Chapter 7
One week. Désirée had been interim governess for one week. After placing an advert the morning after she and Jack had almost kissed, they had been assiduously avoiding each other ever since out of self-preservation.
Keeping out of temptation’s reach seemed the only sure way to stay out of each other’s arms.
Yesterday was Sunday. Her first “free” day. She had spent every moment of it with her brothers in the hope that keeping Jack out of sight meant he would also stay out of mind.
It had not worked.
Today she was back to work. Breakfast at eight, lessons at nine. Unfortunately, it was half past six and she hadn’t slept a single moment all night.
Out of pity for Hester, her borrowed lady’s maid, Désirée had washed and dressed herself and brushed her own hair. Restless, she tiptoed out of her room and down the stairs to the garden door at the rear of the cottage. A brisk, restorative walk in the early autumn air would be just the thing.
A distantwhizzzzz…thunkcaught her attention. It almost sounded as though someone was shooting arrows just beyond the trees.
She crept forward to investigate who on earth would be out here practicing archery at dawn.
Who, it turned out, was Jack Skeffington. Despite the cool weather, his greatcoat was tossed carelessly atop a large rock, and his shirtsleeves billowed piratically in the wind.
He was not, however, practicing archery. An impressive pile of knives teetered atop a flat stone. One by one, he picked up each blade and hurled it across the stream to an evergreen opposite. A pile of spent knives grew at the foot of the trunk as each new throw knocked the previous blade from its perch.
She should leave. If the knives didn’t scare her, Jack’s taut, muscular, semi-undressed body definitely should. Yet her legs stepped forward rather than run away.
A twig snapped beneath her feet.
Jack turned, presumably startled, although the blade sailing from his fingers arced perfectly to the precise spot on the same tree as all the others.
“Did I wake you?” he asked.
Désirée shook her head. He could not wake her. Thoughts of him had prevented her from sleeping in the first place.
She stepped closer. “What are you doing?”
“Throwing knives.” A slow, mischievous smile curved his lips. “Want to try?”
Her brothers would murder her.
“Yes. Absolutely.” She hurried to his side, and stared doubtfully from the pile of sharp blades to the suddenly impossibly distant evergreen on the other side of the stream.
He handed her a knife, then demonstrated with his own. “Hold the handle like this. Relax your stance. Right foot forward, left behind. Straight spine. Mind the spin. If your knife falls in the water, you have to fetch it.”
She swallowed. “Should I perhaps practice on a closer tree?”
“Distance first, accuracy second. It doesn’t matter how straight your aim if your weapon cannot reach its mark.”
“‘Mark’ meaning someone’s chest?”
“'Tis better to aim for the eyes,” he suggested helpfully. “The heart is stuck behind so many meddlesome ribs, your blade is as likely to glance harmlessly off the bone as pierce into a ventricle.”
“‘Harmlessly,’” she repeated. “We wouldn’t want that.”
“Shoulders back. Suck in your stomach. Mind your hips.” He stepped behind her to help nudge her elbow and shoulders into place. “Think about yourpower. When the knife leaves your hand, keep throwing. Don’t limit the momentum.”
She hurled the knife with all her might.
The blade cleared the stream. Désirée stumbled forward. The knife knocked into the base of the wrong tree, handle first, several feet closer than the evergreen she’d meant to hit. A rush of excitement like no other flooded her veins.
She shoved a windblown hunk of hair out of her eyes and spun to face Jack, bouncing on her toes in excitement. “Can I try again?”
