Page 25 of Forever & Again
To Grace’s relief, Sarah nodded reluctantly. “You’re right.” She mumbled. “All I have done today is walk from here to the library, and I am already fit to go back to bed.”
Grace breathed a sigh of relief as she reached out and gave Sarah’s hand a compassionate squeeze. “Get some rest, Lizzy. Perhaps we can read together after dinner?”
Sarah’s smile brightened. “I would love to.” She took Matthew’s arm, who turned to lead her back to the settee.
Matthew looked back at Grace from over his shoulder, “Have a lovely time with Mrs. Wellick,” he drawled, giving a slight nod towards the door.
Grace turned to find Oliver stepping into the hall from outdoors. In one hand, he carried his hat, his hair wind-tossed and wild, and bits of straw stuck to the bottom of his boot. He immediately straightened when he saw Matthew and Grace watching him.
Grace turned back to Matthew, prepared to make an excuse, but he had already crossed the room to join Sarah on the settee, who was already lost in her book.
For a moment, Grace remained still, suspended in the space between where Matthew and Sarah sat and Oliver waited.
Oliver walked silently beside Grace down the winding path that led to the orchard. Neither one of them had said a word since they left the house. He could tell something was bothering her, but they had come so far over the past few days, he feared that if he pushed her, she would retreat once again.
“You are very quiet.” Grace’s voice pulled him from his thoughts. “Are you worried that I may use you as a target?”
Oliver laughed in surprise, “I had not considered that, but I suppose I am now.”
Grace watched him with clear amusement. “Wise,” she said lightly. “I have been told my aim is excellent.”
“By whom?” He teased. He was coming to learn that her well-timed barbs were her greatest defense, but he also couldnot resist the sparkle in her eye when he returned fire. “Your embroidery hoop?”
Grace’s lips parted in mock outrage. “You underestimate me, Lord Blackburn. I shall have you know I once shot a hat off of Benjamin’s head.”
“Accidentally, I presume.”
“Not at all,” she retorted, the corner of her mouth twitching with the hint of a smile. “He laughed at me.”
They continued on until they reached the small clearing Oliver had discovered earlier that morning. The crate leaned against the cherry tree where he had left it, a crude chalk circle scrawled across the front.
In an effort to keep his promise to ensure Matthew and Sarah did not find out about their little rendezvous, Oliver had taken to setting up each of their activities on his own with no help from the servants.
The past few days had been simple—birdwatching only required a notebook and pencil, and a chessboard was much easier to sneak out of the house than archery equipment.
Grace’s brow lifted at the sight of the makeshift target. “What is that?”
Oliver pressed a hand to his chest in feigned offense. “I shall have you know that crate nearly broke my back. It may not be elegant, but it will serve its purpose. Unless of course, you would rather we shoot at apples like scoundrels?”
Grace shook her head, “Not apples.” She looked up at him, her eyes dancing with anticipation. “Cherries,” she said at last, nodding towards the clusters of ripe red fruit dangling from the trees around them.
Oliver barked a laugh. “Ah, so you desire humiliation rather than sport?”
Her brow furrowed in challenge. “You doubt I can do it.”
“On the contrary, Grace,” he said, taking a step closer to her than necessary and handing her the bow. The knot in his stomach tightened as his fingers brushed over hers. “I have no doubt you are capable of doing whatever you set your mind to.”
Her eyes flickered to his, but only for a heartbeat before she turned away to notch her arrow. Oliver took a step back, for safety, and so he could clear his mind.
She released the string, and the arrow struck the bark a full hand’s breadth above the fruit. She exhaled sharply in frustration. Oliver clicked his tongue. “When you made the famed hat-shot, did Benjamin jump by chance?”
Grace shot him a fierce glare over her shoulder, though she was fighting against a smile. “You try to do better.” She quipped.
He accepted her challenge, smoothly drawing the bowstring. The arrow flew, splitting the cherry from its stem, and it dropped neatly to the grass. He offered her a deep, mocking bow. “Was that acceptable, Lady Rockwell?”
“You had the advantage,” she scowled. “The bow is clearly weighted to your preference.”
“Clearly,” he repeated, fighting a grin.
