by Chelsea Fine
“You knew about my mother’s brooch.” Scarlet moved forward, feeling his body hum at her nearness. “You must know more about me than that.”
He pulled another arrow, positioned it, and let it sail.
“I want to know who I am.” Scarlet’s voice came out nonchalant, but it was useless. No doubt Tristan could feel her apprehension and hope.
Because she could feel his anxiety and desire.
She was pretending like she didn’t feel what he felt, and he was pretending not to care.
What a mess they were.
Without responding, Tristan drew another arrow.
Scarlet took another step forward, careful to keep the designated “ten feet” of space between them. “We can start with easy questions, like…where was I born?”
“Spain.” He didn’t look at her. “Your mother was from Spain. Your father was from England.”
Huh.
“Did I grow up in Spain?”
Tristan shot the arrow in his hand and nailed the bull’s-eye. “For a short while, before your parents moved to England.”
Well, that explained how she knew Spanish.
Scarlet cleared her throat, excited to be getting some answers. “What was I like in my first life?”
He kept his eyes on his target but a smile played on his lips. “Challenging.”
Was that a jab?
Scarlet puckered her lips. “What was I like in my last life?”
He glanced at her, but said nothing.
Her last life seemed to be a touchy subject with Tristan so she changed the era. “How did you and I meet?”
Still no answer.
“When did you and I meet?”
Scarlet could feel agitation running through him at her questions.
Frustrated, Scarlet asked, “What was my favorite food? What was the first movie I ever saw? Did I ever have any pets?”
Tristan dropped the bow to his side, sighed, and gave Scarlet an impatient look. “You think knowing if you’ve ever had any pets is going to help you?” He raised a brow. “You think knowing the answer to a thousand questions will tell you who you are?”
Scarlet was exasperated. “Yes.”
He spoke quietly. “They would be answers, Scar. Not memories.”
Scar.
Her heart fluttered at his nickname for her and something deep inside her stirred. Like a flame being rekindled, the wick of something true caught fire and warmed her soul.
Tristan cocked his head to the side. “And isn’t that what you really want? Memories?”
“I want,” Scarlet softened her voice, “to know who I am.”
For a moment, the only sound between them was the chirping of a winter bird and the soft wind rustling the trees.
They stared at one another.
He exhaled. “Fine.” Walking to the side of the cabin, he set down the complicated bow in his hand, and picked up a more traditional-looking bow. He walked back to his shooting post and looked at Scarlet. “Come here.”
Slowly, she made her feet move forward until she was standing right next to Tristan. Up close, he was beautiful.
He was beautiful far away, too. But up close, he was…he was….
He was making it hard for her to breathe.
And not for any reasons related to their curse.
Scarlet said, “We’re not ten feet away from each other. Nate won’t be pleased.”
“I don’t live to please Nate.”
“Obviously.” Scarlet smiled.
Tristan held out the long bow in his hand and waited.
She stared at him. “What?”
“Take it,” he said.
She carefully wrapped her hand around the foreign—and heavy—weapon, holding it like it might bite her.
She caught a ghost of a smile on Tristan’s face as he watched the way she handled the bow. But the ghost quickly vanished into the hard face he normally wore.
Tristan retrieved three arrows from the quiver strapped to his back and held them up to Scarlet. “Pick one.”
Was this some kind of game? Or test? Scarlet hated tests.
She narrowed her eyes. “What are you doing?”
“Helping you remember who you are.”
“By…making me choose an arrow?”
“Pick one,” Tristan repeated. “Or our trip down memory lane is over.”
This was Tristan’s idea of “memory lane”?
God help us.
Scarlet clucked her tongue. “Calm down, Archer boy. No need for threats.” She stared at the arrows, each of them different.
The green one was thicker than the others, with a broad tip. The yellow one looked wispy and useless, like it was a toy. And the blue one was thin, but looked strong; the arrowhead sharp and narrow. It looked accurate. Deadly. The blue arrow looked…right.
Scarlet looked back up at Tristan. “Does it matter which one I pick?”
“Not really,” he shrugged. “I already know which one you’ll choose.”
Scarlet scoffed. “No, you don’t.”
He was so arrogant.
Arrogant and intimidating and rude—
Tristan plucked the blue arrow from his hand and held it up with a quirked brow.
…and right.
Agh.
He put the other two arrows away and handed the blue arrow to Scarlet. “Here’s your arrow.” He nodded to the spear in her hand. “That’s your bow.” He looked right into her eyes and continued, “Now shoot.”
He stepped over to the side of the cabin, leaving Scarlet staring at the objects in her hand, completely clueless.
“But…I don’t know how to shoot an arrow,” she said.
Tristan crossed his arms, the muscles in his forearms flexing against one another. “Yes, you do.”
She looked at him in frustration. Hating her amnesia. Hating the way his arm muscles were distracting her. “Maybe I did at one time, but I don’t remember—”
“Your hands remember.”
Scarlet looked at her hands and made a face. “My hands barely know how to hold this thing, let alone use it.”
“That’s because you’re letting your brain get in the way.” He uncrossed his arms and walked over to where several different bows were leaning against the cabin’s outside wall. Grabbing one that looked similar to what Scarlet held, he walked back to the shooting spot.
Coming up beside Scarlet, he pulled another blue arrow from his back and looked at her pointedly. “Watch me.” His voice was soft and instructional.
In the sunlight, his green eyes seemed softer. Less troubled.
Scarlet nodded as Tristan’s hands set his arrow against the worn bow he held. The arrow lay securely in between his fingers as he carefully drew it back against the wooden bow.
One hand held the limb of the weapon, gripping it steadily in his fist, while the other hand kept the arrow drawn taught against the bowstring.
His shoulder muscles were tight and his eyes were set low and determined on the target in the distance as his chest lifted with a long, deep breath.
Good God, he was distracting.
Gabriel, Gabriel, Gabriel.
She could see Tristan’s beating pulse through the tight skin of his neck.
Gabriel, Gabriel, Gabriel.
Swift and silent, Tristan released the arrow. Scarlet barely saw the spear leave the bow; it flew so fast. But in an instant, the target in the distance was pierced through the center.
Tristan, Tristan, Tristan.
Crap.
Tristan lowered the bow and looked at her. “Your turn.” He took a step to the side.
Scarlet looked down at the giant bow in her hand, jiggling it a little. “Easy for you to say. This thing is more than half my size.”
“That’s because it’s mine, so it’s larger than what you’re used to.”
Scarlet raised her eyebrows. “What I’m used to?” She shook her head. “I’m used to schoolbooks and coffee cups and cell phones. Not…” she pinched the arrow between he
r thumb and forefinger like it was a smelly diaper, “medieval weapons.”
Tristan sighed.
He was frustrated. He was amused. He was frustrated.
“Fine. Don’t shoot it.” Tristan moved to take the bow from Scarlet’s hands, but she instinctively yanked it out of his reach.
He raised a brow, but said nothing.
“I’ll shoot it,” Scarlet said, not sure why she suddenly felt so determined. Like she had something to prove.
Tristan shrugged and walked back to the side of the cabin, crossing his arms again as he watched her.
With a huff, Scarlet tried to mimic Tristan’s actions as she lined the arrow in her hand up against the bow and the bowstring. She raised the bow and arrow up and slowly pulled back, finding the movement not nearly as difficult as she had anticipated.
The bow was giant in her hands, heavy and thick. But not awkward. The tension on the bowstring made her muscles burn with tightness, but it felt right.
Maybe she did know what she was doing.
Or maybe she was going to accidentally shoot a squirrel.
She looked ahead and saw three targets, all at different distances.
“You can aim for the closer target,” Tristan’s voice said from the side. “You don’t have to aim for the same target I hit.”
Was that a challenge?
Scarlet glared at Tristan over her shoulder for a moment, trying to read his emotions.
Patience.
Nothing else.
Scarlet looked back at the targets. The closer one would be easier to hit. She could probably throw a rock and nail the bull’s-eye on that one.
The target Tristan had hit was farther away and more worn from use. It would be more difficult, if she could even hit it at all.
Which she probably couldn’t.
But then she saw an even farther target, nestled in a group of trees so far away the target was nearly hidden in shadows.
It was an impossible target. And Scarlet readjusted her bow and aimed right for it.
If she was going to fail, she would fail at something impossible.
The muscles in her torso and shoulders began to tremble with exertion from holding the arrow in place for so long, but the burn made her feel strong. She pulled the arrow back even more, the bowstring sharp as a razor blade under the pressure, and she took a steady breath.
Please don’t let me kill any squirrels.
Keeping her eyes on the impossible target, Scarlet released the arrow with a whoosh. It cut through the air, flying into the trees and shadows until finding its resting place.
Bull’s-eye.
Pride immediately exploded inside Scarlet. Strong pride. Warm pride.
But it wasn’t hers. It was Tristan’s.
Tristan was proud of her.
Scarlet turned to look at him with every intention of smirking or bragging, but when she saw his face all thoughts left her mind.
He was smiling at her. Like he never doubted her for an instant.
And he reminded her of something beautiful. Something lost.
“You remembered,” he said quietly.
Lowering the bow, Scarlet kept her eyes on him. “I remembered.”
They stared at each other, passing pride and hope back and forth between their connection and, for the first time since she’d met Tristan, she didn’t hate the curse.
Tristan’s smile went crooked. “Now do it again.” He pulled another arrow from his quiver and tossed it to her.
Scarlet snatched it out of the air effortlessly, a smile pulling up the corners of her mouth.
With Tristan looking at her like that—like she was powerful and amazing and strong—she could do anything.
22
Scarlet sighed in frustration as she walked through the dead leaves of the forest floor. She and Tristan had been hunting all morning, but had yet to see a single creature.
“It is as if all the animals of the forest have been scared away,” Scarlet said, squinting into the trees.
Tristan came up beside her, looking around as well. “Food is scarce and people are desperate. The animals have probably fled to safer regions.”
Scarlet frowned as they moved on.
“Do not worry,” Tristan said beside her. “You have plenty of food at home.”
“Yes, but winter is coming soon and I have nothing preserved.”
“Do you think I will let you go hungry?”
“No,” Scarlet responded. “But I’d rather not rely on you through the winter months when the snow is so thick your journey to my hut will be impossible.”
He smiled happily. “Nothing is impossible.”
She looked at him with a half-smile. “You are impossible.”
“As are you, my lady.”
“Don’t call me that.”
He laughed. “Why not?”
“Because I am not a lady.” Scarlet looked straight ahead as they walked. “I am a thief.”
He shrugged. “You are a lady thief.”
“Who steals from your father,” Scarlet added.
Tristan was silent for a long moment and Scarlet regretted her words.
She hated reminding him of her crimes. It was probably hard enough for him to overlook them when he was sneaking food away from his castle, let alone while he was traipsing through the woods with her.
She was a fool.
“My father is a greedy man.” Tristan looked up at the treetops. “He takes and takes, and thinks only of himself. Any theft you’ve committed against him was deserved.” They walked on for a minute before Tristan concluded, “I hope to never be like him.”
Scarlet turned to face him. “What do you hope to be like?”
Tristan tilted his head, the sunlight painting his face as he thought. “I hope to live with a purpose beyond myself. I hope to have a life of meaning, a life worth fighting for. Dying for.” He shrugged. “I hope to be much more than I am.”
Respect filled Scarlet as she looked at the hunter beside her. The hunter who had surrendered his kill to her, saved her from thieves, shared his food with her mother.
“You are already the man you describe.”
As the sun filtered in through the trees and splashed against their cloaks and hunting gear, Scarlet looked Tristan over and a realization struck her, causing her heart to beat wildly in her chest.
Somewhere between the trees and the dirt, Scarlet had fallen in love with the hunter. Hopelessly in love.
For there was no hope for love between a thief and a nobleman.
His eyes locked on hers for a thick moment before a flock of birds rushed into the sky above them.
At first, Scarlet thought nothing of it. But when she moved forward to walk on, Tristan gently grabbed her wrist and pulled her back to him. He placed a finger in front of his full lips and motioned for her to be quiet.
Scarlet searched the trees surrounding them, but saw nothing, heard nothing. And Tristan had yet to let go of her wrist.
Which she did not mind at all.
A distant rustle, a pounding of hooves and Scarlet realized someone was coming toward them.
No.
A group of someones were coming toward them.
Tristan’s eyes shot to the sound and Scarlet followed his gaze. Several men on horseback were making their way through the trees in the far distance.
Scarlet’s eyes widened in panic. It was the earl’s men, coming to collect thieves from the forest. She immediately pulled for her bow to defend herself, but Tristan took tighter hold of her wrist.
She shot her eyes to him in frustration.
“Wait, Scar,” he said.
Scar.
He called her Scar. Like he knew her. Like she was his to name.
Halting her movements, Scarlet waited.
Tristan glanced around the clearing then looked her up and down in worry. He hesitated, then pulled her behind a large tree. Setting her back up against the tree, Tristan began tucking her cloak in around her. Like it was
a blanket and she was a cold child.
She opened her mouth to ask what he was so afraid of—after all, these were his father’s men. These were men that would have no business arresting Tristan. Right?
But Tristan set a gentle finger on her lower lip to keep her quiet. Scarlet looked up at his eyes for answers, but his only response was a look that said trust me.
And she did.
Keeping silent eyes on Tristan, Scarlet listened as the hooves grew louder and the trees around them began to sway with the commotion. Dust kicked up, small rocks flew and, from the corner of her eye, Scarlet saw a squirrel dart up a nearby tree trunk in fear.
How many men were there? Dozens?
As the group drew closer, Tristan moved his body closer to Scarlet’s as if shielding her. His finger still rested on her bottom lip as he looked around carefully.
Scarlet’s eyes traced up and down his profile, distracted by how truly handsome he was and how much she enjoyed the feel of his finger against her mouth.
Tristan’s large body, now nearly pressed up against hers, was warm and inviting, filling Scarlet’s head with deliciously inappropriate thoughts. Her eyes traced his square jaw, wondering what it would be like to run her finger along his dark stubble and down to his throat….
He dropped his finger from her mouth and leaned in even closer, his heat against her as he moved his head to the side to look around the tree.
Scarlet felt small in between the tree and Tristan’s body. Small and safe.
Tristan shifted, his chest brushing against hers. Pounding hooves came to a stop not far from where they hid and Scarlet’s palms began to sweat.
Why was Tristan nervous? His neck was only inches away from Scarlet’s face as he strained to see the earl’s men. Scarlet spied his beating pulse just below the skin of his neck, and it was running high.
They must be in danger.
A low voice croaked out from the group of men, “I’m sure I saw someone right here.”
“Very well,” another voice sighed. “Spread out, all of you! Search this area until we find the thief!”
Tristan pulled his head back to her and closed his eyes as he silently cursed. Opening his eyes, he looked at her sternly and brought his mouth up to her ear.
“Stay. Here,” he whispered.
His hot breath sent tingles down her spine. Good tingles. Tingles Scarlet wanted to bottle up and take home.