A Lady In Need Of An Heir

‘These days I don’t like killing anything I don’t have to, even those wicked little devils,’ Gray said as he slid his knife back out of sight.

‘Neither do I,’ Gaby agreed. There was a mark on her blade, a smear of sap, and she rubbed it clean with her thumb.

‘How well can you throw that?’ Gray asked.

‘Very well. Old Pedro, my father’s steward, taught me when I was only ten. See that dead plant over there?’ A large, desiccated thistle was silhouetted against a post on the edge of the terrace.

‘You can hit that from here?’ He sounded politely sceptical.

Gaby shifted the knife into a throwing grip and sat up. Beside her Gray stood and out of the corner of her eye she saw him draw his own knife again. His throw followed hers in a fraction of a second. Hers skewered the head of the thistle to the post, his cut the stem beneath the head.

‘I’m impressed.’ He walked across to retrieve both knives.

‘So am I. Shall we go back down again now? Now, what was I saying? Oh, yes, Uncle Hector is sure to offer to sell you wine.’

She thought she heard him mutter, ‘Everyone in this damn valley wants to sell me something,’ but when she looked at him he grinned back.

Really, the man was all too easy to like—she couldn’t recall now why she had found him so severe, so difficult, when he had first arrived. Perhaps she could survive a week of his company, after all. Provided she could stop looking at his mouth. Or those shoulders.

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