Just in Time for a Highlander by Gwyn Cready Page A

to back his instructor into a corner in the heat of an encounter. Doing his moves with a wooden sword while Abby appraised him felt very different. With some trepidation, he withdrew his blade and angled himself into the en garde position.
    “This would be better if I had someone to fight,” he said.
    “Perhaps we can arrange that. But for now, please, just begin.”
    Soles flat and body carefully balanced between his feet, Duncan advanced and retreated. The wooden sword was, of course, weighted differently from the fencing saber he used in class, but the principles were the same: Loose but controlled grip, point angled slightly downward. Non-sword hand in the air for increased agility. Eyes focused in the middle distance but alert to tiny movements at the edge of one’s vision that betray an opponent’s next move.
    He advanced, retreated, and jump lunged, followed quickly by an advance, retreat, and flèche. With each movement, the familiar sense of mastery increased. He thought of her father refusing to teach her to use a sword and wondered if he might be the man to open this world to her.
    He extended his attack over a wider area, thrusting his sword left and right with a graceful ease. With a beautiful crossover, he turned his line of attack ninety degrees and prepared for a beautiful—
    Thump!
    The sword flew from his hand and hit the chapel steps.
    Like an eighteenth-century Babe Ruth, Abby recovered from her swing and ran a finger along the length of her bow, searching for damage. “I think,” she said flatly, “you may need a bit of polishing.”
    “You wouldna have done that had my blade been steel.”
    “No. You’re right. In that case, I would have put an arrow through your heart when you turned your back. You need to learn to fight. ’Tis nothing to be ashamed of, MacHarg. No man is born with the knowledge of it. How do you think the lads learn?”
    He had a sudden vision of himself standing a head above a class of preteen boys. After coming into possession of a small upright piano courtesy of a moving neighbor, Duncan’s mother had forced him to take lessons at age fifteen. He remembered the abject shame of performing in a recital alongside schoolkids who had learned much faster and played much better than he did. He had no wish to repeat the experience.
    He shook his head. “No.”
    “I know just the teacher.”
    The nightmare re-formed in his head, and instead of being outgunned by a bunch of kids, Duncan stood before Rosston as he explained the proper grip in the sort of tone one reserves for half-wits and five-year-olds.
    “ No . I have all the skills I need.”
    She stared, eyes blazing. “Then our effort is at an end, MacHarg. I need a strong arm, not a dead one. My steward will provide you with your wages, and I will tell Sir Alan a family matter in the north required your attention.”
    The prospect of being cast off in the borderlands brought him back to the reality of his situation abruptly. He couldn’t survive, and, worse, he would lose his one chance to show Abby how much he could help her.
    She was already climbing the rise, and Duncan had to jog to catch up. “Wait. I’ve changed my mind.”
    “I canna teach a man who dinna wish to learn.”
    “I want to learn! I swear I want to learn!”
    She turned. “You will do as I say when I say it, aye? And you will learn to do it before I say it?”
    “Yes.”
    “Then get down on your knees, and make your oath to me. I am your chieftess and master.”
    He fell to his knees, bowed as much by her words as by the force of her will. “What do I say?”
    “The words must come from you.”
    Duncan had never made an oath. He’d grown up in the Presbyterian Church, which seemed to require nothing more than regular attendance and some careful listening. He’d never been a scout or a fraternity brother, or even a husband. He’d never promised anyone anything. How had he gotten to be thirty years old without making a promise to something