He held his breath when she'd resettled, and again now when her hands smooth against his chest, warm skin and the roll of cooler metal. It's released when he laughs, quiet and husky, and says, as if to assure her, "A rapier," as he slides his hands further along her sides, encouraging her leaning in.

"It's not very good at leaving behind scars," Loxley says, his fingers following along the creases of linen that wrap around her. "At least, not like these. It's extremely good at running people through at arms length, however," ah, there, tugging free one of the loose linen ends, "and assisting in the business of rescuing damsels."

He unwinds the linens, lazy patience, letting it loosen and fall away.

Broad palmed, his hands smoothing up along her sides again, now teasing along the curve of her breast with his thumb. "I've learned no lessons about staying away from women who wield lances."