Free Daughter of Sherwood by Laura Strickland Page B

them, but he had not yet interfered. Madlyn had sent him early to bring the last of Sally’s belongings from Oakham and help her settle, but with that done he kicked his heels and grew steadily more restive. Sparrow could feel his tension and judged they were mere moments from a fine explosion. But meanwhile...
    He placed his hand beneath Wren’s wrist and let his lips brush her ear. “There now. Try again.”
    He stepped back, and she let her arrow fly. It clove the air cleanly and flew true to the target, perhaps sixty paces off.
    “Better!” She turned and flashed him a smile, judging herself. “But not yet good enough.”
    “You come easy to this,” Sparrow said, and meant it. Her stance with the bow was elegant, her form that of someone who had worked for years before the target. Her eyes, as might be expected, were those of a hawk.
    “Move the target farther off,” she requested. “I would see, can I hit it still.”
    Without a word, Sparrow complied, while keeping an eye on Martin. Wren followed him into the trees and waited while he hung the target—a ragged sack daubed with markings—on a tall ash tree.
    “I did not expect to enjoy this, Sparrow. Thank you for urging me to it.”
    She looked happy, and he smiled.
    In a murmur, she went on, “I can scarcely recall the last time I enjoyed anything so much. Lil’s lessons, no doubt. She taught me much, late in the evenings when most of the kitchen slept.”
    “’Tis a fine thing, discovering a talent. In time, you may come to appreciate other things about Sherwood, as well—the sense of freedom not known in any village or, indeed, any scullery, and even the sense of connection that so worries you now.”
    “You need not stand whispering! What are you doing back here among the trees? She is not yours alone, Sparrow, to keep out of sight.”
    Outrage flashed in Wren’s eyes even as she turned on Martin, who stood just behind them with fists planted on his hips, primed for the promised uproar.
    “I am not anyone’s,” Wren told him before Sparrow could draw a breath, “save my own.”
    Mildly, Sparrow put in, “We were but moving the target.”
    “And that takes the both of you, does it, off alone?”
    “Not alone,” Sparrow returned. “Obviously you could still see us.”
    Martin elbowed Sparrow aside and presented himself to Wren. “I will instruct you with the bow, and the sword as well, if you like. Only put yourself in my hands.”
    Wren’s head came up and her eyes glittered. Sparrow suddenly remembered once seeing a look just like that on Robin’s face, before an encounter with the king’s guard. He had been a small boy, but it was not a look easily forgotten.
    “Get away from me,” Wren told Martin.
    “Eh?”
    “Did you not hear? Are you deaf as well as stupid?”
    Martin’s anger flamed. “Now, you listen—”
    “I will not! I am weary of your voice, Martin Scarlet, and I can no longer bear you watching me endlessly. You are nearly as bad as Lambert.”
    “Do not say that.” Martin reached out to touch her, but her emotions boiled over; she stepped away and raised the bow, arrow well notched.
    Something flared in Martin’s eyes—passion, mingled with admiration. “Hey, now—you will not shoot me.”
    “Are you willing to wager your life on that?”
    “Aye. Give me the bow, Wren, and do not behave like a child. There is too much at stake.”
    “I, behave like a child? It is you, brooding and sulking like an infant denied a sweet.”
    “You do not understand, Wren, how I feel.”
    “And you do not care how I feel! Now clear off before I force you to.” Golden eyes locked with blue and dared Martin to step wrong. Sparrow, caught and bombarded with the feelings of both, felt scorched. “Go back to Sally,” Wren seethed, “where you are wanted. For I do not wish for your company!”
    “You do not mean that.” Martin, frustrated at last, waved a hand at Sparrow wildly. “You cannot say you prefer him?”
    “I