The tension hummed softly through the bow, steady and reassuring beneath her fingertips.
Perhaps she should have felt nervous not to have taken a practice shot.
But she knew this bow. She knew these arrows.
“Each archer shoots three arrows per round. The highest scores advance,” Gideon said quietly as they both prepared.
“And the distance?”
“Begins at thirty yards.”
Beatrice nodded slowly. “That seems reasonable.”
“It increases.”
“I would hope so,” she said with more confidence than she felt. Not that she doubted her abilities, but she was unaccustomed to people watching her.
Along the far side of the lawn, tiered spectator stands had been erected, and those benches were filled with fashionable onlookers who watched the archers with lively interest.
Gideon’s gaze drifted toward the line of contestants preparing to shoot.
“Once we reach the final rounds, the distance doubles.”
The first arrow flew, and a ripple of polite applause followed.
Something fluttered low in her stomach. Not fear… but something not far from it.
“Nervous?” Gideon asked.
“I don’t know why.” Her voice wavered, just slightly.
“A natural response,” he said. He stepped in closer—not quite touching. “Breathe.”
She drew in a breath, then let it go.
“Draw on the exhale.”
She blinked. “I know that.”
“I know you do.” His hands settled lightly against the center of her back. “Nerves can make even the best archer forget.”
Beatrice opened her mouth to object—then noticed the tension in her neck.
Gideon’s hands slid upward, squeezing her shoulders.
“Relax,” he murmured.
The difference was immediate.
“There,” he said softly. “Better.”
She rolled one shoulder experimentally.
“And your grip,” he added, nodding toward the bow. “Loosen your fingers. Then don’t forget to let the bow fall when you release.”
Beatrice flexed her hand slightly around the grip.
“You make it sound as though I have never held a bow before.”
