CHAPTER 19 #2
“On the last shot,” he clarified. “I saw your face when you drew. It hurt, so it was time to stop.”
“I—”
It was sweet that he was looking out for her. But it felt condescending.
“Who said you can appoint yourself as my caretaker?” she groused. “I don’t need to be rescued.”
Le Capuchon offered a hand to help her over a fallen tree, but she ignored it. Instead, she balanced on her left foot, set her cane on the other side, and hopped over.
“You seem like the type to need one,” he answered calmly, extending his arms when her foot caught on a branch.
“How would you know?” Helena shot back. “Do you recognize yourself in me?” A grin spread across her face. “Capuchon, you aren’t a poor patient, are you?”
“The worst,” a cheerful voice replied over her head. Looking up, Helena saw Tucker standing on a branch about eight feet in the air. He held a bow in one hand, but the other rested on the tree trunk. “That’s why we all work hard to ensure he’s never injured.”
“Tucker.” Le Capuchon sounded unimpressed. “What are you doing?”
Helena grinned up at the teenager. “Good afternoon, Tucker. How is guard duty today?”
“Boring until you came along,” he replied. Dropping to a seated position, he stuffed his bow into his back sheath, grabbed the branch with his hands, and tipped back.
Helena’s free hand shot out, not that she could do much with her hurt ankle. To her surprise, Le Capuchon didn’t move as his young friend’s head swung toward the ground…
And then Tucker flipped over, landing lightly on his feet.
Her jaw dropped as her eyes brightened. Turning to Le Capuchon, she pointed at Tucker and gushed, “I want to learn that.”
The teenager laughed. “I think your caretaker will make you wait until your ankle is healed.”
“He’s not my caretaker,” Helena huffed. The bandit crossed his arms and looked at her, tilting his head. She stuck her tongue out at him. “You’re not. And I don’t plan to try until I can walk on my own.”
“Good.”
“How was archery?” Tucker walked backward ahead of them. “Did Margit prove that she only wanted your hood the day we met?”
Le Capuchon’s right hand reached for his quiver, but it hit the cover and slid back to his side. “She doesn’t take direction well, but she performed better than I expected. Her form is decent and her aim consistent.”
“Decent?” Helena protested. She poked him in the arm. “That was more than decent.”
“Wow, you must be really good.” Tucker looked at her in wide-eyed astonishment. “He’s never called my form better than ‘barely adequate.’”
“Because your form needs work,” Le Capuchon calmly stated. “If you improved it, your aim would improve as well.”
“And mine?” Helena protested.
He fingered his quiver again, then flipped up the lid and pulled out an arrow. Passing it to his left hand, he whipped his bow off his back, nocked the arrow, and sent a left-hand shot into a skinny aspen trunk a respectable distance off the path.
His face turned toward her. “I didn’t need to lean on you afterward.”
“Whoa.” Tucker laughed, looking from Helena to Le Capuchon and back again. “If Cap’s showing off, you are good.”
“Unless it was a lucky shot.” Smirking, Helena gave Le Capuchon a challenging look. “With so many trees, your arrow was bound to hit one eventually.”
“You don’t believe I aimed for that one? It was dead center.”
Helena took a step closer, leaning on her cane. “Prove it. You, me, and a defined target in a friendly competition.”
From her angle, she could see one side of his mouth twitch up. “Maybe in a few days.”
“So I won’t hurt myself?” Helena asked sarcastically.
“So when I win, you can’t claim you were injured.”
“That confidence will get you into trouble someday,” she smirked. “Although I shouldn’t complain since you’re willing to give arrows to ‘the General’s spy.’ Even with that hood blocking your vision. How do you see with it pulled down so low, anyway?”
“Practice,” he said simply. Turning toward her, he added, “And I don’t believe you’re a spy.”
Ridiculous pleasure swelled in her chest, but she buried it with a raised eyebrow. “You don’t?”
He shook his head. “Your shots were too accurate. I believe that you didn’t miss.”
As Tucker whooped, Helena suppressed her smile and looked at Le Capuchon with a serious expression. “You realize what this means, don’t you?”
He tilted his head questioningly.
“You don’t need this anymore.” Lunging forward, she snagged his hood with her right hand.
His right hand shot up and grabbed her wrist. They struggled, but she kept her grip on the soft fabric. Grinning, she tried with her left hand, and he caught that too.
“What’s the matter? Afraid I’ll find out the reason you hide?” Her voice was strained from the exertion of fighting him, but she was enjoying herself too much to stop. She leaned into him, forcing him to take a step back.
“Would you cut it out?”
“Oh, Capuchon, you know I can’t do that.”
Then releasing his hood, she jerked her arms down. With the sudden loss of resistance, his hands flew down with hers. As he stumbled forward, Helena reached up to meet him, her lips aiming for his nose.
But she’d misjudged either their difference in height or the amount he would drop. Her lips missed his nose.
And landed firmly on his mouth.
He shoved her away with amusing swiftness. She had the vague impression of his pin-wheeling arms and the crack of a dry branch before she crashed into the ground, which was less amusing.
Based on the guffawing behind her, Tucker thought it was hilarious.
Helena propped herself up on her elbows. A few feet away, Le Capuchon mirrored her. Knees bent up over the branch that had tripped him, jaw slack, hazel eyes wide.
A pleased smile spread across her face. “You look good in red, Cap.”