Eight years, he thought.
“At first I used to go out just for an hour or so—”
“Doing what?”
“Oh, just sitting and breathing in the night, looking at the stars, or, if there was moonlight, walking and running. You’re not allowed to run in a convent—‘Glide, young ladies, glide!’??” she mimicked. “It was easy, because I didn’t sleep in the dormitory with the other girls, so nobody noticed if I wasn’t in my bed.”
“So how did Reverend Mother find out?”
“It wasn’t for ages, and it was all my own fault. Food got very scarce during the war. The convent was down to bare bones, and I was starving and sick of having nothing to eat except watery soup with three lentils and a weed in it. So I started setting traps.”
“Traps?”
“Snares. Papa taught me to live off the land.” She paused. “You don’t believe me, do you?”
He murmured something polite, but she wasn’t deceived. She jumped up. “I’ll show you.” From her bag she drew a spool of thread. “Twisted silk, which means it’s very strong. Your knife, please?”
Fascinated, he passed it to her.
“You do it like this, except of course you’d choose a better spot than this. And you cut these.” She cut two forked sticks. “Dry, or the sap can make them stick.” She selected a thin whippy branch from a nearby bush. “And then you bend this down and fasten it like this.” She pinned it in place with one of the forked sticks. “And now you position this here…”
He watched her small, competent hands fashioning a noose and setting up the snare. No lady of his acquaintance would do—or know how to do—such a thing. He made the mistake of saying it aloud.
Instantly she looked away and said in a flattened voice, “I warned you I often do the wrong thing.”
“I meant it as a compliment.”
She eyed him doubtfully. “Truly?”
“Truly. I think you’re a remarkable young woman.”
She flushed and ducked her head, as if unused to even such minor compliments. But her mouth curved enough for him to know she was pleased.
He watched her dismantle the snare, and when she finished, he patted the ground beside him. She frowned a little but sat down again, hugging her knees to her chest. She seemed somewhat nervous of him. Perhaps she’d read his mind.
All through her recital and demonstration he’d been imagining peeling those clothes off her. A girl who hunted alone at night could surely be persuaded to make love in the grass.
“You haven’t finished the story. Reverend Mother?” he prompted and was pleased when he saw her relax.
“The first time I tried, I caught two fat hares,” she said, unable to hide the pride in her voice. “I left them in the kitchen along with a pocketful of pine nuts. Nobody knew where they came from.” She grinned wickedly. “The cook thought it was a miracle, that our angel had sent them to save us—the angel over the gate, you know. The one who looks like you.”
“Like me?” He was revolted. “I do not look like an angel.”
She laughed. “You do; everyone says so.” Before he could argue the point she continued, “So after that I went out hunting and foraging every night. But my dresses were a problem—they kept getting caught on things and would tear and get dirty. So I got some breeches and boots from a house in the village. Don’t look at me like that—I didn’t steal them.”
He spread his hands in mock innocence, claiming dryly, “I didn’t say a thing.”
“They were her son’s—he’d been killed in the war, and I traded them for—” She broke off.
“For?”
She gave him a guilty look. “For a bit of the gold chain you gave me on our wedding day. I traded it all in the end, for various things we needed. But I kept the ring; you know that.” She drew it from the neck of her blouse. It dangled from the twisted silk thread, glinting in the sun.
He nodded, recalling the shock he’d felt when he discovered she’d worn his signet ring for eight years. He’d almost forgotten about it. Now he felt only possessiveness.
She tucked the ring back and continued her tale. “But after several days of the miraculous appearance of hares and rabbits and birds’ eggs and squirrels—”
“Squirrels?”
