Kit didn't know whether to be angry or scared out of his mind. "You'll get that chance. When I think you're ready."

For a moment she just sat there, breathing hard. Tears welled up and spilled down her cheeks. Then, in a low, hurt voice, she said, "I'm not hungry any more. I'll think I'll go study!"

She fled past a whole line of waiting tourists who gaped after her. Kit cursed under his breath and shoved back his chair. Arley met him halfway to the door.

"Trouble?"

Kit nodded tightly. "Cancel our orders, would you? Put it on my bill."

"She's young, Kit."

"That's no excuse. The universe doesn't give a damn when it squashes you."

Arley let him go without further attempts at sympathy. Kit headed for the library. He had to make her understand. After London-and St. Giles-he'd hoped... But all she saw was the need to study fighting techniques, not the history and languages to help avoid the fight in the first place. She clearly understood the tactical advantage of invisibility but wasn't thinking of knowledge as one way to achieve it.

Scouting was a career men spent years--sometimes decades -- preparing for, only to run into trouble anyway because they slipped up on some tiny, seemingly insignificant detail. He had to make her understand that, make her understand she simply must take the necessary time to prepare for it.

Otherwise, he'd lose her just as surely as he'd lost Sarah.

Kit was barreling around the corner past LI's Antiquities when a sixth sense lifted the hairs on the back of his neck. He jerked his gaze up -- and tracked the lethal swing of a heavy wooden croquet mallet straight toward his skull.

Kit swept his right arm upward by instinct, deflecting the blow at the expense of pain like an electric shock straight to the bone. He leaned away even as he swept the mallet aside. The thick wooden head narrowly missed his temple, lifting hair with the wind of its passage. Kit stepped forward with his left foot, turning with the sweep. He shoved the croquet mallet down and shoved his attacker's face straight into the wall. Both the mallet and someone's skull went CRACK against concrete.

A howl of pain reached him. Kit jumped clear. His arm ached, the ache becoming a relentless throb within seconds. He cradled it to his chest and felt for fractures he hoped he wouldn't find. Then his attacker staggered back from the wall.

Aw, nuts....

The Welshman.

"Coward!" Kynan Rhys Gower spat at him. "Filthy dog!"

The Welshman came at him again, mallet raised over his head in a classic attack position. Kit, one arm all but useless, saw no other choice. He threw a sidekick straight into the onrushing Welshman's hips. The blow caught him just above the pubic bone. Kynan Rhys Gower folded up with an ugly sound The mallet whistled just above Kit's back.

Kit recovered his balance while the Welshman struggled to regain his feet.

"Can't we talk about this?" Kit gasped, using Kynan's native language. Where in hell did he get a croquet mallet?

For answer, Kynan swept that damned mallet up and sideways. Kit couldn't get out of the way in time, although he twisted into a pretzel trying. He felt ribs crunch. The whole Commons greyed out for a moment while his voice did some creative sound effects.

Fortunately, Kynan Rhys Gower was still off balance and staggering from that blow to the hips. That allowed Kit to recover while the Welshman was still drawing the mallet back for the next try.

Okay, that's it ....

Time for a quick coup de grace to end this nonsense.

Kit attacked first. In one swift motion, he swept the mallet back with one arm then threw a shoulder blow into the Welshman's ribcage. His whole weight hit just below Kynan's raised arm. He felt ribs crack again, but this time they weren't his. A shock of pain jolted through his own broken ribs anyway. Kynan howled and tried to fend him off with the mallet.

Kit grabbed the heavy wooden head and pulled sharply, then slammed Kynan's straightened elbow and shoved back on the mallet. Kynan gasped in pain. Then, with a circular sweep, push, and snatch, Kit simply jerked the makeshift weapon away.

Kynan was left blinking in pain and surprise, disarmed before he quite knew what had happened.

"Now look," Kit wheezed, "I don't know what your problem is ... and I'm not a vindictive guy..."

Kynan started to spring at him, fingers curved into claws ready to gouge whatever they found.

"...ut 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.

"That woman," he hissed, "is my grandchild. You tried to kill her-after she was wounded trying to save a child from that damned French warhorse! I was not laughing at you! I wasn't even thinking about you! I .was smiling in sheer relief because she would not lose the use of her leg."

Kynan Rhys Gower looked suddenly doubtful, which was small consolation considering how close he'd come to killing Kit.

Kit tapped Kynan's chest with the mallet. "Is it not bad enough you attacked a lady? Now you take offense where none was given and try to murder a man who has been wronged in his own kin by you!"

"Shut up and listen! I didn't `permit' anyone to humiliate you, much less Margo. I wasn't even there when you attacked her. You had better get used to a few new ideas, Kynan Rhys Gower. And the first one is this: women here are perfectly capable of protecting themselves when knaves rush at them with war hammers."

Kynan compressed his lips. "Knave, is it?"

Kit swore under his breath. "What would you call a man who attacked a girl barely eighteen. a girl already cut so badly her leg had to be sewn together-then tried to break a man's skull rather than call him out fairly to ask satisfaction-or at least an explanation?"

Kynan didn't answer. Not that Kit actually expected him to, but Kit always tried reasoning with people whenever circumstances permitted. Unfortunately, some people simply wouldn't be reasoned with. Kit was abruptly disgusted with the whole situation, including his own anger. If he'd dared trust the Welshman, he'd have left Kynan sitting on his backside in the middle of the Commons.