21

E lizabeth left the picnic on the blanket. There was a duel to fight. Time was wasting.

Stephen held open the rooftop door for her and she stepped into the darkness. She kept one hand firmly around the handle of her cane and the other palm skating the cold stone wall as she descended the narrow, uneven spiral steps. Each wedge seemed to fit only half her foot, and be of vastly different height than the one before or after.

When she reached the landing outside the corridor that led to her private quarters, she picked up her sword stick and jogged the short distance to her bedchamber. In no time, she'd exchanged her cane for an appropriate sword.

All right, it wasn't no time. There had been decisions to make. Length, girth, weight, how the handle gripped. She was leaving nothing to chance.

She also had to do her stretches. Her body still hadn't fully recovered from the toll of the strange contortions she'd had to assume during her search of the castle. She was operating well below peak competency levels.

"Densmooore," came the muffled cry outside of the castle.

"For the love of God," she muttered. "I will come and kill you in a second. Have patience!"

As soon as she was ready, she burst back into the corridor.

"Do not kill anyone," Stephen reminded her.

"You sound just like Jacob. Were you listening to me talk to myself?"

"One needn't eavesdrop to reach an obvious conclusion. I know you. Please convince Reddington to duel to the disarming, not to the death. That'll be more than enough. The mortification of being bested by a woman will send him scurrying off into the night." Stephen paused. "I hope."

"Humph." Elizabeth pushed past him. "We'll see what happens."

She made it to the stairs and hurried down the triangular spiral steps faster than she ought. In her eagerness to spar with her enemy, her foot failed to gain purchase on a thin sliver of stone, and shot forward into nothingness.

She flung out her free hand to grasp the banister—but of course there was none.

A strong hand grabbed her flailing wrist, righting her before her foot's terrifying skid sent her over the edge of the staircase, and tumbling into an early grave.

"Slow down, Berserker. Are you all right?"

"I'm fine," she said quickly, and gave what she hoped passed as a carefree laugh. "Just eager to cut off heads."

She wasn't fine. Not completely. After being jarred like that, her left hip spasmed every time she put weight on that side, causing her to walk out of rhythm and out of balance. She took each step gingerly, determined not to make a permanent mistake on the staircase.

"I thought you said you were in a hurry," Stephen said with a chuckle. "Now what are you doing?"

Trying not to die .

"Making him sweat," she answered lightly. "I decided he doesn't deserve unnecessary promptness. I'll slice through his throat when I'm good and ready."

Stephen touched her side. "You're limping."

"I'm not."

"You're limping . If you're already in pain, we need to call off the duel—"

"I'm fine ." She put her full weight on her leg to prove it, and regretted it immediately. "Once I best him, we can negotiate for more time."

Stephen frowned, but seemed to take her at her word. "And a cease fire. No killing, unless he tries to kill you first."

She brightened. "You're saying… I can kill him? If he deserves it?"

"Of course. If he tries to murder you and you let him live, I'll kill him myself."

She kissed him. "You are a prince amongst men."

Stephen swung open the rotating door to the entryway. "We exit through here. I'll show you where to step."

"I remember which stones." She scanned the floor for stray marbles, then strode through the antechamber.

"Densmooo—"

Elizabeth opened the front door. Sunlight streamed into the castle, and she stood blinking for a moment before her eyes found their focus on the source of all the yelling.

Next to Reddington was a man approximately the size of a full-grown oak, with arms and legs each as wide as tree trunks. He stood twenty yards before her, a heavy sword in his enormous, cabbage-size hand.

"Get back in here," hissed Stephen.

Elizabeth stepped out into the sunlight. "I am Elizabeth Wynchester, first in command of the Earl of Densmore's ad hoc army, here to defend Castle Harbrook. And you are?"

"They call me Crump," said the giant. "Reddington appointed me to win this fight."

Motion rustled in the trees. The rest of the army lurked in the forest, watching.

Reddington smirked. "His Grace hopes your earl is standing by with deed in hand."

"Tell him I'm not Densmore," Stephen murmured into the back of Elizabeth's neck as he came up behind her.

She held up a finger to Crump, then turned around to whisper to Stephen. "When the cat's away, the mice will storm the castle in full force. We can't tell them who you are until we find the will, and can prove Reddington doesn't own this land."

She turned back around. Too quickly. Her hip gave a twinge that almost made her stumble. She gritted her teeth and smiled her coldest smile at Crump.

"Very well, good sir. Prepare to die."

He laughed. "You won't get near me, girl. The ‘fight' will be over in seconds."

"No one dies," Stephen said loudly. "The duel is to the disarming. Understood?"

Elizabeth curtseyed obediently.

"‘Disarming' doesn't mean ‘cut off his arm,'" Stephen reminded her.

She waved this away. Words were open to interpretation.

Reddington glared at them both. "Make haste. I want my castle."

"You agreed to negotiate about that," she reminded him. "After I win this duel, we cease all interaction until we reconvene a week from today to discuss the matter calmly and reach an amicable solution."

Elizabeth hadn't the least faith in Reddington's ability to be calm or amicable, much less that he possessed any willingness to accept her refusal to hand over the castle. What she really wanted was a full week's reprieve from external distractions. With luck, she could follow the clues and find the hidden will long before Reddington returned with his lawyer—or an army.

" If you win," he corrected with a smirk. "Which you won't. Let the duel begin!"

Crump hefted his huge sword. "Ready to lose, little girl?"

Elizabeth lifted her own blade, swinging it in figure eights, faster and faster, then tossing it from hand to hand with a swirl to the side or over her head in between.

Reddington took several steps back.

Elizabeth grinned. Was she showing off? Absolutely. Intimidation was often the first step toward victory. That was why Reddington had appointed Crump. And it was why Castle Harbrook had Elizabeth.

Crump's eyes watched her flashing sword first with annoyance, then with awe, then with an unmistakable flicker of hesitation.

Perfect.

"Ready when you are," she called out, without slowing her blade.

Crump visibly collected himself, then lifted his sword and charged, hollering like a wild boar.

Elizabeth waited until he was almost on her, then stepped aside and flicked out her blade, flipping his own sword up and out at such an angle that it flew from his hands and soared across the grass to land at Stephen's feet.

"Why, Crump," said Stephen. "It looks like you dropped something."

The big man was skidding across the grass, trying to catch his balance before he fell face-first into the solid stone wall of the castle. He righted himself just in time, then spun around, his wide face bright red with anger.

"Well," said Stephen. "That's that, then. Au revoir. Come back in a week prepared to negotiate like gentlemen. I assume you dropped enough bread crumbs to find your way home through the forest?"

Crump stalked over to Stephen, bared his teeth in a humorless grimace, then swiped up his fallen sword.

"Please don't take your defeat personally," said Elizabeth. "You are not the first inadequate man to face me, nor shall you be the last. Many discover much too late that the skills he thought he possessed—"

Crump lifted his sword high, showing no sign of surrender.

"The duel is over," Stephen shouted. "Elizabeth won! You can't keep—"

"Stay back, Densmore ," Elizabeth yelled back pointedly. "I'll deal with this knave."

Crump sneered, not appearing the least bit susceptible to being dealt with.

Stephen appealed to Reddington. "Did you not claim to be a man of honor? We agreed to duel to the disarming—"

"That was your suggestion," interrupted Reddington. "His Grace decided Crump shall fight to the second disarming."

"The second… Obviously we meant the first disarming," Stephen exclaimed in exasperation.

"Then you should have said so," Reddington replied, unimpressed.

"Who the devil ever heard of—"

Elizabeth held up her free hand to shush Stephen. Crump had crouched into fighting position, and there was no time to waste on words of outrage that would wash off Reddington like rain.

A man of honor? More like a fairy-tale trickster. If Reddington kept his word, it would be on technicalities. If they did sit down for a negotiation, Elizabeth would have to take uncommon care with her phrasing if she wished to come out ahead.

"All right, Your Grace," she said carefully, measuring each syllable. Such caution was foreign to her. Usually she spoke without thinking and worried about the consequences later. This new twist could prove more dangerous than the armed giant before her. "To the second disarming. But after I do so, we shall have a full week's cease fire before reconvening for a calm, good-faith conversa—"

Crump charged at her.

She leapt from his path just in time, flashing out with her sword to bend his blade—and his wrist—backward. The sword shot from his grasp as Crump stumbled forward out of balance.

Elizabeth landed in a light crouch, her own sword holding fast in her hand.

All right, she landed in a mostly light crouch. A somewhat light crouch. A much-heavier-than-usual crouch, in which one hip was stiffer than the other. Her knee wobbled with warning.

"Not now," she muttered to her flaring joints. "This is not the time."

The other knee gave a twinge of its own. If she held this crouch much longer, her legs would collapse out from under her.

Never show weakness.

"It's over," Stephen shouted. "Elizabeth bested you twice!"

Crump scooped up his sword with obvious fury. He spun to face her, then charged forward with a roar.

This time, he got her.

Not with his blade—that would require competent swordsmanship—but with a full-body tackle, like a raging bull taking down a bunny rabbit.

When Elizabeth's back hit the ground, every bone cried out in protest… and the sword handle slipped from her suddenly sweaty palm.

She plummeted to thirty percent. If she was lucky.

Crump sprang to his feet and beat his fists against his barrel chest. "You dropped your sword! I won!"

"You dropped yours, too," Elizabeth groaned as she forced her flattened limbs into a crawling position. Make that twenty-five percent.

" You didn't make me lose anything," Crump said. "I let go of my weapon because I won."

He scooped up his sword and swung it carelessly, pleased with himself.

She wiped her palms on her skirts, then wrapped her hand around her sword handle and hauled herself to her feet. Twenty percent.

"You didn't win," she spat. "Not only is this supposed to be a sword fight—"

"It's not my fault if you can't lose gracefully."

"—you also insisted on ending the fight after the second disarming. Which I accomplished and you did not. The duel is over, Crump. You lost."

Rather than admit defeat, the giant let out a deafening roar and charged at her all over again.

Elizabeth barely got out of the way in time. Her hip locked and her knees buckled and her sword arm thrust out toward his gracelessly in a last-ditch attempt to—

The blade flew from the giant's hands for a third time. She followed through by slamming the hilt of her sword into Crump's chest, causing him to flail backward.

Pain radiated throughout Elizabeth's body at the impact. Somehow, she remained on her feet. Barely.

Never show weakness.

"There. That's it," she yelled out to the fallen Crump, gasping through the pain. "You lost!"

Red-faced, the giant rose, snatched up his weapon, and stalked away from her without a single polite syllable of goodbye.

It was a good thing. She was a woman teetering on unstable joints and grimacing with repressed agony. A puff of air could disarm her at this point.

She turned toward the castle and concentrated on keeping her feet moving.

"Get back here, young lady," Reddington blared through his speaking trumpet. "You might have bested my soldier, but you shan't best me!"

"Because we're done," she called without turning around. "As a man of honor, Your Grace , you must grant the promised seven days' cease fire, followed by the agreed-upon peaceful negotiation. If you show your face beforehand, I shall interpret it as full capitulation to our complete ownership of this castle."

As Reddington sputtered and shouted new threats behind her, Elizabeth lurched her way back into the castle out of sheer force of will. Reddington's fury faded to nothing.

"He's leaving!" she heard Stephen say as he intercepted her just inside the murder room. "You did it, Elizabeth. I've an entire crate of champagne we can celebrate with. I might even be able to find us a nice—"

She pushed past him, the muscle spasms in her lower back so intense that she could barely keep from vomiting.

"Elizabeth?" he said hesitantly.

"I'm fine," she choked out without stopping.

She wasn't fine. She was at fifteen percent and falling.

"Where are you go—"

She ignored him. All her focus was on putting one leg in front of the other, again and again, until she reached the blessed softness of her mattress.

The floor conspired against her. Every stone was lumpy, every surface too slippery. The stairs looked dark and infinite.

Ten percent and falling.

One foot at a time. Grit your teeth through the pain. Grind them into dust if you must. Showing weakness is how you get tossed aside as worthless. Now the right foot. And then the left. Careful. Don't let the spasms tumble you down the stairs. Hold the wall. It's your hand that's slippery, not the stone. You're drenched in sweat. Cold sweat. And tears. Don't let him see. You're almost there.

Five percent and falling.

"Elizabeth?"

"I said I'm fine," she choked out. "Just tired. I need to rest. I'll see you in the morning. Don't wait for me for breakfast. I might sleep past noon."

Her stomach gurgled. She was definitely going to vomit. She lurched down the corridor, each excruciating step less stable than the one before.

There it was. Her bedchamber. She pushed open her door and banged it shut behind her, locking it with one hand as the sword fell limply from the other and clanged to the stone floor.

Zero percent.

Lights out.