The Huntress

by Susan Carroll

“Why Mistress O’Hanlon, you look positively ador—”

  But when Cat folded her arms and glowered, daring him to say it, he amended, “Respectable. You look most respectable.”

  “Thank you,” she muttered. “It would have been far better if you had chosen a more sensible and darker fabric. Brown perhaps.”

  She was only too happy to draw the attention away from herself by gesturing toward his bow. “So what are you doing with that besides slaughtering a poor tree that never did you a lick of harm?”

  His grin fading, Martin regarded the bow as though it were some sort of alien object he clutched in his hand. “What the blazes does it look like I am doing? I am trying to learn how to use this damnable thing, but I think there is something wrong with it. It doesn’t work at all the way the book said it should.”

  “Book?”

  Martin indicated a volume he’d left lying open face-down upon the garden bench. Cat picked it up and scanned the title. Toxophilus. Cat leafed through a few pages, slammed the text closed, and tossed it contemptuously over her shoulder.

  “Cat!” Martin protested as the book hit the dirt. “That was written by Roger Ascham, a noted scholar and tutor to Queen Elizabeth—”

  “I don’t care if it was written by the queen herself. You will not be after learning how to use the bow from any book, especially not one written by an Englishman. Such skill is acquired only from years of practice. Happily for you, my da placed my first bow in my hands when I was but six years old.”

  Striding toward Martin, she said, “All right. Let’s have a look at what you are doing wrong.”

  Martin arched one brow in haughty fashion, but she ignored him, tugging on his hips herself to pull him into correct position.

  “Keep your side square to the target. Stand straight. Weight evenly balanced. Feet a little farther apart.” Cat kicked at his boot until he gave up resisting her with a disgruntled sigh.

  He opened his stance and allowed her to position his hands, bend his elbow to the proper safe angle. “Keep your elbow down. Relax your hands. One finger above the arrow, two below.”

  To her frustration, he shifted. Placing one hand against his back, she slid the other one around the front of his hips and forced him back into correct position.

  “Now draw the string back slowly and concentrate.”

  “Uh, that’s a little difficult. With you grabbing hold of my bollocks.”

  “Oh. Sorry.” In her eagerness to help, she had not realized how far her hand had slipped. Feeling him stir against her, she snatched her fingers away.

  “I was only trying to arrange—” She stammered, breaking off when he cast her a wicked look. She retreated a step, folding her hands awkwardly in front of her.

  “Just—just take the damn shot already,” she growled.

  Martin complied, sending another arrow into the fence. And then another. Cat watched as long as she could from a safe distance, her fingers twitching with impatience as she called out more advice. But when another arrow thudded into the dirt before the target, she could no longer bear it.

  Her embarrassment forgotten, she pounced on him again, tugging, arranging shoulders, elbows, hips, but taking a little more care where she put her hands this time. She wished she could have helped him with his draw and aim, but it was difficult being so much shorter than he was.

  When Martin finally succeeded in nicking the edge of the target, she said, “Better. But let me show you something.”

  When she reached for the bow, he protested, “This is not a child’s toy. You’ll never even be able to draw the string.”

  Cat snorted and wrenched the bow from his grasp. She subjected it to a critical inspection.

  It was a fine bit of weaponry, although a little fancy for her taste with its ivory nocks. She held it up and tested the string, estimating the bow to have about a hundred-pound draw. A little heavy for her, but nothing she could not handle.

  She extended her hand, demanding an arrow. Martin gave her one with an indulgent shrug of his shoulders. As she fit the arrow into the nock, Cat pulled a face. “Peacock fletching? You’d be better off with plain gray goose feathers. They wear better and are more accurate.”

  Squaring off to the target, she attempted to line up her shot only to find the strings of her cap in the way. She paused to untie it, impatiently tossing the cap down on the stone bench.

  Raising the bow again, she flexed her back muscles, drawing back the arrow and taking aim the way her father had taught her. It had been a long time since she had done any hunting, but the bow felt good and right in her hands, as familiar as caressing a longtime lover.

  She took aim, relaxed her draw hand, and released, the arrow piercing the center of the target. Wolfe let out a low whistle of admiration. Cat did her best to bite back a smug smile.

  “Now I want you to stand behind me as I take my next shot. Place your hands on my back and feel how I use my muscles.”

  Martin moved very close, his hands warm on her back as she drew back the string. She could feel the heat of him even through the fabric of her gown, an overwhelmingly masculine presence, all musk and sweat. Carried away by her enthusiasm for her teaching, Cat realized perhaps this had not been the best idea.

  Her voice was a little unsteady as she tried to take aim. “You—keep relying on the strength of your arm. But you’ll end up sore and tired before you ever complete a morning of hunting. You have to put your entire body into the task.”

  “Oh, I always prefer to do so,” he murmured, his voice rife with suggestion, his breath tickling her ear.

  Cat shivered and loosed the worst shot she had ever taken in her life, even when she was six. The arrow careened wildly through the branches of the apple tree, shredding leaves.

  She bit her lip in irritation as Martin crooned, “Bad luck, m’dear. Perhaps you needed to concentrate a shade more.”

  He seemed solemn enough, but as she twisted away from him, she saw that his eyes held a roguish twinkle.

  “There is no such thing as luck with a bow, only skill,” she said sternly and shoved the bow back into his hands. She strode off to retrieve the arrows, resolutely ignoring his chuckle.

  She spent the next hour putting him through his paces, as merciless as any drillmaster, forcing him to fire off arrow after arrow. Martin’s chief problem was similar to what hers had been when learning the bow. Impatience.

  “Wielding a bow is not like rushing in with a sword, my wee Cat. It is a far more deliberate art.” Her father’s voice echoed through her mind, the memory warm and poignant.

  Her throat thickened. She swallowed, focusing her attention on Martin. To her delight, he finally achieved a creditable shot, hitting the target near the center.

  “Well done,” she cried. “What a remarkable man you are.”

  “Why?” he laughed. “Just because I managed to stop slaughtering the tree?”

  “N-no.” A little embarrassed by the enthusiasm of her outburst, Cat traced her shoe in the grass and continued almost shyly, “Because you have endured me bullying and hectoring you. There are few men I know who would tolerate being instructed in anything by a woman.”

  Martin rested his bow against the bench, pausing to wipe a bead of sweat from his brow. “I have the greatest respect for your abilities, Catriona.”

  Catriona. Something about the way he said her name nearly brought a blush to her cheeks until he added with a mischievous smile: “And besides, it would not have been nearly as enjoyable being arranged by a man.”

  She did blush then.

  “Why, you—” she choked, launching herself at him, intending to give him a swift box to the ears. But he laughed and caught her fist easily, pinioning first it and then her other hand to the small of her back.

  Cat glowered, but she was all too aware of the mock quality of her outrage. She was enjoying this tussle far too much and not fighting nearly hard enough to get away.

  Her heart skipped a beat as Martin drew her tighter against him,
her breasts pressing against the taut wall of his chest. He peered down at her through the thicket of his dark lashes.

  “Blue was the right choice,” he murmured.

  “I—I beg your pardon.” She was feeling oddly breathless. Perhaps that was why his words made no sense.

  “Blue,” he repeated. “It was the correct choice for your gown. It suits you.”

  Cat attempted to give a scornful sniff. “Oh, I suppose you are going to hand me some rot about it being the same shade as my eyes.”

  “No. I could have searched all of London and I would never have been able to find that fierce and brilliant a blue.”

  Damn the man for sounding so sincere and for drawing her closer still. Her heartbeat sped from trot to full-out gallop. It was not the first time she had experienced this heat, this tug of attraction between them. Often during these past weeks, she felt as though it was always there, just pulsing below the surface.

  A purely physical impulse and natural enough, she assured herself. She’d been a long time without a man and she suspected Martin also suffered from imposed celibacy. She doubted that the virtuous Lady Jane was servicing his masculine needs.

  Yes, a completely natural and understandable attraction, but that didn’t make it any the less wrong. A dangerous urge that could only complicate matters between them.

  Martin was staring far too intently at her mouth. Cat caught herself moistening her lips in involuntary response. As he bent closer, she retained enough wit to duck her head.

  Martin’s grip tightened on her for a moment, then he appeared to come to his senses. He released her. They sprang apart, both of them concentrating on retrieving arrows with an energy and focus far greater than the task required.

  She needed the use of Martin’s knife to dig out one deeply imbedded in the apple tree. He handed it over, scarce looking at her. As she hacked away at chunks of bark, Cat desperately sought for a topic to ease the tension between them.

  “So what inspired this sudden urge to take up the bow?”

  “It is required of me by law.”

  “What!”

  Yanking arrows out of the target, Martin explained, “Ever since the days of Henry the Eighth, every Englishman under the age of sixty is required to own a bow and know how to use it.”

  Ah, so that was what all this earnest practicing was all about, just more of Martin’s endeavors to transform himself into a respectable Englishman. She wished she could give a derisive laugh at the notion, but she found it all too sad. As sad as that little girl in the house, plucking her fingers raw on that lute in her efforts to learn music “like a proper lady.”

  Cat knew by now the uselessness of remonstrating with Martin about his plans for himself and his daughter. She contented herself with muttering, “Trust the English to take the joy out of a fine sport by passing a law about it.”

  “The English don’t regard skill with a bow as mere sport. They have no standing army. Should there ever be an invasion, the country relies on all the parishes mustering to the defense.”

  “With bows and arrows against cannon shot and gunpowder?” Cat could not resist, adding provocatively, “Alas, the glorious days of Agincourt are long behind us.”

  “Agincourt?” Martin snapped, his reaction exactly what Cat had hoped. He looked ready to spit. “Mon Dieu! There was nothing glorious about that battle. In the first place, Henry the Fifth had no right invading France. And in the second, the French had the English badly outnumbered. It was merely a matter of luck that the English were able to—”

  Martin broke off, looking irritated, whether with himself or Cat, she was hard-pressed to tell.

  She finished working the arrow out of the tree and strode over to hand it to him. As he thrust it into his quiver, Cat bit down on her tongue. But she was unable to stop herself from saying softly, “You’re never going to be able to do it, Martin le Loup.”

  “Do what?”

  “Turn yourself into an Englishman.”

  He compressed his lips into a stubborn line. “Yes, I will. Like the bow, it just wants more practice.”

  “And if you do succeed, what then? What if an invasion did come and it was the French?” she challenged. “Could you really become English enough to fire on your own countrymen?”

  “From what I have heard, the English are far more likely to suffer an attack from Spain. But if it was France—” Martin paused, an expression shadowing his face that was at once grim and sad. “It wouldn’t be the first time I have had to draw steel against someone from my own land. France has been plagued by civil war for years. I was in service to the Protestant king of Navarre, stood shoulder to shoulder in battle with my good friend, the Huguenot captain, Nicholas Remy.

  “And I was there in Paris on that Saint Bartholomew’s Eve when the streets ran with blood. People slitting one another’s throats over who regards the wafer as the holy body of Christ and who thinks it’s nothing but a bit of bread. Frenchmen slaughtering Frenchmen. I daresay you wouldn’t understand—”

  “Oh, yes, I would. The Irish have been after killing one another for centuries longer than you French. That is how I lost my father.”

  Martin shot her a curious look. “Meg told me your father perished in battle when you were young, but I assumed it was the English…”

  Cat gave a swift sad shake of her head. “No, it was in a skirmish with the Dunnes. The two clans had been feuding over who knows what for generations, a dispute over land, a bit of poaching, the theft of a goat perhaps.”

  She shrugged and gave a brittle smile. “’Tis the curse of my people, short tempers and long memories. I have no idea what set off the hostilities again. I was only eight at the time. All I know is that at the end of that day, my da never came home again.”

  Her voice grew husky with emotion. She made haste to turn away from Martin but he caught her hand. Another man might have chafed her raw, trying to offer some comforting platitude.

  All Martin did was carry her hand to his lips. She trembled at his touch, finding these moments of empathy far more difficult to handle than those times when heat flared between them. Passion she could easily deal with. It was tenderness that undid her.

  She yanked her hand free, saying with a false briskness, “I had best be getting back to the house. Meg has been as hard at her music lessons as you with your bow. Someone needs to rescue the poor girl.”

  Or more accurately rescue Master Naismith and the rest of the household, Cat thought, but it would not do to make such a jest to Martin. The man was as willfully blind about Meg’s musical abilities as everything else.

  Striding back across the garden, Cat bent to retrieve the coif she had discarded. She was astonished when Martin reached out to snatch it away from her.

  “Don’t wear that thing. I gave it to you only in jest, to ruffle your feathers. I never really thought you’d put it on.”

  “I thought it was necessary, to complete my disguise of being a respectable member of your household.”

  As though to emphasize her point, one strand of her untamable red hair straggled across her face. Martin tucked it back behind her ear.

  “The cap doesn’t become you at all.” His mouth twisted in a teasing smile. “There is such a thing as trying too hard to be respectable, Mistress O’Hanlon.”

  Cat tried to think of a clever retort, but any words seemed to lodge in her throat, her heart flooded with a strange ache. Perhaps because she wished so much she could convince him of that very same thing.

  MEG FLEXED HER SORE FINGERS AND FETCHED A DESPONDENT sigh. Her tutor said that in time, her fingertips would become tougher, inured to the lute strings. Perhaps he was right. But what was never going to change was her ability.

  In tune or out of tune, the difference between one note and another…she simply couldn’t hear it. She was miserably conscious of being a failure and a great disappointment. Not just to her father, but to the golden youth who occupied the parlor window seat beside her.

  Sunligh
t filtered through the window, haloing Alexander Naismith’s smooth handsome face and wavy blond hair. Stretching his arm around Meg, he patiently readjusted her fingers upon the lute strings for about the dozenth time.

  “There now, Mistress Margaret. Try it again. Just the first few bars of the song.”

  Meg nodded, scarce able to look up at him. Sander’s mere presence, let alone his touch, was enough to make her feel all fluttery inside.

  Drawing in a deep breath, she gripped the frets of the lute and assailed the instrument again. But no matter how hard she tried to imitate what Sander showed her, all she produced was the most dreadful twanging.

  She stilled her hand, letting the last awful note vibrate to silence. A tear welled from the corner of her eye, cascading down her cheek.

  “Here now. What’s this?”

  Sander crooked his fingers beneath her chin, trying to coax her to look up at him. But she ducked her head, allowing her hair to fall forward as she struggled to contain herself.

  “I—I am hopeless, Sander.”

  “Nonsense, milady. You are much improved.” Sander bent down, parting her cascade of hair to peer at her. “Why, you have not broken a single string today.”

  His grin was teasing, but warm as well, eliciting a chuckle from Meg in spite of herself. She tensed at the sound of snoring from across the room.

  Sometimes she forgot that she and Sander were not alone. Agatha sat in a chair, plying her needlework, ostensibly to act as chaperone for her young mistress during the music lesson. But she tended to nod off from time to time.

  Her head bobbed lower and lower until her chin all but rested atop her sagging bosom and then she straightened with a mighty jerk. She blinked owlishly at Meg and Sander, then gave a foggy smile before returning to her needlework. She set a few stitches before her eyelids grew heavy and the process began all over again.

  Sander leaned closer to whisper in Meg’s ear, “Sometime I expect Mistress Butterydoor’s head to entirely drop off and go rolling across the floor.”

  Meg clapped her hand to her mouth to stifle a giggle.

  “I cannot even begin to fathom how she can sleep that way,” Sander added.