Page 23 of Rules for a Bastard Lord
She nodded and did as he asked. But it wasn’t until late that night, when she was lying alone on her pallet in her silent house that she thought again of what he’d said. Not Mr. Hallowsby, though he’d certainly been in her thoughts all evening. No, what she thought about was the man who waited for her in London. The one who would make all her dreams come true.
What was in London that wasn’t here?
“My father,” she said. “I’m going to find my father.”
Chapter Five
Whatever you do, pick your targetcarefully.
Thunk.
The knife sank deep into the tree trunk, the sound satisfying to the base of his spine. Sadly, Bram had been throwing at a different tree, so he was less than pleased with his performance.
He was trying out a new way of throwing daggers while he waited and worried about when Jeremy would come back. But since his Viking-like friend hadn’t shown up, Bram was distracting himself with target practice.
Instead of standing with his knife poised before the throw, he was drawing across his body from his hip and flicking the knife at the target. When done right, he could draw the weapon and throw it in a single, quick motion. But it was less than useless if he couldn’t aim properly.
Grunting his displeasure, he stomped to his knives where they lay scattered about the clearing. He’d been practicing all morning and hadn’t improved one bit.
He blamed it on the woman and the damned flowers that dotted the area. They didn’t even have to be bluebells, though a few were. If it was a flower, he thought of her. If he was eating food, he thought of carrots and wondered if she’d grown them. If he thought about the carriage he needed to sell, he thought about her suggestion to paint the thing. She was everywhere in his thoughts, and he didn’t like it.
He stomped back to his position and tried to focus. Draw, throw.
Ping.
Right tree this time. Glancing blow.
Maybe if he envisioned her on the tree, he could stab her straight through the heart.
Whoosh.
Apparently not. He’d missed by a mile. And he didn’t like picturing human targets anyway, much less a beautiful woman who drove him insane.
She wouldn’t be everywhere in his thoughts if he could just label her as one thing. “Frustrating as hell” was as far as he’d gotten. He’d only known her a day, but in that time he’d labeled her a beauty beyond compare, a conniving tart, a manipulative witch, and an ignorant peasant. But none of those labels fit her well.
She was a beauty, all right, but up close he had seen the flaws in her skin. She had freckles and a slight golden-brown cast because she didn’t wear her bonnet enough.
She was a conniving tart to be sure, except that when he’d teased her neck with teeth and tongue, she’d gone still with shock, and then terror. A tart would know that was foreplay, not violence. She’d reacted with a virgin’s fear.
“Manipulative witch” was certainly true. The local populace was wrapped around her finger. Except she wasn’t a witch at all, but a girl on her own. By all accounts, she’d grown up with no one but her mother to aid her, and together, they’d not only managed but thrived. That took strength and determination. And likely, no small amount of manipulation to get what they needed to survive.
And the last was “ignorant peasant.” That was patently untrue for all that she sounded like a stupid northern provincial. He’d seen the books in her small home. Mathematics,agriculture, Aristophanes, Latin. She had a library in her home and yet only one bed, likely shared with her mother. That meant they’d spent their money on her education, though why they’d made that choice, he hadn’t a clue.
And now she wanted lady lessons. As if he had a clue how to be a lady. And yet he’d promised a single lesson.
She came to him after another ten minutes of frustrated throwing. In another hour, he’d have chipped all the bark off the trees in this clearing. He smelled her the moment she appeared behind him. It was a lemony-green scent, though in his mind, it was mingled with the peppery taste of her skin. Objectively, he knew it came from the bloody cranesbill flowers he’d seen all over her yard, but in his mind they were her scent, and the pepper was her spice.
“Stay back,” he said, his voice gruff. “Don’t want to accidentally skewer you.”
“You’d never hit me, at least not on purpose. You’re too good.”
He was about to laugh at her statement, but then he did it. He drew, flicked, andthunk—dead center of the tree, exactly where he’d aimed. He rocked back on his heels in surprise. Had he finally gotten the knack of it? He drew again and threw.
Ping.
Close, but not quite what he’d wanted. The tree trunk was narrow enough that were it a man, he’d have hit something. On the tree, he’d carved off more bark. Still, it was closer than he’d been all morning.
“How did you learn that?” she asked, her words suffused with awe.
