They stared at each other for a moment, and then she lowered the crossbow, pointing it safely away toward the ground at her side. Her posture was one of strength and experience, even though she still seemed to be protecting her shoulder slightly, and he remembered her mentioning that she had some skill with shooting.
“Archery?” he asked, stepping closer.
She raised one eyebrow. “I wasn’t allowed weapons in the palace. I’ve been feeling out of practice.”
Bloody Ballanor. He could only imagine how awful it had been for Keely, a maid, with no status, no power, and not even a weapon to defend herself, in Ballanor’s court.
“No wonder you hated it,” he admitted quietly.
“Hated what?” she asked in her soft Verturian accent.
“Hated Ballanor. The court. Brythoria.” He paused, not wanting to include the guards, although he knew he should. “All of it.”
She shrugged again. “At least it’s over.” She hefted the crossbow in her hand, taking its weight. “And now I’ve got a weapon.”
He grunted. “I see that.”
She raised her eyebrows, waiting for him to say more.
“I’m glad,” he admitted.
She grinned back at him, pleased with his answer, and he couldn’t help adding, “You said that you shoot.” Gods. Mathos was right, he did have a habit of stating the obvious. But the obvious always seemed so much safer than saying anything else.
“Yes, I used to. I’d like to start again.”
Late afternoon sunshine streaked across the small glade and the trees were filled with the evening calls of birds, and suddenly it didn’t seem so quiet anymore.
He stepped closer, wishing he could have put a crossbow in her hands long before, wishing he could apologize for the time she’d spent in Ballanor’s court, but unable to find the right words.
She was so strong. And so beautiful. The golden sunlight caught her hair like a halo, and he ached to run his hand through the silky strands. When he’d pulled her into his arms in the moat, her damp hair had smelled of heather—woody and slightly floral—and he wondered if that soft scent would surround him if he gave in and reached for her.
How many hours had he spent remembering the torture of cutting her jerkin away? Balancing the knife so that it cut smoothly, never jarring her or pressing into her more than he absolutely had to. Utterly, acutely aware of her. Every breath, every movement. The way her elegant hands gripped the blanket, like a woman might grip her sheets as she lost herself in pleasure. If he had leaned forward, just an inch, he would have been able to run his tongue over that perfect skin; pink and flushed from the cold.
“Shall we have a competition, then?” she asked eventually.
Yes, they had to do something. Because otherwise he was going to take another step forward, and another, and then he would be close enough to touch her. He had to remind himself that he had no right to touch her. No right to reach toward her, despite how much he wanted to. How desperately he wanted some of her light to shine on him, to ease the cold he’d wrapped himself in.
He nodded, focusing on her question. “What’s the prize?”
She chewed on her lip, considering, drawing his eyes to her soft mouth, those pink lips. What could he do to ensure the prize was a taste of that small smile?
“Whoever loses has to pluck the birds for tonight’s meal,” she said eventually.
“Okay,” he agreed, working to keep his eyes on hers, not drifting down to her mouth.
He was tempted to offer a handicap, something to even out the odds—how could a girl shooting on a Verturian farm ever have the experience of a soldier shooting every day? But he had a very clear idea that Keely would not be impressed by the suggestion that she wasn’t good enough, and he kept his thoughts to himself. “What are the rules?”
“We’re shooting at crabapples,” she said, gesturing to the other end of the glade. She had compensated for the small size of the glade by choosing tiny autumn apples, mottled in yellow-greens and streaky reds. They were balanced on a low tree branch, eight in a row. “Most hits wins.”
He nodded toward the loaded crossbow. “You can start.”
She grinned, eyes twinkling, turned toward the row of crabapples, and lifted the crossbow to tuck it into her shoulder, widening her stance. She breathed slowly, sighting down the barrel, and then pulled the trigger.
The bolt whistled through the air and smashed through the first crabapple with a spray of juice and apple flesh.
Damn. He’d known she was good by the way she handled the crossbow, but she was way better than he’d expected. He would have to really concentrate if he wanted to win.
She handed him the crossbow with a smile, and he loaded the next bolt, aimed, let out a breath, and fired. The second apple exploded in another syrupy shower. Thank the gods.
