Chase the Dawn by Jane Feather Page B

and then … nothing!”
    “Just give it time.” Ben smiled reassuringly as he stood up with the now untangled fishing line. “Come along. Let’s see if you can catch our dinner without catching a tree first.”
    Bryony did what she could to put aside thoughts of the coming night. It was clear that Benedict intended to be no more forthcoming than he had been, which left her in possession of remarkably few facts and a wealth of anxious uncertainty. She did not want to be disposed of like a child in need of a caretaker, but neither did she want to spend the night alone in the cabin wondering if he would ever return. If only he would tell her what he was going to do, then the dread would at least have a shape, and she could perhaps calculate his chances of returning safely.
    “You’re not concentrating,” Ben chided, standing behind her, holding her hands tight around the fishing rod. “What did I just tell you to do?”
    Bryony nibbled her bottom lip. Even if she had not been preoccupied with her fears of the coming night, she would have found it difficult to concentrate in this proximity. The skin of her back was alive and rippling at the feel of his chest, bared and warm, pressed against her. Her eyes seemed riveted on his fingers, long and strong, linked around her hands. “Why don’t you catch the fish and I’ll sit on the bank and watch you?”
    “Because you will never learn like that and you cannot spend your days in idleness. Just flick your wrist, like this.” Her wrist flicked under the tutoring of his fingers, and the line snapped across the surface of the creek in perfect order. “See how easy it is.” He released his grip. “Do it on your own this time.”
    The attempt was a miserable failure, and she looked mournfully upward as the line took on a life of its own and doubled back into the branches of the weeping willow overhead, twisting itself with malevolent momentum round and round a branch.
    Benedict sighed. “You are not trying, Bryony. At this rate, we are going to go very hungry.”
    “Oh, why won’t you do it?” she implored. “I do not think I want to be a fisherman.”
    “Well, this time you are going to have to untangle that line yourself,” he said briskly, picking up a second rod from the bank. “I will catch our dinner while you do so.”
    Untangling fishing line was a most unpleasant task, Bryony discovered, her fingers slipping and sliding over the slick twine, which had a nasty habit of slicingdeeply into her hands when she was least expecting it. The cuts were tiny but bled copiously and hurt like the devil; only her innate stubbornness and a refusal to admit further failure to her effortlessly competent companion prevented her from throwing in the towel.
    “Finished?” Ben glanced over his shoulder in inquiry. Two shining silver mullet flapped on the bank at his feet.
    “Almost,” she said, wiping her bloody palms on the grass, swallowing a yelp of pain.
    “What in the name of the good God have you done to yourself?” Ben exclaimed, dropping his rod and coming over to her. “Show me your hands.”
    “There’s nothing the matter with them,” she said in emphatic denial, holding them curled against her sides. “See, I have almost finished.”
    Benedict would not be distracted. He went down on one knee beside her. “Show them to me.”
    Reluctantly, she uncurled her palms and turned up her hands for his frowning inspection. “Why on earth didn’t you stop?” He looked at her in exasperation, and Bryony’s mouth set firmly.
    “I like to finish what I have started. I cannot help being incompetent, but I’m not going to admit defeat in a battle with a piece of twine.”
    The exasperation in his features faded, and he chuckled. “Such an indomitable will is an unusual possession for a young woman of your kind. You are supposed to be submissive and accepting of your fate.” His voice was teasing, but Bryony had the feeling that he was at least half