It took a quarter of an hour, and then another half hour for him to nock the arrow and position it correctly.
Twice, she helped him pull back on the bowstring, standing close—so close that the heat from his body warmed her.
She did her best to keep her wits about her, standing so close to his jaw that she could count the tiny dark hairs along the chiseled outline. She shook her head as if to clear it.
“Draw back,” she said softly near his ear. His muscles strained drawing back the bow. She moved her fingers over his upper arm and shoulder. “Relax some. There. Now release.”
He did and the arrow did not go far, but he smiled brightly, nonetheless. “Who taught ye how to fire an arrow, lass?”
“My brother Roderick.”
His smile faded completely, but before he reached for another arrow, she pinched the linen of his tunic. “Mr. Cameron, was my family buried? When I was taken away, they were still lying in the dirt. They werena’ buried. Tell me if they were laid to rest later.”
He looked as if he wished he were saying anything but the words leaving his mouth. “I dinna know. But I will find oot.”
Did she hear him right? “Ye will?”
He nodded. “Everyone’s kin should receive a final restin’ place.”
“Aye.” She didn’t know what else to say. So many times now he had said things she never expected. Things she actually agreed with.
With a slight intake of breath, she went about doing what she promised herself to do. Ignore him.
“All right then, let us practice controlling the muscles in yer arm, and make them strong again, hmm?”
“Aye,” he replied enthusiastically and stood at attention.
There was something about his willingness that both excited and angered her. She should not be helping him gain his strength! Why could she not stop showing him kindness? Why was he showing her the same? He was ready to do as she said if it would help him use his arm again.
Did the fool trust her to teach him the correct lessons and nothing that would get him killed?
Thanks to her dear older brother, she learned at an early age how to handle certain weapons. At first, their father was against her boyish desires, until he—as the number of his enemies began to grow—realized it was not boyish but brave to want to fight and live.
“Lift yer left arm in front of ye,” she instructed. “Hold it while we count to ten.”
He held it and counted out loud to ten with her.
“Why only ten? I can push fer—”
“I can only count to ten,” she told him. “I can count to ten twice if ye can do it.”
He smiled and nodded. “I can teach ye to count to twenty, then thirty and so on.”
He would teach her to count? “Why?” she asked. “Why should I learn such things?”
“Ye’re a baron’s daughter,” he said, holding his left arm up. “Ye should know how to count.”
She was a baron’s daughter. Aye. She smiled, remembering. Och, she had forgotten her training and lessons to impress her father’s guests. But too soon those memories changed into herhome burning down and everyone she loved dead in the front yard.
“Ten,” he said, “eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen—”
Hearing him, she followed along with her lips. “Fifteen, sixteen, seventeen—”
He strained, licking his lips, lips that had surely been made to tempt and seduce. He let his pleasant countenance vanish as he strove toward, “eighteen, nineteen…”
She didn’t know what came next but she admired his determination to continue.
He paused and went a bit pale. “twe—twenty.”
