” . . but this has got to stop . . “
Kit swept the croquet mallet around and hit Kynan’s ankle on the “funny spot” just hard enough for the desired effect, but without the force to break it. Kynan gave out a strangled gasp and grabbed for his ankle. Kit shoved gently on his chest. He went down with a sound like a hurt child.
”Oww …”
Kit held the mallet in an easy grip, standing near enough to strike a lethal blow if he wanted. Kynan sat on the concrete floor, holding his ankle, trying to hold his ribcage, and met his gaze. Clearly, he knew he was at Kit’s mercy
Equally clearly, he expected to die.
Pity swept away Kit’s rage. He drew several deep, calming breaths. “Do you yield?” he asked quietly
Surprise flickered through Kynan’s eyes. He blinked uncertainly. But he didn’t answer.
”I’d like to know why you tried to murder me.”
That prompted an answer. “No man laughs at Kynan Rhys Gower and lives! You’ve taken my honor, my soul …. Curse you! Take my life and let this hell end!”
Try as he could, Kit couldn’t recall anything the Welshman might have construed as being laughed at. “What are you talking about? When did I rob you of your honor? When did I laugh at you?”
Kynan’s glance might have sent another man back a step. Kit held his ground, prompting Kynan to drop his gaze.
”You permitted the woman to humiliate me,” he muttered. “Then you grinned like the gibbering blackguard you are when I was helpless against four!”
Kit was utterly baffled. He’d come in on the very tail end of that fight-how could he have allowed anyone to humiliate this man, when he hadn’t even been there? In fact, he could identify only one instant Kynan could possibly be referring to. When realization sank home, Kit very nearly swung the mallet at his thick, medieval skull. If his ribs hadn’t ached so fiercely, he might have.