The Unveiling by Tamara Leigh Read Free Book Online

Had it been taken to the stables? What of the pack containing her scant possessions?
    She curbed her worry with the reminder that neither was of consequence, closed her eyes, and listened to her breathing that, according to Rowan, was the surest way to calm it.
    A cloud moved across the sun, offering sweet reprieve from its heat.
    “You are not very fast,” said a dread voice.
    Not a cloud, but Wulfrith. She peered up at him.
    His eyes were reproachful. “You will have to do better if you are to don armor. Get up.”
    Thinking him every foul name she could call to mind, she staggered upright and followed him to the training field.
    Though those she passed tipped her senses with potent perspiration and made her long to cover her mouth and nose, she suffered through it to the center of the field where quarterstaffs were piled.
    Wulfrith swept one to hand. “Choose.”
    He would test her himself? She ground her teeth. To plant a dagger in him was what she wanted, not to play at fighting.
    “Braose!”
    She grabbed a staff and turned. “You are to train me, my lord?”
    He put a two-handed grip to his quarterstaff. “All start with me. All end with me.”
    “And in between?” She placed her hands too near as Jame Braose might do.
    Wulfrith’s gaze fell to them. “When you have proven yourself worthy to train at Wulfen, you will be assigned a knight to serve.” He stepped forward, gripped her right hand, and pushed it down the quarterstaff.
    His touch jolted, and it was all she could do not to wrench away.
    “Hold it so.” He jutted his chin. “Now show whether you are a boy or a man.” He raised his staff, lunged, and was on her before she could counter.
    She bent beneath the blow to her shoulder and grunted out her pain. Though Wulfrith had surely exercised restraint, it was not gratitude she felt but a deepening desire for revenge.
    “Not worthy,” he taunted. “Come again.”
    Forgetting the inexperienced young man she was, she lunged.
    This time their staffs met at center, but as Annyn congratulated herself on deflecting his blow, he arced his staff and slammed it against the knuckles of her left hand.
    She cried out, loosed the quarterstaff, and hugged her throbbing hand to her chest.
    Curse his black soul! Curse his loins that they might never render forth another like him. Curse—
    “Not worthy. Arm yourself!”
    She retrieved the staff, fended off his next assault, and became the attacker. The staffs crashed between them, but Wulfrith was solid. Nearly chest to chest with him, assailed by his strong, masculine scent, she looked up.
    He looked down. “Not worthy. You fight like a girl.”
    Fanned by the hot breath of revelation, Annyn forgot her pain. Did she fight like a girl? Did he see Annyn Bretanne? Or was this part of her training? Surely the latter, for she hardly fought like a girl. Indeed, she had forgotten Jame Braose and put Rowan’s training to good use.
    “I fear I am at a disadvantage, my lord, for surely you are two of me.”
    His lips curled. “Mayhap three.” He thrust her back.
    Affecting the untried person of Jame Braose, she staggered before coming at him again. However, further pretense was unnecessary when next their staffs met. For all of Annyn’s training, her skill was as water to his wine.
    He turned his staff, met hers, pushed back, met again, pushed again, and knocked her so hard to the ground that the staff flew out of her hands.
    Bottling her cry of pain, Annyn dropped her head back and showed him her hate.
    “We will use that,” he said. “Anger makes a man strong.”
    As it was said to make him strong?
    “You but need to learn when to use it and to what degree, little priest.”
    His reminder of who Jame Braose was cooled her expression of hatred.
    “Now the pel.” He turned.
    The pel? And what else?
    As Annyn rose, she saw the field had emptied. Gauging by the lowering sun, the supper hour neared. And she was alone with Wulfrith—of certain advantage were