Reluctantly, the outlaws drew back, the bodyguards most reluctantly of all, leaving a bare circle of ground fifty feet across with Geoffrey standing near its center.  Quicksilver stepped out in a fighter's crouch, sword in both hands, and began to prowl about him.  Geoffrey caught his breath; she was a magnificent figure, red gold in the sunlight, her movements fluid and sinuous.  Geoffrey watched her as a good warrior should, trying to watch her whole body but still notice every slightest movement - and notice them he did, for something within him thrilled to each tiniest quiver.  He had heard it said that it was the female's movement that caught the male's eye, and if that was so, this was certainly the most intensely feminine being he had ever seen.

But she was a feminine being with a sword, and its edge was whetted and glittering.

Finally, Geoffrey realized that she had no intention of sriking the first blow - she would wait for him to do so, try to take advantage of any opening he might reveal.  Well that was fine with him - he was more than glad to wait, too, and watch her move.

It must have shown in his face, for she flushed, then suddenly struck in a blinding blur of swordcuts, hammering and pounding at him from every angle with unbelievable speed.  He retreated a couple of steps, stunned by her skill, struck by the beauty and precision of her attack.  He pried every cut, of course, but had no time to riposte until she leaped back, eyes smouldering, sword at the ready, breast heaving with the exertion.  He stared, and knew, with a sinking heart, that he could not possibly risk hurting this gorgeous creature.

Then she was on him again, so quickly that he scarcely saw her advance, only knew that her blows were raining about him again, so that he seemed to be inside a smithy, inside the anvil itself, with a hail of blows clanging about him.  This time she did not leap back, but stayed and kept slashing and cutting.  The technique worked; he parried every cut, but some by a very narrow margin, and when she finally leaped back with a cry of satisfaction, he knew she had struck first blood.

She was easily the most skilled opponent he had ever met with a sword.  He had fought stronger, but what she lacked in strength, she made up for in speed and deftness - and precision.  "You are excellent," he breathed.

She must have known how he meant it, that he meant it in every way, for she blushed and snapped, "Come, sir, where is your skill?  Where is the vaunted swordsmanship of Geoffrey Gallowglass?  Can you not match me blow for blow?"