(she)…then stood up and, with breathtaking form, shot twice, one arrow after another, wit

(she)…then stood up and, with breathtaking form, shot twice, one arrow after another, without time for him to blink in between, into an irregular lump of turf thirty yards away. Even at that distance he could tell they both struck within an inch of each other, and gaped at her as she looked at the bow with obvious newfound respect.

“This is very good,” she said, handing it back to him.

Geraint had felt just a little indignant. “Did you think it wouldn’t work?” 

She had bitten her lip sheepishly. “I wasn’t quite sure. I’ve never seen one so…erm…primitive.”

He laughed in spite of himself. “Bowmaking has been around a long time, and was not always the high craft it is now. What do you think our ancestors did?”

Her expression had changed, irresistibly, into a slow, expectant, silky smile that melted away his indignation like wax in a flame. “I don’t know,” she purred, “what did they do?”

Shots fired. Willingly surrendered, he had composed a story for her on the spot.