Then a step in the grass made me look up. The Marquis was right in front of me,...

Then a step in the grass made me look up. The Marquis was right in front of me, and he was a lot taller than he looked seated across a campfire. In one hand were the horse's reins, and he held the other hand out in an offer to boost me up. I noticed again that his palm was crossed with calluses, indicating years of swordwork. I grimaced, reluctantly surrendering my image of the Court-bred fop who never lifted anything heavier than a fork.
"Ready?" His voice was the same as always--or almost the same. I tipped my head back to look at his face, instantly suspicious. Despite his compressed lips he was clearly on the verge of laughter.
For a moment I longed, with all my heart, to swing my stick right at his head. My fingers gripped…and his palm turned, just slightly; but I knew a block readying when I saw one. The strong possibility that anything I attempted would lead directly to an ignominious defeat did not improve my mood at all, but I dropped the stick and wiped my hand down the side of my rumpled tunic. Vowing I'd see that smile wiped off his cursed face, I said shortly, "Let's get it over with."
He put his hands on my waist and boosted me up onto the horse--and I couldn't help but notice it didn't take all that much effort. I thought as I winced and gritted my way through arranging my leg much as it had been on the previous ride. …He mounted behind me and we started off, while I indulged myself with the image of grabbing that stick and conking him right across his smiling face.