she was giving as good as he gave. She always had, of course. “I am more learned in the scriptures than a first-year student. Do not stand there and preach to me, Peripatetic.”
“Oh, now you align yourself with Aristotle?” she was dumb struck. “Is there no limit to your conceit?”
“None.” Guy assured airily. “Bainbridge has not had a dig in two years but suddenly he requires all these?” the man waved his hand over her handiwork. “Why so many?”
“He has a dig now.” Isabella informed. “His students prepare a trip to Iceland this summer.” she informed haughtily.
“What the hell is in Iceland but ice?” LeFleur demanded to know, pretending anger.
“Neanderthals. Or so the Professor claims.” Isabella’s hands came to those shapely hips, her cheeks pink with frustration and pique. “Your ancestors, yes?”
“I...am your Professor.” Guy did not like her referring to another male by the title she, herself, had bestowed upon him. “Or I was until your childish temper tantrum yesterday, when you stormed off the field of battle like the two-year-old you showed yourself to be!”
“What is it you want of me, you vile person!” the woman’s temper flared. “I have work to which I must attend!”
“Bainbridge has no right to demand his students carry out such menial tasks, especially a ‘Lady’...although that title is questionable on the best of days where you are concerned, granted.”
Isabella spewed inarticulately. “How dare you question my birthright, you...a mere Scribe!” she disdained the occupation and person attached, clearly.
“I am a mere ‘nothing’, while you, Madame, are one of Satan’s minions. My station in life is above scrutiny or suspect.” Guy was having difficulty holding his ever growing amusement. “For I have earned my place. It was not given over because my sire’s loins burned for sexual release.”
Isabella’s cheeks reddened, her gasp of astonishment for such crudeness amusing Guy LeFleur all the more. “You are the product of a Chimera and a Centaur!”
“Well.” he allowed a small grin. “That lower half of a horse thing? You have hit upon it. I agree.”
“A jackass!”
His chuckle increased, a low, soothing sound that ran along the girl’s nerve endings, making her blush deepen. “I was speaking of...” He halted, giving a reprieve. “I believe you understood my meaning if that rosy complexion is any indication, yes?”
“It is said, all men brag in that area.” She swallowed hard, managing to keep her stare even and steady.
“Is that what is said.” the dark eyes of the man twinkled with suppressed mirth.
“I have no more time to waste. These shifters are required by the end of the day, and I fully intend to collect my pay so if you will excuse me then?”
The girl returned to her pastime, carefully nailing the corners of two pieces of wood into place on the makeshift box.
“You are doing it all wrong, as usual.” The man watched her progress, snapping his irritation. “Who taught you to construct a sieve?”
“No one taught me. Great intelligence is not required to piece a simple design together, but rather common sense and perhaps a certain amount of will.” She snapped right back. “But, let me harbor a guess...your way is so much better, correct?” She straightened, ready for battle. “Well, my way seems sufficient unto itself.” she waved a hand to the neatly stacked product to her right.
“You have forgotten your bonnet.” The man was noting the healthy pink cheeks and bright, shiny eyes glaring at him so belligerently. Those blue eyes mesmerized. “My god, woman. Your skin will be leather by the time you are illegible to come out to society if you keep this practice up.”
Isabella’s head fell back, and she issued a groan of growing misery. “I came out two seasons past for all the good it did me. I have had no takers to date, pining for my hand. Can you guess why?”
“I know why.” Guy assured confidently. “It is that even tempered, mild-mannered way you have about yourself which attracts so many of the opposite sex.”
“Because I do not suffer idiots gladly, I am penalized? This...I can accept.” She did not accept the criticism, apparently, however. “Should I pretend I find ineptitude charming and/or acceptable simply to sooth a male’s vanity? I think not, Sir!”
“Others of your kind seem perfectly content to do so. Are you so very discriminating and if so...why ever would you be?”
“Meaning I am no great beauty and cannot afford the luxury?”
“Do not put words into my mouth, you insolent pup. I can speak my own mind...have and do!” He thought her very beautiful, in truth but this was not the time to advertise the fact, he sensed.
“God has granted me a brain. I prefer to use it on occasion.” Isabella carefully stacked her finished shifter in the collective pile. “I shall pursue a career that allows I can provide my own way in life, ergo...never having to depend on anyone but myself in order to survive.”
She had made up her mind on the matter.
“Perhaps not as a physician as I hoped but surely, there are other avenues open for an enterprising person even if she is a lowly female.” She nodded curtly, dusting her palms. “I shall find one.”
“I wish you good fortune with that.” Guy laughed humorlessly. “What profession, but the oldest...is a woman good for then?”
“Can you be more crude?” the woman sighed her doldrums.
“Of course I can.” the man assured confidently. “Do you enjoy such exchanges, Isabella?”
Having studiously avoided this individual for days now, the woman was unnerved by his presence now, despite herself. Her fingers clutched the wood pieces tightly to stop the trembling of her fingers.
Why he had approached this day, baffled and amazed.
That he had, caused apprehension and chaos to her heightened senses.
“Enough sparring.” Guy LeFleur motioned curtly. “We must speak sensibly for a change. We can not do so here, among these gawking serfs, however.” He glanced about their surroundings.
“My classes start soon.” He had searched her out for he needed to see her again. Guy was pleased with the outcome of his expedition. “I have free time this afternoon. I shall expect you in my office then, yes?” He waited expectantly for her reply, the dark eyes anxious on the small, upturned face.
“No.” the last thing Isabella wished was to be alone with this man, her nerves spiking joltingly at the mere thought. “I have to finish these sieves. I have no time for...”
“Make the time.” he grated, turning, the matter settled in his world. He turned, his eyes flashing a challenge. “This is to your advantage, not mine. I have arrived at the solution to your dilemma. The least you could do is hear me out, if only for courteousness’ sake.”
“You are a fine one to speak of civilities, Sir!” Isabella reminded caustically. “You, the rudest, self-centered, pompous male ever to walk the face of this Earth!”
“Flattery will get you...” The man held his smile, admiring her gumption. “Well...everywhere with me, but none-the-less. My office, this afternoon, so do not be late.”
Again, the man turned, ready to depart.
“How can I be late when you have neglected to state an exact time.” The girl hated to remind.
“...Afternoon.” Guy patiently reiterated. “When I am...free. Seems logical enough to me.”
He took his leave, allowing his grin because he knew she could not see how much she amused and delighted. Or just how adorable he considered her manner and responses to his planned ‘attack’.
The man was learning from David La Roche’s tactics on the sparring fields. He would have to remember to thank his friend.
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