Cates, Kimberly Read Online Free Page A

me Sabrehawk. Perhaps you've heard of me?"
    "Sabrehawk? The Prince of Sin!" a carrot-topped sailor crowed. "Stand back, boys! He'll pluck this pigeon right enough!"
    Juliet stumbled backward, feeling as if this crowd had summoned up the very devil to pit against her. She brandished the parasol, doubting she could move this mountain of a man if she fired a cannon square into that impossibly broad chest. "Don't make me hurt you!" The words were absurd, and she knew it.
    Twin devil's danced in the man's eyes, the sensual fullness of his mouth curving in an arrogant grin. One that told her exactly what he thought of her—that she was about as threatening as a half-drowned kitten, and someone should grab her by the scruff of the neck and deliver her back to her mama.
    The insufferable cur glanced about, feigning knee-knocking terror. "Oh, Avenging Angel, I humbly beg your mercy."
    A rare flash of temper surged in a crimson haze. Juliet swung the parasol at him with all her might. She didn't even see his hand flash out, but in a heartbeat, the parasol splintered, a cascade of broken sticks and crumpled lace, caught midswing in one bearlike hand.
    "Ah, you see, a perfect example of the problem," the barbarian said, tugging the carved ivory handle from her fingers and flinging the ruined parasol to the ground. "Your parries are competent enough, but your thrusts leave a great deal to be desired." He shot a broad wink at the men behind him. "If you would allow me to demonstrate?"
    "His thrusts! Aye, man! Show 'er yer thrusts, Sabrehawk!" Someone in the crowd chortled with glee.
    He swung around, and Juliet gasped as a sword appeared as if by sorcery, the naked blade a slash of silver against the night. The crowd gasped, scrambling back until only Percival stood there, slack-jawed, his sword-stick in his hand. "What the devil?"
    "I thought we agreed that someone needed to take her in hand," the barbarian said with silky menace. "I'm afraid yours are so filthy they'd soil that lovely white skin." Those black eyes angled a wry glance at Juliet. "Now, my sweet, nobody should be allowed to swing a weapon so poorly. Even when that weapon is a parasol. When an enemy attacks, you want to defend yourself, yes. But it's far better to put him on the defensive. Like so." Quicksilver, the sword lashed out, catching the tip of Percival's blade, knocking it aside.
    A yelp of anger came from the officer's throat, and he leapt back, sword at the ready, teeth bared. "What are you doing, you bloody idiot?"
    "Giving the lady a lesson in swordsmanship," he said. "And making a fool out of you, Percival. Though I must admit, it's hardly a challenge."
    "I'll ram your words down your throat for that!" Percival charged, sword slashing, a cruel gleam in his eye. The man fought with far more fury than finesse, blinded by rage at his humiliation. But he might as well have attempted to hack down a mighty oak with a wisp of straw.
    The barbarian met his attack with a bored elegance designed to make him furious. "Observe," he said. "Drive your opponent back. Quinte pointe, pointe tierce. Or perhaps quatre, thus."
    The blade darted, taunted, tormented Percival, the man's jowly face turning red, sweat beading his brow. The knot of his neckcloth was ripped away by a quick thrust, leaving a tiny gash in its wake, the top button of his breeches tore beneath the blade's sting, a lock of hair was snipped by the gleaming metal edge, leaving Percival looking like a strangely shorn dog.
    Juliet's mouth gaped open as this Sabrehawk engaged in this most deadly dance, his movements holding the wild fascination of watching storm waves crash against cliffs.
    She could see the instant the realization struck the officer's drink-numbed brain—he had trifled with a master swordsman. One who could kill him at will. The face that had been so hungry for revenge upon Juliet now contorted in very real fear.
    "Of course, you may prolong the battle as long as you enjoy it," the barbarian