What the hell? How had it gotten to this point? He wanted badly to tell her that he had no intention of liking whomever Alice sent out to him, but couldn’t think of a way to say that without sounding horribly churlish. Instead, he addressed the more important issue. “No, I don’t mind. You touching me, that is. Christ, that sounds risqué.” He took a couple of deep breaths, adding, “Well, that just made it worse. Maybe you’re right. Maybe we should start over.”
“Can’t do that.” She glanced at her watch, made atsking noise, and collected up all the papers that had spilled onto the floor. “Ack, it’s been an hour already. Fenice is expecting me.”
“Why can’t we start over?” Alden asked, more because he wanted to see what Mercy would say than because he really wished to erase the last few minutes.
“Because I’ve already kissed you, and once you kiss someone, there’s no going back. Would you mind moving your left foot? Thank you.”
“I don’t...” He moved aside, bending to help her collect the papers and books. “I’m not... this woman who is coming isn’t someone I’m involved with.”
“Gotcha.” She tidied up the now teeming stacks of papers and books on the rickety card table. “I know how it is when you just meet someone, and it takes time for things to warm up. Gotta run. Fenice had to deal with a guy who brought a bunch of bales of hay, and we didn’t get to finish having our talk about archery.”
“Hay?” he asked, rubbing his chin as she hurried around him and opened the French doors. “Archery? Wait, do you mean she’s having hay delivered to my garden? My nice, orderly garden?”
His voice echoed slightly in the empty room. Mercy was gone, jogging down the gravel path toward the back of the house, waving good-bye as she did so.
He sighed and sat back down in the chair, absently rubbing the spot on his cheek she had kissed, and wondering if the day would ever come when he could talk to a woman like a normal man. A piece of paper fluttered to the floor, and he picked it up, absently smoothing it out. It was a letter from the late baron to Sybilla.
A little smile curled Alden’s lips.
Chapter 5
“Oh, there she is. Mercy, come meet Patrick.” Fenice waved me over as soon as she saw me trot down the stairs into the garden. “He’s late, which surprises no one, I’m sure, but at least he made it here.”
“In one piece, which is more than I can say for you,” her brother replied, poking at her arm before he turned and flashed a megawatt smile at me. He even executed a fancy bow, saying, “The name is Vandal, and the pleasure is all mine, milady Mercedes. Welcome to Hard Day’s Knights.”
“Hi,” I said, wanting to giggle at his Renaissance Faire roguish persona, but decided that might be rude. So instead, I bobbed a little curtsy. “It’s nice to meet you in person.”
“It is, indeed.” His eyebrows waggled, but he turnedback to Fenice when she whapped him with her good arm. “What for are you beating me, sister mine?”
“We were having a discussion about what to do with the new owner. Stop flirting with Mercy and focus.”
I had to admit, Vandal wasn’t hard on the eyes in any way. He was of a medium build—wiry, but not hipster thin—and tall, taller than Alden, who was just a few inches above my height. He had long hair midway down his back, which was tied back with a leather thong, and narrow, high cheekbones that made me think of Vikings.
“I told you that there was nothing to worry about,” Vandal said while I was giving him the visual once-over. “We have a contract, signed and sealed, and nothing this new bloke can do will break it. Stop fussing about that and tell me what the hell we’re going to do for an archery instructor since you’ve gone and broken your collarbone.”
“Actually, I was going to talk to you about that, Fenice,” I said quickly, before she could reply. “If all you need is someone to teach kids how to use a bow and arrow, I can do that.”
They both turned to me, surprise etched on their faces. “You can?” Fenice asked, frowning a little. “You’re an archer?”
“Well... I did do two and a half years of a phys ed degree at a university in Oregon, and spent a year on the longbow archery team. I can use a crossbow, too, although I’m not as good with it as I am the longbow.”
“What draw weight?” Fenice asked.
“Oh, I can do seventy, but I’m more accurate at forty-five.”
“She’s an archer,” Fenice said to Vandal, relief filling her voice. “Bless the goddess, she’s a real archer.”
“A longbow archer yet, none of that moderncompound-bow business. It does seem most propitious,” Vandal answered, giving me a thoughtful look. “Why don’t we try you out on Fen’s bow and see how you do?”
I murmured something about not wanting to use a valuable bow, but Fenice waved it away, and the three of us moved over to the far side of the garden where a couple of archery butts had been placed. There were also three large plastic bins containing what I imagined were the bows and arrows intended for instructional use. Fenice reached behind the pyramid of bins and pulled out a beautifully embossed leather quiver and a canvas case that obviously held a bow.
“I won’t let you use Eloise—she’s my competition bow, and was custom-made for me by one of the best bow makers in Europe—but you can use Tarantella.” Fenice pulled out a lovely hickory bow about six feet long, and handed it to me.
I balanced it on my palm for a second, then firmly grasped the jute cording that had been wrapped around the center of the bow as a grip, and extended my arm. With my right hand, I used my middle three fingers, and pulled the string back to my cheek, holding it for a few seconds before letting my fingers relax. The string slipped past them, twanging a sharp, high note.
“Nice bow,” I told Fenice, accepting the quiver she held out to me. I slipped one of the arrows out, and locked it on the bow, feeling more than a little cocky. I silently recited my shooting mantra (Turn arm down; turn palm up), grasped the string, and, with the traditional swooping move upward, brought the string back to the far corner of my mouth while slowly lowering the bow until I had the target in sight. “Now let’s see if I can hit a bull’s-eye right off the... ow!”
I had let my fingers relax before I finished my sentence, causing the arrow to sail off, and unfortunately getting a nasty case of string slap on the arm holding the bow.
