“Is that intended as a slight?” Christine asked, feeling as though she had been insulted.
“Only if you are very overly sensitive,” he paused for a moment, “where will you go then?”
She looked at him. The question seemed innocent enough, but it also felt loaded with significance. Tristan was watching the shot of the next lady in line. But he glanced at her.
What is to be gained by lying? If he thinks I will say that I am going to join my brother, he will be disappointed.
“I will stay with my sister as soon as she has had her baby. Her pregnancy has been difficult. I would not want to add to her worries.”
“Is it not the case that a pride may have only one lioness?” Tristan asked.
That was definitely of significance. He was fixing his attention on Christine now. She looked back, trying to fathom what his motives were for these questions. Though she had to admit, the metaphor was very flattering. So, even while she studied him with narrowed eyes, she felt drawn to him for his compliment.
“Actually, my understanding is that a pride has many females. They work together to raise the children, hunt, and defend.”
“But there is only one alpha female. Is that not correct?” Tristan insisted, “The others are subordinate to her. I have difficulty seeing you as subordinate or…submissive.”
“Selina would not require it of me,” Christine said.
They were now at the head of the line. Tristan held up the blindfold he had been given.
“I can manage,” Christine said, snatching the cloth from his hand.
He cocked his head. “I do not doubt you can tie a knot. But that is not the point.”
“Then what is the point?”
“That you should trust me.”
She met his gaze and, after a moment’s hesitation, thrust the blindfold back. “Very well.”
His fingers brushed her temple as he tied the cloth over her eyes. She tried not to shiver. Where he touched, the memory of that contact lingered. She could not help but replay it in her mind. A sharp intake of breath brought his scent to her. It was unbearably masculine. A cologne that had notes of wood and musk, leather and open air. It made her think of being held before him on horseback, the wind flying his hair behind him like a banner.
“Too tight?” His voice had dropped, intimate.
“No.” It came out breathless, betraying her.
“Good.”
The weight of the bow surprised her, heavier than it looked. She fumbled, nearly dropping it. Tristan’s hand closed over hers, steadying her grip. The heat of him seeped through, a steady pulse.
“Hold here,” he murmured, shifting her fingers on the bowstring. His breath grazed her ear. “Straighten your elbow. Yes, just so.”
She swallowed hard, hyper-aware of everyone watching. Of Martha’s sharp laugh somewhere behind them. Of the sun beating down. Of the smell of Tristan, leather, spice, and something wholly male.
“You’re trembling.”
“I am not.”
“You are,” he insisted softly, “but only here…” his thumb brushed the inside of her wrist, setting her pulse hammering.
It made her skin tingle. Her breath came in quick jerks. She did not know how she would hold up the bow when his touchseemed to make her knees shake and her hands tremble. She nearly lost the arrow in sheer panic.
A squeal erupted nearby.
Christine jerked, swinging the bow wildly.
“Careful!” Tristan’s grip clamped around hers, “You nearly shot Lady Martha.”
