Page 59 of The Swindler’s Daughter

Before I’d thought it all the way through, I’d pushed away from the tree. My hands reached out, grabbing the front of his shirt and pulling him closer as I went up on my toes. I found his lips, and as soon as they made contact, a shock ran through me.

The feel of his mouth pressed to mine washed me in numbness and tingles, then his lips started to move against my own and suddenly I found my hands in his hair, holding him in place so I could kiss him more thoroughly.

His hands ran up and down my back, his fingers flexing against my ribs as he kissed me and kissed me and kissed me. It was too much and not enough.

All my nervousness had been worth it. Although our first kiss had been beautiful—perfect even—there was something wildly satisfying about this kiss. He didn’t hold back as much as he had before and I was more confident that this was something real. There was so much rightness in that moment, in the way our bodies fit together, the way we breathed as one.

Eventually he pulled back, his breath labored as he pushed my hair off my forehead. “It seems your nerves serve you well,” he said as he brushed his nose with mine.

I let out a little laugh. “I was thinking the same thing.”

14

It was another harvest festival, and all the usual booths and tents were set up. Wares were sold, magic tricks performed, and the competitions drew great crowds.

Our newly formed band of outlaws had been here nearly half the day yesterday. In the past, the servants of Sutton had only been able to attend one day of festivities, but because the master and mistress of the house were gone, we had the opportunity to attend as many days as we wished.

So we had spent our time yesterday taking every opportunity to speak with anyone who would listen. We told them about the corrupt lawmen, and when we couldn’t speak to people directly, we would stand in the middle of a crowd and lament over the situation—loudly enough that those in our immediate area could overhear.

We fully planned to do more of that this afternoon, but this morning we were due at the festival’s archery course. We all had high hopes for Rowan’s success in the competition.

We’d come in a wagon with may of the other servants but immediately ran off on our own. I had given Emeline and Hunter a wave, hoping I could avoid them for the most part since Hunter was unlikely to approve of spreading intentional rumors.

Rowan, John, and I hurried toward the archery competition, weaving our way through the crowds as they thickened the closer we got to the range. Archery seemed to be the most popular of the competitions, probably because it wasn’t physically violent and so all the mothers felt fine bringing their young ones to watch.

When we reached the range, Rowan gave me a firm kiss on the mouth. “For luck,” he said with a jump of his eyebrows, then he hurried away to line up with the other competitors.

I just smiled and joined John as we went to find a good spot from which to watch. There was a platform set up along one side of the range where the officials sat. Last year it had been Magistrate Phillips who sat on that platform alongside Princess Marilee and Sir James. Phillips had been the official judge, but he’d given the position of Lady Paramount to Marilee the year after she married Sir James. No one had to wonder why. It was what the people wanted, after all. Being declared a winner by a beautiful princess was so much more exciting than having a weathered old man do it. But today Phillips was gone, and though Reeve should have sat in his place, it was one of the constables who took the seat, acting as official judge while the Lady Paramount, whom I didn’t recognize, sat beside him, ready to cheer the competitors and present the trophies when the time came.

I pulled my gaze from the platform and searched among the contestants for Rowan. I watched as about twenty-five archers lined up at one end, waiting their turn to prove their mettle and hopefully move on to the next round.

As the first group of five stepped up to the line, a little thrill shot through me. Something about their confident stance, the way they balanced their bows in one hand, left me fixated, just as it had last year. A horn sounded and I watched as each of the five competitors reached back, retrieved an arrow from their quiver, and shot it at the target in front of them.

Their success in hitting the targets ranged widely, but I could imagine what mistakes some of them had made, and I guessed that if I had been down there, I would have been eliminated straight off.

When the next set of five stepped up, I paid attention to the way some fidgeted. Each man held a hand at his side, fingers twitching, reflexes at the ready, anticipating the moment when the horn would sound.

This group seemed even quicker than the first and I edged closer, anxious to see the rest.

John chuckled at my shoulder. “I didn’t know you were so keen on sporting competitions.”

“Just this one.” I loved the skill that archery required. The balance, speed, form, and accuracy.

It had been watching this very competition last year that had convinced me that I wanted to learn. Before then, I’d been interested in sword fighting. I’d even convinced Emeline to start teaching me. But then I’d seen the archers exhibit their skills and I’d known—this was what I was meant to learn.

The third group of five stepped to their marks and my attention was once again arrested, this time by one archer in particular. Rowan’s position was closest to those of us watching. His ice-blue eyes and blond hair made him stick out in a crowd.

I wondered if all the young women in the arena were watching Rowan, as captivated as I was by the way he held himself. While others around his age looked nervous standing up against seasoned archers, Rowan was at ease, utterly focused on the target in front of him. The hand at his side did not fidget or twitch, instead hanging loose and easy—relaxed even.

Then the horn sounded, and I could have sworn his arrow was nocked before any of the others even put a hand to the arrows in their quivers. Then the thunk of his arrow hitting his target sounded a full beat before any of the others. I was impressed. I, who had seen his skills up close regularly over the last months, was in awe of what he could do, especially when compared to those around him. I was lucky he’d agreed to teach me in the first place—for many reasons.

I followed him with my eyes as he moved out of the way, making room for the next group of archers. I loved that he wasn’t swaggering. He didn’t bask in the attention that his skill had garnered. He also didn’t try to avoid the attention or look awkward about it. He accepted a handshake or two with ease and settled back to watch the next round. It was strange that I’d ever found him arrogant.

Perhaps it was the force of my stare. Perhaps it was just coincidence. Whatever the reason, his gaze suddenly swung our direction and settled on me.

I couldn’t help the smile that lit my face. I was so proud of him. So I let myself stare into his pale blue eyes, my bottom lip caught in my teeth. I felt my pulse beat in my neck, three, four, five times, before one corner of his mouth curved up. Then he winked at me.

And I looked away. It was a heady feeling, flirting with a man from across the arena. Finally I understood all the flirtations I’d witnessed during these festivals. I’d seen it time and time again in my younger years. The revelry made people giddy and silly. They did ridiculous things that they would never have done in the course of their normal lives. The number of meaningless kisses and flirtations that I’d witnessed—and taken advantage of—as a pickpocket were too numerous to try to count.