Page 90 of The Washwoman at the River’s End

I hate myself for thinking it. For noticing how the sun makes her red hair shine and her freckles more prominent. How the reflection of the water makes her blue-grey eyes look deeper than the river itself.

“You’ll never catch a fish with yer bare hands,” I call, trying not to notice the way her breasts swell with her slow, steady breaths.

She scoffs, but the only thing that moves is her face. Her body remains perfectly still, ready to strike. “Hush. You’ll frighten them,” she hisses, eyes following a long, speckled blob in the water. It creeps forward to swim past her ankle, and she lunges. Water splashes outward as she careens sideways, and I push myself upright to see better.

She jumps up, triumphantly holding a wiggling brown trout overhead with both hands.

“You were saying?” she asks, a huge smile on her lips and delight in her eyes as she grabs a river rock and strikes the fish with a firm jab just behind its head. It stops fighting instantly—a quick, painless end.

My eyebrows raise in approval. “Who taught you that?”

“I taught myself. I’ve had quite a long time to learn, you know. You’d be surprised how much effort you’ll put into catching a fish when the only other thing you have to eat is bramble berries,” she says matter-of-factly, picking up several rocks to examine.

“Not how to catch them. How to kill them.”

Her hands still. “I didn’t enjoy killing it. If that’s what you’re saying.”

Shame burns the back of my neck. “No. I didnae say yeh did. But most people wouldn’t know to strike it behind the eyes like that. They’d just let it suffocate.”

Bea shakes her head, plucking up a rock with a sharp edge. “I didn’t like watching them fight for air. It looked painful. It took some time to figure it out, but a single firm strike seemed to be the quickest, most painless way.”

“Aye. It is.” She trudges to shore, lifting her skirt with one hand and holding the fish with the other. “You must have caught a lot of fish, then. Do you have to eat?” I ask, curious.

She shrugs. “Not technically. My body doesn’t change, remember?”

I force my eyes not to drop to the wet cloth clinging to the curves of her slim figure.

Bea bites her lip, dragging the sharp stone across the fish’s belly. Blood slips through her fingers as she pulls the insides out, and my stomach roils.

“Here,” I stalk forward, holding out my hand.

“I can gut a fish.” She looks at me with narrowed eyes as if I’m insulting her, but I cannae bear to see her already stained hands coated with fresh, hot blood. My stomach twists, and I clear my throat.

“As can I,” I say matter-of-factly.

Bea sighs, handing it over with a shrug. “Suit yourself.” She stands, cleaning her hands off in the water, and my pulse slows. Turning her back to me, she adds more wood to the fire.

I finish gutting the fish, then spear it on a stick. Bea holds her hand out as I move back to the fire, but I walk past her, settling down on my side of the flames and holding the fish over them to cook.

She leans back, studying me as I slowly rotate it.

“I didn’t realize you were such a gentleman,” she says with a playful smirk, and I suck on my teeth. She’s teasing me. She knows I’m not a gentleman, for the goddesses’ sake. I’m here to kill her.

So why did you buy her a dress and gather her moss for her bed? Why are you cooking her fish?

I bristle at my own thoughts. I’m behaving how a man should, prisoner or not.

For the first time, I’m glad my dàn of truth is gone. Because without it, I can pretend I’m not lying to myself.

“It’s no about being a gentleman.” I slowly twist the fish, trying to ignore her, but she leans forward, eyes boring into me. I swallow. “I’m used to taking care of people, is all.”

She crosses her arms over her knees, laying her chin atop them. “That so?” she asks, her interest clearly piqued.

I make a noncommittal noise, not wanting to tell her more about myself than I have to.

“Well? Who is it you take care of, then?” she presses, but she seems nervous. Her feet tap against the ground, and she presses her lips together. I think she’s afraid to push me. To have me pull back from the tentative understanding that has grown between us since I learned she didnae mean to kill anyone. It must be tempting, filling the silence with conversation after so long alone.

I allow my eyes to meet hers and instantly wish I hadn’t. She stops tapping her feet, and her face turns shy. She looks away, pretending to examine her hem and allowing her hair to fall in front of her eyes to block her blush.