CHAPTER 19
Helena
The summer sun has come and gone,
And still I stand here waiting
Wondering how the world moves on
When all within me’s breaking.
‘Fear not, I’ll come,’ you promised me,
And hearing, I believed you.
But golden now are all the leaves
And still I’m here without you.”
Alanna’s voice was beautiful, but Helena blocked it out. Bad enough her pretty voice made Helena think of Axel’s performance at Katy’s birthday ball last summer; now, Alanna was singing of love lost. And if there was anything Helena wanted to avoid more than happy memories of home, it was that.
She glanced around the circle. The flickering orange light highlighted the contented faces of her companions. All except one: Le Capuchon leaned forward on his elbows with his face shrouded as always. His scruffy beard didn’t give much away, but he looked serious. As always.
What was he thinking about as he listened to Alanna’s song? Did he picture himself singing it to Daphne as Helena pictured Michael?
Fiddling with her cane, she considered retreating again. This time, she would slip away into the trees where she couldn’t hear the song and where no one would find her. Not even a well-meaning, hooded bandit.
She should have kept quiet rather than cover her distress with teasing. Then maybe he would have left her on the edge of camp where she could be as alone as she felt. It hurt less that way.
When the song ended, Helena dutifully clapped with the others. The next was a light, happy piece, so she pasted on a smile to match.
Le Capuchon’s face turned toward her and for a moment, she wondered if he saw through her facade. Then he turned back to Alanna, and Helena felt her traitorous heart sink.
It had no business caring. Men were all the same, and she didn’t want to waste her time or energy on another.
She peeked over at him. Loathe as she was to admit it, his silent presence had been surprisingly comforting. It would have been nice to stay sitting on the edge of camp with him, even if he didn’t come with her brother’s affection.
Helena wasn’t interested in a suitor, but maybe she could use a friend.
If she could only convince him that she wasn’t his enemy.
~
“The summer sun has come and gone,
And still I stand here waiting.
Wondering how the world moves on
When all within me’s—”
Helena stopped singing when she noticed a shadow next to her. Holding up the pan she was scrubbing, she said, “There’s something surprisingly satisfying about cleaning a dish. Even if it does freeze my fingers.”
“Then I should leave you to it. Farewell,” a man’s voice replied.
“Capuchon!” She whirled around. “I thought you were Rouge.”
His hand steadied her just before she toppled into the stream. “An interesting mistake. Careful; you’ll be quite cold if you take a bath.”
“A bath,” Helena sighed. “What I wouldn’t give for one of those. With hot water, of course.”
“Which you won’t find here. Unfortunately.” His tone was dry as he helped her up from the bank. “But perhaps this will make up for it.”
He drew something from his pocket. It fit inside his fist, but it was the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen.
“Is that the string for my bow?”
Le Capuchon snorted. “It is. I didn’t realize a bowstring could be so emotional.”
Shooting him a glare, she replied, “A bow is a perfectly good reason to be emotional. Especially after such a long separation as I’ve had.”
“Even for a lady?”
Some of her pleasure evaporated. “As I said before, I don’t really qualify. This is the proof.”
“Your parents don’t approve?”
“Of my skill? Maybe. Of my desire to do little else?” She gave a bitter laugh as she swiped the string from him. “No. My mother wouldn’t mind so much if it didn’t scare off potential suitors, but Papa would still expect me to pursue more useful activities.”
“Is that why you ran away?”
Ignoring his question, she held out a hand and asked, “Do I get some arrows to go with it?”
He rested his hand on the arrows in his quiver, his gloved fingers playing with the fletching. “Let me see you string the bow.”
“I’m sorry?”
Gesturing to her, he repeated, “This is your first test. It’s been a week, but your shoulder might not be ready yet. I want to see you string it.”
He wanted to—
“Seriously? You plan to be that overbearing?” She gaped at him. Should she be outraged or touched?
He shrugged. “You have to string it if you plan to shoot.”
This was true, but it didn’t mean she had to agree with his behavior.
Keeping her eyes locked on his – or on the area she knew they were – she pulled her bow from its sheath and unwound the string. She didn’t even look away to hook the first end or while bending the bow to attach the other.
She felt a little strain, but less than when she’d strung her uncle’s bow back at Marielle’s.
“Impressive.” His voice didn’t sound impressed, but he motioned her away from the bank and reached into his quiver. Helena rushed forward eagerly, but he held it out of her reach. “There’s a stump about the right height over here. You can sit on that to shoot.”
“You missed your calling,” Helena deadpanned. “You should have been a nurse instead.”
“Do you want the arrow?”
Hobbling up to him, she glared at the side of his hood. It was tempting to take him down a notch by trying to snatch it again, but...she really, really wanted that arrow.
“Fine.” She dropped onto the stump and held out her hand. “May I have an arrow now, Mother?”
“Hardly.” Still holding the arrow aloft, he said, “Practice draw first.”
Staring contests were ineffective when one party’s eyes were hidden, so after a huff, she obliged him. His free hand rested on the pommel of his sword as he examined her form. With a critical eye, she assumed, but he didn’t oblige her with proof.
“Satisfactory?” she asked sarcastically.
He offered her the arrow. “I would recommend the trunk with the split fork. The wider branch should make a good target.”
Helena accepted it, delighting in the feel of the wood on her fingers. They were a bit chilly since she hadn’t put her gloves back on, but it was worth it.
“I’m surprised you’ve decided to trust me with this,” she said casually, running her hand down the length, appreciating the straightness of the wood and the feather-softness of the fletching. “Since you think I’m working with General Valentin.”
A gentle breeze fluttered her cloak while she waited for his reply. After a minute, he said, “I thrive on taking risks.”
“Sure you do,” she snorted. She turned away from him. “That’s the first thing I thought when I met you.”
“I did jump in front of your horse on a narrow mountain path.”
His voice held a hint of amusement this time, and Helena smiled to herself. Annoying him was fun, but so was finding his sense of humor. Perhaps that should be her new goal: make the stoic bandit laugh. When she wasn’t enjoying his frustration.
Bringing the arrow to her face, she leaned her cheek against the shaft and sighed happily. Holding an arrow in one hand and her bow in the other made her feel more at peace than she had since the moment she decided to leave home.
This was where she belonged. Out in the open, with a bow in her hand and exchanging banter with a grumpy outlaw. Not in the castle with stuffy courtiers and their arrogant ways.
She closed her eyes and exhaled slowly. Then she nocked her arrow, raised the bow, and released her shot in one smooth motion.
Her eyes flicked open as the string sprang forward, but the narrower branch was right where she had pictured it in her mind’s eye.
Her arrow landed a little off center; she hadn’t practiced in weeks, and her shoulder was stiff.
Le Capuchon cleared his throat. Helena suspected that he was carefully not looking at her. “Not bad. Maybe a little slower on the next one. A small change at this distance will make a big difference, so only adjust a little to the left.”
Helena took the next arrow with a smirk. “Only if I want the easier target.” She winked at him, then whipped off her next shot. It landed in the center of the thin trunk.
His chin jutted forward a little. She held out her hand for another arrow, but he turned away.
“The tree with the big knot is closer. Do you think you can—”
Surging to her feet, Helena switched the bow to her right hand and snaked her left around his waist. He startled back at the contact.
“What—”
She plucked an arrow from his quiver, then spun to set her right side toward the target. By the time she fell backward into him, the arrow was speeding away.
Since Le Capuchon’s hands gripped her shoulders, she felt the small flex of surprise when her arrow pierced the bark just above the last one. He stared at it for a few heartbeats before turning her toward him. “That was a left-hand shot.”
“It was.” Winking, she pulled free and plopped back onto her stump. “Can you do that?”
“And you stole one of my arrows.”
“One of the hazards of keeping your hood so low,” she teased. If only she could see the annoyed look he must be giving her right now. “If you wore it like a normal person, sudden movements wouldn’t take you by surprise as easily.”
His right hand crept up to his quiver, playing with the arrow fletching. “You’re very confident.”
“Naturally.” She held out her hand expectantly. “Shall I show you another?”
“No.” Flipping the top over the quiver, he trekked toward her target. “That’s enough for today.”
“Why?” Helena grabbed her cane and tried to follow, but a thick shrub stood between them. Was this payback? Stabbing the ground with her cane in frustration, she growled, “Who are you to decide that?”
Le Capuchon pulled the arrows out of the tree and returned them to his quiver. “You’ll hurt yourself if you push too hard too fast.”
“And what makes you think I am?” she demanded as he fought his way back through the shrub. “It’s my shoulder. I can—”
“You winced.”
She followed him toward camp, but her eyebrows pulled together. “What?”