At least not one he could see. Who was to say where she had hidden her various treasures away? And who was the other one? Was he truly a boy? Where had he gone with the saddlebag? Bartholomew frowned, convinced as he was that this one knew the other’s destination. He would wait.
Was that a ripple on the surface on the far side of the stream? The bank overshadowed the water there, but it seemed to Bartholomew that that the ice was disturbed. It was too dark to be certain. He eased closer, watching.
She emerged suddenly and took a gasping breath, her horror clear in her expression when she spied him. She made to climb the opposite bank, her movements slow given the weight of her wet garb. Her agitation was so obvious that Bartholomew felt some compassion for her.
But not enough to let her evade him. He leapt the stream and seized her, hauling her out of the water. He shed his cloak and wrapped it around her tightly, seeing that her complexion was already pale. “Where has he gone?” he demanded.
She glanced over her shoulder, clearly considering the merit of making a confession. He was glad she did not dwell on the matter overlong. “Where is my bow?”
“There. And it is mine now.”
“Yours?” Her eyes snapped in outrage. “You have no right…”
“Just as you had no right to take Duncan’s saddlebag.”
Her eyes narrowed as she assessed him, and Bartholomew held tightly to her upper arms. “I will trade you,” she offered with a boldness he thought undeserved.
“Trade me?” Bartholomew echoed. “You have stolen from me, yet I have just ensured that you will survive this night. You owe me and twice over. I see no reason to return your bow, for you have little to offer in exchange.”
“I did not steal from you…”
“But the boy did and you are allied together.”
Her lips thinned and her gaze turned mutinous. “You did not save me…” she began with scorn.
“You had trouble making the bank, and you are chilled to your marrow. Without this cloak, you would catch a chill and that might be fatal.” He arched a brow and did not loosen his grip upon her upper arms. “Indeed you might still fall ill.”
“My disposition is most strong,” she said hotly. “I owe naught to you and your kind…”
“Then I will take my cloak back and leave you to yourself.”
She clutched it tightly and glared at him. “Itiswarm.”
“And?”
“And what?”
“And you should thank me for so graciously sharing it with you.”
“Graciously?” She laughed, as if she would have preferred not to do so. “A knight is never gracious to a person of the woods.”
At that, Bartholomew spun her out of his cloak, tripped her and let her fall back into the stream. He knew the water was not deep, and he guessed that naught would be injured but her pride. If she wanted to be without him, the matter could be arranged. He leapt over the stream again and picked up the crossbow, acting as if he meant to leave her. She came up sputtering, looking fit to shred him from his bones.
“It is mine!” she cried.
“It is forfeit,” Bartholomew replied. He waved to her. “Since you have such a strong disposition, I will leave you now.”
“Where are you going?”
“To retrieve what was stolen, of course.” He made to stride away, hearing her labor to climb to the banks again.
“Cursed wretch,” she muttered and he glanced back to see her shake like a dog. With her garb wet, Bartholomew could see that she was a woman in truth, though slight of stature. She wrung out the hem of her tabard and glared at him anew. Then she sneezed and shivered convulsively. That did not stop her from marching after him, fire in her eyes. “I will trade you the bow for Percy’s location,” she offered again, a challenge in her tone.
Bartholomew laughed. “Because he is already rid of the prize. I would be a fool indeed to give you the ability to dispatch me when you clearly hold me in such affection.”
She snorted, in a most unfeminine way. “It is not yours.” The way her gaze lingered on the crossbow told Bartholomew how important it was to her.
Why? It was not common for women to have proficiency with the weapon.
