Anna caught her breath and made to run, but the knight seized her around the waist, lifting her feet from her ground. She aimed a kick at him, but he anticipated the move. Her fear rose that she was at his mercy.
To her surprise, he wrestled the crossbow from her grip, then flung her aside. He took a bolt from his own belt and cocked the bow, moving with such surety that his gaze never wavered from hers. Too late she saw that there was a hook on his belt, and realized that he was an archer himself. He aimed it at her—her own bow—then smiled with wretched confidence in his own skills.
“Where?” he murmured, the single word hanging in the air between them on a breath of vapor.
“I will never tell,” she growled and took a step back even as her thoughts flew. She could dive into the river and swim to the cave. If he shot at her, he might miss, and it would take time for him to load another bolt.
She met his gaze and saw the resolve in his eyes. His thumb was on the release. “I do not want to kill you, boy,” he said softly. “But I want Duncan’s property returned.”
Boy. He thought she was a boy. Of course. If he knew her sex, would he spare her?
Or would he abuse her? Fear quivered in Anna’s belly.
The surprise might slow his reaction. She had to gamble upon that.
“Boy?” Anna echoed in challenge and saw his confusion. She smiled at him as she reached up and tugged off her hood, shaking out her hair so that it fell over her shoulders. She saw his eyes light with surprise, but did not give him time to recover.
It was a fleeting advantage, after all.
Instead, she dove into the pool of the river beyond the rocks and let herself sink below the surface. She could hold her breath a long time, and though the water was fiercely cold, she did just that. Anna swam into the hollow by the opposite bank, where she had hidden to surprise Percy the previous summer and waited. When her chest felt fit to burst for lack of air, she slowly rose to the surface, knowing she would be concealed behind the ice at the banks.
There was no sign of the knight on the opposite side of the stream.
Anna had learned to be wary of him, though. He was stealthy and possessed of a rare cunning. She remained still and watchful, certain he had not abandoned the chase. He would reveal himself, she was certain, and if it was a question of patience as to who was revealed first, she could wait him out.
He was noble and a knight, after all, and Anna knew such men had naught of merit in their veins.
*
She was gone, as surely as if she had vanished into the air.
Bartholomew knew better. He stood silently and waited. No person could vanish. No person could hold their breath forever. Sooner or later, the surface of the stream would ripple and he would spy his prey.
While he waited, he marveled.
He had been convinced that he pursued a boy.
His prey had been quick, that was for certain, and agile as well. Bartholomew was fast on his feet, but he had been hard-pressed to close the distance between them. The boy clearly knew the forest well, and all its hidden pathways. If not for the snow and the contrast of the boy’s dark clothing against it, Bartholomew might have lost him completely. Where the snow had been blown aside or melted into mud, it was a challenge to keep sight of him. He ran quietly, too, making little sound even on the dried leaves underfoot.
There was no doubt about it: this boy and his companion had stolen before and were well practiced in their trade. Bartholomew might have felt sorry for them, if they had stolen out of hunger, or even granted them coin out of compassion, but they could not abscond with the precious reliquary entrusted to the party.
He had to retrieve Duncan’s saddlebag.
When the boy had started to cross the river, Bartholomew had anticipated his destination, doubled back and reached that point before his prey. He had not expected an easy triumph, but neither had he expected to be so surprised by the boy’s removal of his cap.
And the spilling of long chestnut hair. The sight of that gleaming curtain of hair had changed his perception immediately. In that moment, Bartholomew saw how slender the “boy” was, how finely boned the hands and face. He could explain the curve he had felt upon seizing his prey, for it was not some bundle as he had anticipated.
It had been her breast.
She had clearly delighted in his astonishment, then taken advantage of either that or his chivalry to escape anew. Diving into the stream was folly in this season, to be sure, and Bartholomew knew he would have to ensure that she was warm and dry when she finally emerged. His reaction to her became protective, courtesy of that glimpse, and he realized that he was prepared to give greater heed to her side of the story.
It was shocking to realize how a pretty face, even a dirty one, could so affect his thinking.
Still there was no sign of her. He crouched and scanned the surface again, cursing that the moon was too low to grant much illumination.
She might have planned as much. Why else wait until this hour to strike? Certainly, she and her accomplice had not just happened upon his party.
Had they been followed for long? Bartholomew could not credit it, though he knew that Duncan had been convinced all the way from Paris that some soul pursued them. She had looked too poor and too much a resident of the forest to have followed them from much distance. Also she had no steed.
