The Last Arrow RH3 by Marsha Canham Page A

another full slice of bread in the basket.
    Renaud declined, however, and leaned back in his chair, He was rubbing his hands over his belly and offering up a complimentary belch of satisfaction as Brenna came down the stairs and swept past. She saw him glance over ...
    then lance over again when she stopped in front of Lord Randwulf and Lady Servanne and favored them with a perfectly executed curtsy.
    "My lord father, my lady mother; I trust this meets your approval?"
    The Wolf stared so long and so hard—as did the rest of the gathered assembly whose silence spread like a slow wave down the length of the great hall—two pale rosettes of color bloomed on Brenna's cheeks. "I keep forgetting how beautiful you can be when you put our mind to it," her father said finally. "A kind thing to say, but unnecessary.
    I only wore this to mind you that I am perfectly capable of representing the noble house of Amboise." He sighed and shook his head. "Neither your mother nor I would argue your capabilities, daughter. We are only leaning toward caution. These are not normal times. With all the political unrest, the plottings and intrigues of both the French and English kings ... the tournament will draw the worst of men as well as the best. The chateau itself is not safe. It has too many dark niches and high ramparts, too many shadowy corners for trouble to hide."
    "Trouble?" Sparrow snorted and reached across Renaud to stab the point of his eating knife into a delectable morsel of poultry left on a board. "Infested and overrun, mores the
    like. With scullions and fools, trulls and trollops, throat-slitters and sin-eaters who would do more for the promise of a coin than you or I could do for want of imagining. All this as well as blood sport, drunkenness, debauchery ..."
    Brenna set her jaw. "I have seen—and drawn—blood before. I have also witnessed drunkenness and debauchery right here within the walls of our own castle. A full week of it, as I recall, following the victory at Roche-au-Moines."
    "Ah yes," Richard commented from behind. "But the men of Amboise know and respect your skill with a dagger and shortsword."
    "The men of Chateau Gaillard will know it too if they press me too close."
    "There will be other tournaments."
    "Indeed there will," she said, glaring at him. "For you as well. There is no portentous need for you to throw yourself down a jousting run at Gaillard. Not with your head cracked and both eyes blackened."
    "There is nothing wrong with my head or my eyes."
    "Not at the moment there isn't," she said succinctly.
    Lord Randwulf tried to take control again, but it was difficult to do with a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
    It was Lady Servanne who offered up a sigh as she slipped her hand into his. "You really should try to hold your pride a little closer to your chest, my love."
    He raised her hand, kissed it, and pressed it over his heart. "It already is as close as I can possibly hold it."
    Brenna wrinkled her nose in Richard's direction and walked around to take her place at the table, which happened to be only two seats away from Griffyn Renaud. She was aware of the pale jade eyes following her, but when she glanced over to challenge his impudence, he had already wisely turned away.
    He had to look away. It was either that or leave the table, which would only offer up more reason for her to be suspicious and hostile. In the forest, staring down the shaft of an arrow, all he had seen were those huge violet eyes, dark and sparkling with the desire to run him through. He had not doubted for a minute that she was fully capable of doing it, and the knowledge had tempered his anger, changed it to curiosity more than anything else.
    He could have overpowered her at any time, of course—at least, he told himself he could—though the demonstration with the longbow had certainly prompted him to err on the side of caution. He had called for only a small effort on Centaur's part to unseat her, and the fact she