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street urchin. How wrong they were. He was a master of an art she was in awe of.
    She arrived for class and began to stretch like the other students. Her uniform consisted of a baggy pair of pants that ended at her ankles and a tunic top. There was nothing else to the uniform, so she’d taken to wearing a camisole beneath it to support her breasts. A corset was out of the question because the fighting form required twisting and bending.
    At least the preparation for class was something she knew how to do. Her father had sent her and her sister off to ballet class for many years to ensure they learned to move gracefully. Her father would certainly be surprised to see how she was using her flexibility now.
    For just a moment, she indulged herself and let her father’s face remain in the center of her thoughts. But a moment later, Grainger’s face rose from her memories to torment her with just how she had been separated from her family. She shook her head to clear her thoughts. The master instructor wasn’t just accomplished in the art he taught; the man could spot anyone daydreaming in his class.
    And he had very creative ways of helping his students recover their focus.
    But her attention wandered once again when Bion entered the room. He stopped at the edge of the hardwood floor that made up the instruction area and bowed respectfully toward the master. He was wearing the same clothing she was, but he didn’t need his uniform to look like a captain. The man simply did not blend in with the rest of the students. He looked far too confident.
    Suspicion tingled along her nape as she watched him move to the front of the room and bow to the master once more. The class was called to order, saving her from her curiosity. Students lined up according to rank, leaving her at the back of the room. Bion remained in the front row as they began their first exercise. The pace of the class was demanding, and it required all of her attention. It suited her mood and she applied herself vigorously to the hour of training. Maybe exhaustion would help her sleep in spite of her confrontation with Grainger. Her uniform became saturated with perspiration and her hair was wet with it when it came time to bow and end the class.
    “Miss Stevenson, remain for the second hour of instruction.”
    The master’s command stunned her because only advanced students were invited to the next class, where the basic moves she was practicing were applied to a live opponent. But no one argued with the master.
    “Yes, sir,” she replied with a quick bow. She fought the urge to look over at Bion. The master was not a man influenced by others often, but she had to admit that she had no idea what manner of relationship Bion had with him.
    She tried to shake off her feelings, because once again she was far too close to pitying herself, which wouldn’t do. Maybe she was separated from her family until her novitiate ended, but she would not disgrace them by failing to face a challenge head-on. That was the Stevenson way, the Irish blood in them. She could hear her father’s booming voice rising up from her memory as he lectured her brothers about never forgetting that the Stevensons were strong enough to weather any storm. She leveled her chin before facing the master.
    “Today, we shall put to test what you have learned.”
    She bowed, not really understanding, although her belly was balled up with apprehension.
    “You have been learning how to shift your weight and use knowledge to defeat your opponent.”
    Bion moved closer, making her struggle to keep her eyes on the master. Heat radiated from him, the kind that you could detect even after the fire had been reduced to ashes, the bricks of the fireplace warming your hands for hours.
    He warms your temper, sure enough.
    “Today, I wish to challenge you with more than practicing against an imaginary opponent,” the Master continued.
    She lost the battle to keep her gaze away from Bion and cut a quick look