The Princess and the Peer (12 page)

By using his fists? she wondered, rather convinced that was exactly what he had in mind. An odd warmth spread inside her at the idea, a sensation that vacillated strangely between pleasure over his defense of her and alarm that he would consider resorting to violence.

“Well, they are gone now,” she said reassuringly, “so there is no point in worrying further over the matter. We shall never see them again, after all.”

“A good thing—for them,” he said.

Still, the logic of her statement seemed to resonate with him, and after another few moments, he finally quit glaring at the doorway. His eyes, a steely gray now, shifted back to hers. “If you are finished dining, we should depart.”

“Oh, but we haven’t had our game,” she protested.

His expression turned hard again.

Before he could refuse her outright, she rushed on. “There is no one here now to watch except the proprietor and those two old men, and what harm can they present?” And she was right, the clerks having rushed off while she and Nick had still been eating their meal. “Just let me try tossing a few darts; then I will go quietly.”

He scowled. “As I’m rapidly learning, you never do anything quietly.”

She pulled a face. “Don’t be a spoilsport.
Please.
You know it will be fun.”

“Trouble, more like,” he muttered dourly.

She fluttered her long lashes at him in what she hoped was an appealing way, although it wasn’t something she had ever tried using on a man before.

After a long moment, she saw his lips twitch.

“Very well,” he pronounced in the same severe tone. “But only a few; then we’re leaving.”

She suppressed the urge to clap and exclaim with delight, contenting herself with a wide smile instead. “Thank you, my lord. You are most kind.”

“Yes, I am,” he drawled sardonically. “And completely devoid of sense.” He stood and came around to help her from her chair.

All but bouncing on the toes of her supple brown leather half boots, she glided quickly across the scarred floor. Reaching the wooden target, she gave one of the burnished metal darts a tug, but it stubbornly refused to pull free. She tried another one with the same less-than-satisfactory result.

“Allow me,” Nick said, reaching an arm past her. His movements were simple and efficient as he easily twisted the
darts from the wood. He held out his flattened palm where three of them lay. “Ladies first.”

She gathered them into her hand, then faced the board. Behind her, she knew the other men were watching. She ignored them, everyone but Nick, as she studied the numbers sketched in white paint onto the barrel round. “I aim for the center, correct?”

“As close as you can get.” Nick took a single step back to give her more room, then crossed his arms over his chest.

She raised one dart and threw, but her throw lacked power and, rather than sticking in the wood, the dart clattered noisily to the floor at the base of the target. She shot a glance at Nick out of the corner of her eye, expecting to find him laughing.

Instead, his face was calm, surprisingly understanding. “Easy beginner’s mistake. Try again and don’t be afraid of the board.”

“I am
not
afraid.” Lifting a second dart, she focused on the target and, with a fierce heave, hurled it forward. It stuck in the wood this time but just barely, hanging by the tip in a very precarious way.

“This is more difficult than it looks,” she admitted.

“Most talents that require skill generally are. Throw a little harder this time and move your fingers back on the body of the dart so it’s more evenly balanced in your hand.”

“Like this?” she said, trying to grasp the last dart as he suggested.

“No.” Taking her hand in his, he gently repositioned her fingers. A warm tingle chased over her skin, the sensation buzzing in crazy swirls up her arm. As far as she could tell though, Nick seemed unmoved. Without a word, he stepped away again.

Drawing a quick breath, she stared at the target, noticing as she did that the slight weight of the dart felt different now. She tightened her fingers and made herself concentrate on the game. Drawing back her arm, she shot the dart, squeezing her eyes closed a moment after she let go.

A small roar went up behind her and she cringed. Had she
missed that badly again? Resigned to the fact that she was dreadful at darts, she made herself look at the target.

Her eyes went wide in astonishment.

The dart was not only buried straight and deep in the wood, but it was protruding from the exact center of the board.

“I did it!” she exclaimed, laughing in stunned jubilation. Without thinking, she grabbed Nick’s arm and gave it a hard, exultant squeeze. “Did you see? I did it.”

“Yes, you did,” Nick murmured.

“Yeh’ve a natural there,” piped one of the two old men. “Ne’er seen a woman throw like that.”

“Yeh ain’t ne’er seen a woman throw at all,” said the other. “But it was a right fine shot, all the same.”

“Lucky shot,” Nick murmured. “Then again, everyone is entitled to one, I suppose.”

Her hand fell away from his arm. “What an uncharitable thing to say.”

He raised a dark brow, clearly amused. “So you think it was skill, then? With your eyes closed?”

So he’d seen that, had he? Well, no matter,
she told herself as she drew up straight and regarded him down the length of her nose, in spite of the fact that he stood a head taller than she did. “That, my lord, was technique.”

“Technique?”
He barked out a laugh. “After shooting three darts, and two of them rather badly?”

“I was just getting my bearings with the first ones,” she declared with false bravado.

He laughed again, low in his throat. “Is that what you were doing? And now you believe yourself to be an expert player? Think you can duplicate that last shot, do you?”

No, she did not think that; she thought it quite likely that the next dart would fly well wide of its mark. But as she watched him continue to chuckle with overt amusement at the very notion that she could shoot a second dart as well as the last one, a sense of competitive determination overcame her, however foolish such an impulse might be.

“Yes,” she stated. “I do.”

“I’ll lay a quid on that,” said a voice from behind her.

“Yer on. And make it two.”

“I’ll double the two,” said a third voice, which Emma recognized as belonging to the tavern keeper. “I say she misses,” he finished.

Swinging around, she was astonished to see the trio of men laying money onto a table.

“Are they wagering? On
me
?” she asked Nick in a low voice.

He gave her a look that displayed both humor and exasperation. “So it would appear. But not to worry. I shall put a stop to it.” He took a step away.

She delayed him with a hand. “Put a stop—but you just challenged me.”

“Not exactly. I merely said that you couldn’t make another shot like the last. No one really expects you to follow through, you know.”

“Speak for yerself, mister. We’ve got blunt laid down on that gal,” one of the two old men said in hoarse complaint.

“Ignore them,” Nick said for her ears alone. “I shall pay for our meal and we’ll leave.”

“But I do not want to leave. Not before I’ve shot that dart.”

“Emma,” he said warningly. “You’ll only embarrass yourself if you persist in this.”

“I shall do no such thing. In fact, I think we should make a wager of our own.”

One of old men let out a long, low whistle, having obviously heard her statement.

Nick took hold of her arm and marched her a few steps away so they could speak privately this time. “I am not gambling with you.”

“Why ever not? Afraid I’ll win?”

His scowl returned. “No. I have no doubt as to the outcome.”

“Well, then, why the hesitation?”

“You have no money, for one.”

“True, but wagers can be made for things other than money.”

A peculiar gleam came into his eyes. “And what did you have in mind?”

He had her at that, she realized. She’d issued her dare on a whim, his
embarrass yourself
remark more than she could bear. A princess had her pride, after all.

But what to wager?

She thought for a long minute, but nothing came readily to mind.

“Anytime before dark should be fine,” he drawled over her lengthy silence.

She waved an exasperated hand. “I cannot think of the precise thing at the moment. So let us just say it will be winner’s choice, the actual prize to be determined at a later time.”

He stared. “
Winner’s choice?
You realize that leaves you open to almost anything I might select.”

“That
I
shall select, you mean, since I shall be the one who wins.”

He studied her, clearly considering all the ramifications. “You are certain?”

For a second, she hesitated, wondering if she was making a huge mistake. How could she possibly achieve another perfect shot? But the Whytes of Rosewald had spent centuries refusing to back down from all challengers and she wasn’t about to break precedent now.

“Yes, my lord. I am certain.”

Slowly, a smile spread over his face, his mouth tilting upward at a devilish angle. “Very well, I accept your wager. And may I say, my dear young woman, that you are far too trusting for your own good.”

“Then it is providential that you were the person I met in the market yesterday, my lord, rather than someone of an unscrupulous nature.”

A warmth crept into the steely gray of his eyes, tiny lines fanning out in the corners. “Quite providential, indeed. Now, allow me to clear the board so you may take your shot.”

Emma waited while Nick went to gather her a fresh supply of darts. As she did, she became aware of the activity behind her as a new group of patrons entered the public house. The noise level rose as the five new men found out what was going on and demanded to be let in on the wagering. From the corner of her eye, she saw one of the old men pull a small leather book and pencil from his pocket and begin making notions. From what she gathered as their voices came her way, the bets were almost universally against her.

Then Nick was at her side once again, darts in hand. Silently, he offered one to her. She gulped, her stomach suddenly tight with nerves. “Maybe you should throw a couple first,” she suggested. “We never did have an actual game.”

“All right. Assuming you are still sure about this,” he said quietly. “I won’t hold you to your promise, if you want to back out. Although considering the crowd you’ve attracted, we might have to make a run for it if you do change your mind.”

Another glance over her shoulder confirmed his hypothesis. She nearly groaned as two more men walked through the door. The tavern keeper called out a friendly greeting and began to pour drinks, while the newcomers wandered over to the gathering of men to see what all the excitement was about.

“Here now, the girl’s to shoot,” one of the men complained as Nick moved into place.

He ignored them as if they weren’t there.

When it became clear Nick was competing as well, a fresh flurry of bets ensued, the one old man continuing to make furious notions in his small leather notepad.

With an easy, almost leonine grace, Nick positioned himself at the required distance in front of the target, took aim, and shot. The dart landed with a
thwack
, impaling its point in the ring just outside the center.

Cheers and groans went up, money trading hands as they waited for Nick’s next shot.

His second dart landed even closer than the first, hitting
just a fraction of an inch away from its twin. He threw the last with an almost negligent grace.

The dart landed dead center.

More cheers and groans rang out.

“That was excellent,” Emma told him approvingly.

Nick smiled. “I’ve had a few years’ practice.”

While I’ve had only minutes,
she realized, a renewed swooping sensation pitching like a rough tide inside her stomach.

Crossing to the board, he plucked out the darts, then returned to her side. “Ready, Emma?”

No, she thought, but she’d come too far to turn back now.

“I believe we should give the lady three tries,” Nick said, his voice raised to address the entire crowd. “It seems only fair.”

“Aye,” called one of the original old men. “A turn is always thrown in threes, so she ought to have a proper ’un.”

“Yeh would say that, considerin’ ye bet she’d hit the mark,” another man called out.

Several of the men laughed at the sarcastic remark. But after another minute’s discussion, they all agreed to the terms. She would have three tries to make another perfect shot.

Every eye in the place fixed upon her. Turning away, she accepted the first dart from Nick. Once she moved into place, he stepped back so as not to crowd her and crossed his arms.

Focus,
she whispered to herself.
You can do this.

But the first shot went badly wide, barely striking the target.

Her heart sank; the room filled with a terrible silence.

Wordlessly, Nick offered her the next dart.

The second shot was as much of a disaster as the first, hitting high and to the distant left.

Her throat closed up as if it were being squeezed by an invisible hand, her breath growing shallow with approaching defeat. This next shot would be her last, and she was going to fail. Suddenly she knew it, wishing she’d never made her
preposterous declaration that she could repeat what had only been a matter of luck after all.

The mutterings of the men behind her turned into an indistinct drone, the room seeming to narrow as her palms grew slick with perspiration and her stomach pitched like a rough sea. Nick stood beside her, his hand extended to offer the last dart. She didn’t want to look at him, sure of the satisfied smirk he must be wearing by now.

But she refused to act the coward.

Plucking the dart from his outstretched palm, she raised her eyes to his. But instead of smug pleasure, she found encouragement.

How could that be when he’d bet against her, sure she couldn’t possibly do as she claimed? Surely he couldn’t want her to win? It made no sense whatsoever.