A Marriage of Swords
He was taller up close, the morning light carving the sharp angles of his face.
He stopped a few feet away, his gaze dropping to the practice sword, then traveling up her form in the leathers. It was not a leering look; it was an appraisal, cool and thorough. She felt strangely more exposed than she had in the ridiculous sapphire gown.
"You lied," he stated.
"You assumed," she countered. "There's a difference. My father said 'act like a lady.' He didn't say be one. This," she gestured to herself with the sword, "is who I am. The rest is costume."