“You shot at Duncan,” he recalled, deliberately taunting her because she seemed inclined to reveal more when she was irked. “Or maybe I should say that you missed Duncan? Perhaps your skill is not very great. Perhaps you stole this weapon and have no skill with it.”
Her eyes flashed anew and she spat at the ground, before shuddering again. “Luck favored him. The miss was no mark of my incompetence.” She was proud of her skill, to be sure, and he wondered whether her pride was warranted.
He provoked her anew. “Perhaps I would take no risk in returning it to you. Perhaps you could never fell me.”
She blinked, battled with her reaction to the insult, then smiled and extended a hand. “Perhaps not.”
Her sudden smile made Bartholomew blink, for she was even more pretty than he had realized. He had seen the war of her thoughts in her eyes, and had the instinct to trust her. She was not witless, but she was a thief without guile.
What an intriguing woman.
“But what need has a woman of such a weapon?” He let his voice fill with derision. “Should you not leave your defense to a man? Your husband or father?”
“I have neither,” she declared and snatched for the bow.
Bartholomew easily held it out of her reach.
She sneezed again, then considered him with displeasure. “I might die of this chill, as you say,” she declared. “And then your path to Percy would be lost forever.” She put out her hand, ever optimistic.
“If there is a wager, it must be on my terms,” Bartholomew said, finding remarkable enjoyment in this discussion.
She scoffed. “Doubtless they will be enticing.”
“What do you expect?”
She took a deep breath of forbearance. “You will want to bed me, as well as have the saddlebag returned, and then you will cheat me of the crossbow, for you will declare it unfitting for a mere woman to hold such a weapon. You will leave me soiled and bereft of all I value.” Her lip curled in disdain. “I know how your kind wagers.”
Bartholomew was astonished that she could think so poorly of a stranger and a knight. He looked past the mire and the grubby clothing to the shape of her face and lips, the narrow indent of her waist, and the beguiling flash in her eyes. She had an appeal, to be sure.
But he would prove her assumptions about his nature to be wrong first.
“Here is the trade I will make with you,” he said, keeping his tone reasonable. “I will return the crossbow to you when I have Duncan’s saddlebag returned to me, its contents intact.”
Her lips set. “So, we would have taken the risk for naught at all. Would you not sweeten the offer with a coin or six?”
He eyed the crossbow. “Even in the darkness, I know this is a fine weapon, and it would fetch a good price. Perhaps I should take it to York and sell it.”
“You would not get your bag back then.”
“It sounds as if I will not get it back at any rate. You have drawn out this conversation to ensure that Percy has had plenty of time to reach some refuge.”
Her smile flashed. “I did not think you had the wits to notice.”
“I think you have sufficient wits to know that not all men are the same as the one who taught you such distrust.”
For the first time, she looked both surprised and a little bit uncertain. She eyed Bartholomew with new interest, and her lips parted. He took a step closer, snared by her gaze yet wary of her intent. She stretched out a hand. “Might I borrow your cloak, sir? You were so gracious to lend it to me earlier, and it was warm.”
Bartholomew smiled. “Are you only charming when you desire something?”
She smiled back at him. “Perhaps I have learned one thing from your kind.” She sneezed again, most violently. Bartholomew could not risk her welfare. He swung the cloak from his shoulders and dropped it over hers. She clutched it and shivered beneath its weight. She spared a glance at its fur lining, then eyed him anew. “Are you rich?”
Bartholomew shook his head. “I have a generous friend.”
She cast him a coy glance and might have spoken again. Indeed Bartholomew found himself leaning closer to better hear whatever she might utter.
Then a child screamed in the distance.
They both straightened and stared into the shadows of the forest. Bartholomew noted that his companion was stricken. “Percy!” she whispered, and then she ran in pursuit of the cry.
