One hand resting on the hilt of his sword, he waited for her. She had the muscle for the weight of bow he’d chosen for her. He could hope she showed more talent there than with a sword.
It continued to baffle and frustrate him that a woman with her strength and her grace—for she had more than her share of both— would fumble so much with weapons.
She’d improved, he reminded himself as he dug out some patience. No question she’d improved. Though she’d never be a master or any sort of clever tactician with the blade, she’d hold her own.
Until someone cut off her arm.
And since it was up to him to see that never happened, Keegan felt entitled to some frustration.
To keep his mind focused on the task at hand, he told himself it hardly mattered her hair was brighter than the last fiery show of autumn leaves.
“As with the sword,” he said without preamble, “you aim the pointy end at the target.”
“I’ve got that part.”
He handed her a bow. “This weight will suit you well enough.”
“Weight?”
“The string, you see, the strength you need to draw it back. First watch.” He picked up another bow, took his stance.
“We won’t nock an arrow yet, but I would use my draw hand to do that, then grip the bowstring with three fingers, the bow I take with the other hand.”
He held up his palm. “You know the lifeline on the palm?”
“Yes.”
“I hold the bow with thumb inside up to that line before I lift my arm, keep my shoulders level. Level,” he repeated. “Then I draw, this way, you see?”
She watched him draw the bowstring smoothly back toward the right side of his face.
“And that eye, that same side—the right for you, for me, the left for others—you train your focus on your target. Now draw the blades in your back together, chest out—for the power, the muscle and strength of your back, you see?”
“All right.”
“Then you take your fingers from the string and loose the arrow, and as you do, your hand moves to the rear, under your ear.”
“More steps than I realized.” And she concentrated on keeping them in order in her head. “I figured you just pulled it back, aimed, let it go.”
“No. Try it as I said.”
She tried to mimic his stance, reminded herself to keep her shoulders level, gripped the string and the bow as instructed, drew back.
She barely moved the bow an inch, reset, put more muscle into it. When she released, it twanged, and the string slapped against her forearm.
Since she wore a jacket, it was more shock than pain.
“Again. Slow and smooth for now.”
She did it again, and again, and again until he deemed her ready for an arrow.
“With your draw hand”—he demonstrated—“you nock the arrow. Your three fingers hold the nocked end and the string.”
In what seemed like one fluid move, he nocked the arrow, lifted the bow, drew, and shot. And naturally, hit the center of the target.
Naturally.
She repeated each step in her head, followed them. When she released the arrow it took a shaky flight before hitting the ground barely four feet from where she stood.
“No,” he said simply, and handed her another arrow. “Shoulders level, and pulled back. The draw smooth, steady.”
This time the arrow flew a little farther—and a good three feet to the right of the target into a pretty hedgerow of fuchsia.
“No,” he said again, and this time moved behind her.
He took her shoulders, turned them. “It goes where you send it. It hasn’t a choice in the matter, does it? You do.”
He pressed his face close to hers to share her aim, his hands over hers to guide her. “Pull the energy, the power, into your back. Aye, now, release.”
The arrow hit the target—not the center, but it hit it.
She smelled of cinnamon, all but hazed his mind with it.
He stepped back.
“What have you been doing?” he demanded.
“I’ve been trying to shoot a damn arrow.”
“Before. What spell have you been working?”
“None today—not really. Why?” She rolled her aching shoulder. “We baked pies and bread, made soup from pumpkins, from the garden. Why?”
“You smell of them.”
And the oils from such spices could be used, he knew, in spells to stir lust, even love. Forbidden spells.
He handed her another arrow. “Again.”
“Does the smell of pumpkin pie piss you off?”
“No. The scent of the spices is in your hair, on your skin. These can be used for spells and potions as well as cooking.”
“I know. I’ve studied, practiced, used them that way. But today, it was for cooking.”
She started to nock the arrow, then it struck her.
Insulted her down to the marrow.
“Love potions? They can be used in love potions. You think I would do that? I know they’re forbidden, and I respect the craft. I respect my gift. I respect your choice to feel what you feel. I’m not so damn desperate I’d mix up a love potion so you’d want me again.”
“I only asked because … bugger it. I’m here to train you, to prepare you for what’s coming. There are Fey who will not come back home again after Samhain, and I must send them to fight knowing it. I’m not here to want you, and yet I do.”
“And that pisses you off. Your problem, Taoiseach.” Furious, she nocked the arrow. It ended up straight down in the grass barely a foot from her boots.
“Shit, shit, shit!”
He laughed, couldn’t help himself, and she whirled on him, shoved him.
Still laughing, he caught her close, lifted her to her toes. “Once, gods be damned, just once and we’ll be done with it.”
He brought his mouth down on hers, took what he needed. And felt the release of it even as the wanting quivered through him like the bowstring.
The scent of her, the taste, the feel, all these weeks without them, demanded that he take what he could, if only for the moment.
She gave him nothing at first, not even a fight. But he felt that wanting in her as in him. And she surrendered to it, taking as he took, wrapping around him in the quieting sunlight in a field that smelled of grass and sheep.
When he let her go, she put her hand on his heart. “Why once?”
“Because some won’t come back, and I have to give all I have to them. I have to think of them, not my wants, to think of those who fight knowing they won’t come back.”
She left her hand on his heart another moment, then let it fall. “All right. We’ll both think of them.”
She picked up the bow, the arrow, and tried again.
In the house, Marg stood at the window with Tarryn, watching Breen attempt to shoot an arrow.
“She favors you, Marg. Not just the hair—though, gods, it’s glorious—but the shape of her face, her build. I know what having her back means to you.”
“Such a narrow life Jennifer gave her. Pushing the roundness of the girl into a flat hole, day after day. I think one of the greatest joys of my life has been watching her wake. And the greatest sorrows knowing, now that she has, what she’ll face.”
“You told me her powers run deep, even deeper than your own.”
“Aye. She’s yet to tap the whole of them.” Marg let out a laugh as Breen’s arrow hit the ground. “How long do you figure Keegan’s patience will last here?”
“Never long enough. He trains her to fight, and must of course, but it won’t be the sword or arrow for her in the end.” Another arrow hit the ground, and Tarryn just shook her head.