Ransom My Heart by Meg Cabot Page B

extended the curve of the arrow’s flight.
    â€œBut,” Hugo said, scrutinizing the violet-tipped projectile, “while it might lengthen your shot, it also makes your arrows highly distinctive.”
    Finnula shrugged, not understanding his meaning straight away. “Oh, aye, but it seems to work—”
    â€œAnd Sheriff de Brissac hasn’t yet learned how to identify your handiwork?”
    Comprehension dawned. Suddenly uncomfortable with the shift the conversation had taken, Finnula took the quiver from him and turned her attention to dinner. “I’ll rub this fine fellow with some herbs,” she said, deliberately changing the subject. “With any luck, he should be done in half an hour—”
    Hugo chuckled. “I see. Your troubles with the shire reeve aren’t any of my business?”
    Finnula sank to her knees by the fire and industrially began applying a layer of spice to her kill. She kept her eyes on her work,hoping that the red glow of the firelight hid her blush. “I have no troubles with the sheriff,” she said nonchalantly. Then, flicking a quick glance in the knight’s direction, muttered, “None that he can prove, anyway.”
    Hugo joined her on the hard ground, his joints popping in protest as he lowered his massive frame to the grass. He sat far enough away that their thighs were not exactly touching, but close enough that the chance of such contact occurring was a distinct possibility. Finnula regarded him nervously as she set the rabbit roasting over the flames, but all he did was lean forward, his broad shoulder suddenly blocking out all the firelight, and give his soup a stir.
    â€œI see,” her prisoner said, his deep voice inflectionless. “But all the man would need is a single shaft—”
    â€œI don’t leave my arrows lying about,” Finnula said matter-of-factly.
    â€œBut surely you’ve missed from time to time—”
    Finnula sniffed. “I don’t miss.”
    â€œYou can’t always hit your mark, not every time—”
    That stung. “I do,” she snapped. “You think that because I’m a woman, there is something lacking in my skills as a hunter? I’ll have you know that I’m the best shot in all of Shropshire. I have a golden arrowhead at home that I won at the Dorchester Fair to prove it—”
    â€œI’m just saying that everyone misses now and again—”
    â€œI never miss. I strike to kill, not maim.” Finnula glared at him resentfully, forgetting to rotate the skewered meat. “There aren’t any does roaming about the earl’s lands with my arrows in their flanks. What I aim for, I kill.”
    It seemed to her that Sir Hugh took an intense interest in his soup all of a sudden. He dashed in a few pinches of the same herbs that Finnula had rubbed into her hare.
    â€œAnd this earl, the one whose game you’re poaching—”
    Too late, Finnula realized her mistake, and she quickly bit down on her lower lip. When was she going to learn to keep her mouth shut? Verily, this knight was able to draw her out with the ease of the slyest village gossip.
    â€œI didn’t say I was poaching,” Finnula grumbled.
    â€œDidn’t you?” Hugo’s deep voice rumbled with amusement. “I believe you mentioned that that was the root of your troubles with Sheriff de Brissac.”
    Scowling, Finnula turned the skewer. She realized, as the aromas from the soup and the meat began to fill the air, that she was hungry. She hadn’t had a bite to eat since the inn in Leesbury.
    â€œIt’s not poaching, exactly,” she explained reluctantly. “The game I kill never actually leaves the earl’s demesnes—”
    â€œWhat do you mean?” The look he shot her was uncomfortably sharp. In the firelight, his changeable eyes had gone yellow as amber. “What in God’s name do you do with