The Irish Warrior

“I didn’t lose my head.” His low voice rode through the trees and over her shoulders.

“No?”

“Nay.”

“What was that, then?”

A pause. “That was hardly my head.”

“Indeed.”

She heard him take a deep breath, let it out. “I think we’ve to admit, Senna, that touching is a rash and dangerous thing.”

“Exceedingly.”

“We will not anymore.”

She nodded crisply. “Of course not.”

“And ye’ve to stop…” His voice faded away.

“Stop what?”

Silence.

She raised her eyebrows at the squirrel.

He gave what sounded like a ragged sigh. “Senna, ye have to see, I’m at yer mercy.”

She swallowed thickly. “One could be excused for not seeing it that way. Considering you have a bow and a sword and all sorts of muscles.”

“Aye, well, this is a more difficult matter than swords and bows.”

“Not to you.”

For a moment, he was quiet. “Aye. To me.”

She inhaled deeply, cool evening air. She let her breath out slowly, as he had, in measured degrees. “Not to me,” she said, lifting her chin that extra little bit. It so often helped. It failed so miserably.

“Nay?”

“No. I trow, I can hardly recollect what we were speaking about. Can you?”

The invitation to conspiracy came out sharply. Silence stretched out between them like an open range. Her breath sounded loud in her ears. She looked over. The bow hung from his fingertips as he watched her. She could divine nothing of what went on behind his eyes.

“No,” he agreed slowly. “What were we speaking of?”

“Muscles, itches, I can hardly recall.”

With the casual grace of a predator, he pushed off the tree. She realized she was trembling. Her hands, her legs. He stopped inches away.

“Bows,” he murmured. He swept his palm across her cheek, a swift, gentle touch, then dropped his hand. “We were speaking of being mean with a bow.”

&nbsp

; She sniffed. “Were we?”

A small smile edged up a corner of his mouth. “I am certain of it.”