Refusing to look at him, Pandora fumbled a little with the cluster of arrows in the canvas target. The shots had landed so deep and close that some of the shafts had wedged against each other in the stuffing of flax tows and shavings. This target had been Gabriel’s, of course. He’d released the arrows with almost nonchalant ease, hitting the gold center every time.
Pandora twisted the arrows carefully as she pulled them free, to keep the poplar shafts from breaking. After extricating the last arrow and handing it to Gabriel, she began to remove her glove, which consisted of leather finger-sheaths attached to flat straps, all leading to a band that buckled around her wrist.
“You’re an excellent marksman,” she said, prying at the stiff little buckle.
“Years of practice.” Gabriel reached for the buckle and unfastened it for her.
“And natural ability,” Pandora said, refusing to let him be modest. “In fact, you seem to do everything perfectly.” She held still as he reached for her other arm and began on the fastenings of her Morocco leather arm-guard. More hesitantly, she said, “I suppose people expect it of you.”
“Not my family. But the outside world—” Gabriel hesitated. “People tend to notice my mistakes, and remember them.”
“You’re held to a higher standard?” Pandora ventured. “Because of your position and name?”
Gabriel gave her a noncommittal glance, and she knew he was reluctant to say anything that might sound like complaining. “I’ve found it’s better to be careful about revealing weaknesses.”
“You have weaknesses?” Pandora asked in pretend surprise, only half-joking.
“Many,” Gabriel said with rueful emphasis. Carefully he drew the arm-guard away from her and dropped it into a side pouch of the quiver.
They were standing so close that Pandora saw the tiny silver threads that striated the translucent blue depths of his eyes. “Tell me the worst thing about yourself,” she said impulsively.
A peculiar expression flashed across his face, uncomfortable and almost . . . ashamed? “I will,” he said quietly. “But I’d rather discuss it later, in private.”
A sick weight of dread settled at the bottom of her stomach. Would her worst suspicion about him turn out to be true?
“Does it have something to do with . . . women?” Pandora brought herself to ask, her pulse beating a rapid tattoo of alarm in her throat and wrists.
He gave her an oblique glance. “Yes.”
Oh God, no, no. Too upset to guard her tongue, she burst out, “I knew it. You have the pox.”
Gabriel shot her a startled look. The quiver of arrows dropped to the ground with a clatter. “What?”
“I knew you’d probably caught it by now,” Pandora said distractedly, as he pulled her around the nearest target and behind one of the earthworks mounds, where they were obscured from the view of the house. “Heaven knows how many kinds. English pox, French pox, Bavarian pox, Turkish—”
“Pandora, wait.” He gave her a slight shake to capture her attention, but the words kept tumbling out.
“—Spanish pox, German pox, Australian pox—”
“I’ve never had the pox,” he interrupted.
“Which one?”
“All of them.”
Her eyes turned huge. “You’ve had all of them?”
“No, damn it—” Gabriel broke off and turned partially away. He began to cough roughly, his shoulders trembling. One of his hands lifted to cover his eyes, and with a pang of horror, she thought he was weeping. But in the next moment, she realized he was laughing. Every time he glanced at her indignant face, it started a new round of irrepressible choking. She was forced to wait, annoyed at finding herself the object of hilarity while he struggled to control himself.
Finally Gabriel managed to gasp, “I’ve had none of them. And there’s only one kind.”
A tide of relief swept away Pandora’s annoyance. “Why are there so many different names, then?”
His chuckles subsided with a last ragged breath, and he wiped at the wet inner corners of his eyes. “The English began calling it French pox when we were at war, and naturally they returned the favor by calling it English pox. I doubt anyone has ever called it Bavarian or German pox, but if someone did, it would have been the Austrians. The point is, I don’t have it, because I’ve always used protection.”
“What does that mean?”
“Prophylactics. Viscera of ovis aries.” His tone had turned lightly caustic. “French letters, English hats, baudruches. Take your pick.”
Pandora puzzled over the French word, which sounded somewhat familiar. “Isn’t baudruche the fabric made from, er . . . sheep’s innards . . . that they use for making hot air balloons? What does a sheep balloon have to do with warding off the pox?”
“It’s not a sheep balloon,” he said. “I’ll explain if you think you’re ready for that level of anatomical detail.”
“Never mind,” she replied quickly, having no desire to be embarrassed further.
With a slow shake of his head, Gabriel asked, “How the devil did you come by the idea that I had the pox?”
“Because you’re a notorious rake.”
“No, I’m not.”