And now Richard Sharpe was a hypocrite. For he'd told her to treat practice as the real thing while clearly not doing her the kind favour in return of treating her as a genuine threat. Here he was, deep in someone else's defenses, and he hadn't bothered to parry his way out or even shove her away. For all intents and purposes of the demonstration, she had been 'killed' -- a threat dispatched.

So the last blow caught him by surprise -- it jammed into his gut and, although he didn't fall, he did at least double over. Winded. One arm clutched his belly and he growled some very blue words, ending with: "Buggeritchristyousackofsh--" She's a woman, Sharpe. He huffed a wordless finale and stood up straight once again.

Although he wasn't smiling, he was at least vaguely impressed. He never looked down on a person for fighting dirty; most days, it was the only way you could reliably get ahead.