Page 37 of The Swindler’s Daughter

“Is that crazy?” I asked, wondering if I was letting my imagination run away.

He shook his head slowly. “No. Not crazy at all.” He blinked several times, like he was trying to pull things into focus. “In fact, I’m certain you’re right.” He was quiet, thinking hard for several moments before he looked at me again. “You could help us.”

I turned away from him with a growl. It wasn’t that simple. Not for me.

“You said yourself that I was right,” he said from behind me.

I rubbed at my temples. “I said you might be right.”

“You could help,” he said again.

“And what would that accomplish?” I asked, finally turning to look at him. “They’re not going to stop. Nothing you or I could do would make them stop.”

“Which is why we have to do something,” he said with conviction. “The burden they are inflicting isn’t going to go away, but we can do something to relieve it. Why do you think I catch rabbits and birds and deliver them around the village? Why do you think I fight to return the goods that are stolen from the vendors? Why do you think I risk taking a pouch of money off a lawman’s belt?” he asked in earnest. “It’s because I can do some good with those things. I can relieve some suffering. I can put food back on the tables of those who otherwise wouldn’t have enough. This tax is going to make every villager’s life worse. Why do you think there are so many street children desperate enough to steal for Reeve? They need us to do more, not less.”

Shame crashed over me. Shame that I had doubted him and disapproved. Shame that he had to point out something that should have been obvious. Shame that I knew what he was doing was right, and yet I also knew that I wouldn’t be brave enough to help him.

I stepped close enough to set my hand on Rowan’s chest, wishing that the gesture could be more than a conciliation. Wishing I had the right to be closer to him. Wishing he wanted me there. I looked up at him, prepared to speak, but the words blew away as soon as I saw the way he looked down at me.

Oh laws.

Was I imagining the heat in his eyes? Did he really slant toward me, leaning into my touch? Air whooshed from my lungs, but I fought to regain my composure and shove all those feelings and what-ifs aside. “You’re doing good work” was all I said as I ignored the thrumming pulse that beat between us. “I wish you the best of luck.” Then I dropped my hand and walked away, clenching my fist around the warmth that lingered there.

***

“You’re tense today.”

Rowan’s observation came from behind me. I’d been here at the range only two days ago, but that hadn’t been for our usual lesson. So here I was, eager to learn.

Or rather trying to be eager to learn. Trying to care at all about archery when children were being turned into thieves and Rowan was more appealing by the day.

He was right. I was tense. Not just because of what was happening in the village but because of him. Whenever he was near, I was acutely aware of him. Laws, even when he wasn’t near, I was aware of him. Thinking of him. Wanting to be near him.

Wanting to forget he was a thief.

I wanted. I wanted him. It felt stupid and silly to even think it, but it was true.

The ache I felt for him was similar to that aching hunger that had been a visiting companion throughout my childhood. And I was nearly as desperate to ease this hunger as I had been to ease that one. And the wrongness of that—of being so desperate for scraps of affection from someone who, logically, was all wrong for me—was torturous.

He set a hand on my shoulder and the warmth of it shot through me.

I wanted.

“Drop your shoulders. Stiffness will not yield good results,” he advised.

I shut my eyes, trying not to hurt over the fact that I was aching for want of him while he was simply tutoring me in archery. Stupid, silly romantic notions.

I gave a swift shake of my head, trying to rid myself of the obsessive thoughts that insisted on clouding my mind.

He moved his hand to wrap it around my own where it held the bow, loosening my fingers until both the bow and arrow were removed from my grasp.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you wound so tightly,” he commented as he stood facing me, concern written in his eyes. “What’s wrong?”

I scoffed. “What isn’t wrong?” I asked darkly.

He gave me a sad smile. “Is it getting to you?”

“Yes.” We were likely not referring to the same thing, but it didn’t matter. I was being driven mad. He might as well know it.