Page 39 of Feathered Thief

One corner of his mouth curled up, and he inquired in a deeper tone, “Helena?”

“Where are you heading?” she blurted, tearing her gaze away.

How embarrassing, to be caught gawking! Not that he seemed to mind.

“I planned to practice shooting with this.”

She noticed the bow in his hand, which might not have been there a moment before. “I’ve never seen a bow that tall.” A man must be very strong to draw such a bow.

“It’s taller than I am.”

And he was tall enough that she had to look up at him. “May I try it?” she asked on impulse. Pretty much everything she said to him surprised her.

He raised one dark brow. “Are you serious?”

She nodded eagerly. “Show me how?”

With a shrug and a little quirk of his lips, he said, “Sure. Why not?” and led the way to a target range that seemed strangely familiar. Floating on bliss, she knew—without knowing how she knew—that this young man was everything she admired most, in appearance and in character.

“Mind if I take a few shots with my bow first?” she asked.

“Go right ahead.”

She was jittery at first but soon settled down and hit the target consistently.

“You’re an excellent archer, Helena,” he said in a matter-of-fact tone while helping her collect her arrows. “Not just ‘good for a girl.’ You’re good in any company,” he added. Instead of feeling flustered, she basked in his honest admiration. It was only a dream, so why be self-conscious?

“Now it’s your turn to show off,” she said.

He strung his bow, apparently without effort, then flashed a smile that weakened her knees. Thankfully, she had a moment to recover while he faced a distant bluff where she saw more targets lined up, looking tiny at this distance. After an “all clear” flag waved, her dream man nocked a huge arrow, drew, and fired in one smooth motion. Then another, and another, in quick succession until his quiver was empty.

When everyone at that practice range had finished shooting, and Lenka followed her dream man to help collect his arrows, she realized that every last one hadat leaststruck the target. Most were in or around the target’s center circle.

The other archers also exclaimed, and Lenka’s handsome friend laughed. “I couldn’t have planned that better. What with making every shot, and you here to see it . . . I must be dreaming.”

Lenka felt her heart drumming, yet she grinned easily. “You mean, you don’t always make a perfect shot?”

His grimace was part grin. “Notquitealways. Are you ready to try the longbow?”

Until that moment she had never realized it was possible to feel simultaneously relaxed, jittery, and blissful. “Yes.”

“Come on then.”

When everyone had collected their arrows and returned to the shooting line, he began to explain and demonstrate. She did try to listen, but mostly she noticed him. Everything about him—his profile, a curl stuck to his forehead, his height, the breadth of his shoulders, the muscle definition beneath his tunic, his strong hands, his voice. She didn’t even care that he smelled of sweat.

Then he placed the massive bow in her hands, offered her an arrow that felt more like a spear, and talked her through the process. “Ready?”

“I think so.”

“Then, nock!”

She placed the arrow on the string.

“Draw!”

She pulled, but nothing happened. She pulled harder. “Is it stuck on something? It won’t budge!”

“It looks right.” He sounded puzzled. “Want me to get it started for you?”

---