He dropped the basket and kissed her, relishing the sound of satisfaction and relief that came from her. He remembered himself in time to keep from devouring her right there. She was so fierce that he forgot sometimes how small she was, how easy it was to overwhelm her slight form. But now she kissed him back, her hands holding his face.

“Home,” he said, smiling against her lips. “Aye, I would have you there.”

Chapter Eighteen

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He knew such joy could not last forever, but he never expected it to falter before nightfall, nor shatter within a day.

They did not journey far from Chesterfield, but found a place off the southern road long before night fell. At his request, she showed him how to throw his eating knife. He had asked mostly because he wanted to hear her voice more, and thought she must speak to instruct him. He was right.

“My wrist,” she said, as his hand moved slowly down her forearm. He stood behind her as she took aim at a tree only a few paces away. “It’s my wrist you’re to feel as I throw, not the rest of me.”

She was half-amused, half-exasperated. She took the study seriously and expected the same of him. He put his fingers lightly around her wrist and felt it as she threw – a sharp snap, very contained, that he thought would take a thousand hours of study to learn.

Three times she threw, instructing him to watch not the knife but her arm and how it moved. It was not a graceful movement, nor was it graceless. It was powerful and swift and smooth. It was as beautiful as she was.

When she brought the knife back from where it had landed in the tree, she gave it to him and stood behind him. She put her hand on his so she could guide it in its aim and stood on her toes, her breath against his ear.

“The feel of it as it leaves your hand – take note of it,” she said. “You’ll know if you’ve done right by how it feels.”

He threw. It didn’t feel like anything as it left his hand, but obviously he’d done it wrong. It hit the tree far off center and fell to the ground. She kissed the back of his neck lightly, causing a flare in his groin as she went to retrieve the knife. He was suddenly far less interested in his aim.

She had just handed the knife to him, looking at him with invitation in her eyes when Fuss came bursting through the tall grass between the rocks that hid them from the main road. The dog was barking frantically, but Nan did not seem alarmed. She stood still, her own dagger drawn in reflex, looking slightly disbelieving while Fuss ran a circle around her and then bounded back through the grass, barking all the while.