Chapter Twelve #3
She stared at him. “You want me to—” She looked at the axe, then at the cuff, then at his wrist inside it. “Oh, that is so not a good idea.”
“It is.”
“Bram—”
He beckoned her forward with his other hand. “Swing true and quick. Dinna hesitate.”
She limped forward with no small amount of hesitation, which had nothing to do with her still tender foot.
“You want me—me?” she enunciated, tapping her chest. “To wield this thing”—she pointed to the axe—”and bring it down on your wrist? And you expect to walk away unscathed?”
“Aye. ?Tis dangerous to travel yet shackled, lass—if we should meet with—”
“Oh, I get that,” she said, holding up her hand. “That makes sense, but... but don’t you think you should be the one to swing the axe? You have to know that I’ve never done... anything remotely like this. Holy sheesh, Bram, what if I miss?”
“Ye willna,” he assured her, his confidence in her beyond inexplicable. “The cuff itself will protect most of my arm from any injury.”
“Most of—oh, good. Well, that puts me completely at ease.”
“Anastasia,” he said, drawing her wide-eyed attention from the axe. “Ye can do this. Ye have to, so that we might travel more safely.”
A knot of resentment tightened in her gut. She hated the pressure, the casual certainty with which he asked the impossible of her. He was capable—in every conceivable way—but she was not.
The axe handle was rougher than she expected, the wood dry and slightly gritty in her palms. She lifted it from the table and spared only a fleeting glance at Bram’s patient expression, still amazed that he believed she could do this, that he didn’t seem nervous at all.
Swallowing thickly, she applied both hands to the axe and adjusted her grip twice.
Bram laid his wrist flat on the table’s edge, the iron cuff’s hinge facing inward.
Then he simply waited. He watched her with a complete patience she found, at that moment, more alarming than the task itself.
Her first swing was barely a swing at all—a tapping, apologetic thing that glanced off the wide iron cuff and accomplished absolutely nothing. She felt heat rise in her face.
“Again,” he said. “Put your shoulder into it.”
She tried. This time the axe head struck the table, two inches wide of the hinge. She exhaled hard through her nose, and lined up her next swing, first laying the blade softly against the hinge before she drew it back and—at the last minute her nerve failed, and she closed her eyes in fright.
She gave Bram an apologetic wince. “Sorry. I don’t want to hurt you.” She turned the axe in her hands, presenting the flat side of the head against the hinge. “What if I use the blunt end?” she suggested hopefully. “Maybe the impact will break the hinge?”
Though he looked unconvinced, he nodded. “Aye. Try.”
She repositioned her feet, squared her shoulders, and brought the axe down hard.
The sound was a dull iron crack that rang off the low ceiling.
She’d missed the shackle completely by more than an inch.
She tried again. And again. On the fourth strike she finally connected with iron, a solid, centered thud that traveled up through the handle, and produced a small spark at the point of impact.
Anna gasped and looked at Bram with some excitement.
“There now,” he said encouragingly, nodding. “Again.”
She fell into a clumsy rhythm: swing, miss, adjust. Her arms began to ache, but a stubborn confidence grew with each blow that didn’t land on his skin.
She paused, breathing hard, as Bram repositioned the shackle again.
Taking a deep breath, she focused on the small metal hinge, put all her weight into the swing, and was rewarded with a sharp crack distinct from all the others.
The iron cuff fell open and clattered to the table.
“Yes!” She exclaimed, filled with pride and a hefty amount of surprise. She let the axe fall, still in one hand, and lifted her other hand toward Bram instinctively, grinning expectantly as she offered him her palm.
He stared at her hand with confusion, and before she could guess he wouldn’t understand what she wanted, he laid his palm against her and threaded their fingers together.
She laughed—a short, embarrassed sound—and was absolutely not immune to his touch or his intent.
“It’s—you’re supposed to—” She withdrew her fingers from his and took his hand by the wrist, smacking her palm against his. “It’s called a high five. It means ‘Yay, we did it!’”
He looked at their hands for a moment, then back at her, still wearing that puzzled expression. “Ye did it, lass.”
“Well.” She was still smiling. “You helped. You held very still.”
The corner of his mouth moved. It was small and brief, and he rose and turned away from her before it could become anything more.
But she’d seen it, what she was pretty sure was his second smile of the day.
The realization sent a ridiculous thrill rushing through her, as if she’d unlocked some secret achievement in a game she hadn’t known she was playing.