Highland Scoundrel (Highland Brides) (22 page)

That chuckle again, as if it were right in her ear. She mentally ground her teeth.

"Tis ever so kind of ye, Hadwin," she said, accepting the knife. "Thank ye."

"And may I escort ye to the archery grounds?"

"Twould be an honor," she said, and hoped Dugald would turn around at that second and die of jealousy. Unfortunately, he did not turn around at all.

Not far away, a pair of narrow carts sat upon a small green knoll. A round target stuffed with hay and covered in cloth hung on each cart, and upon the center of the shields, circles were marked with black paint.

The prospective archers were stringing their bows. Someone played a lute not far away. The whimsical melody filled the space between the grove of rowans and the next verdant hill. Soon a woman's voice was added to the music.

Hadwin bowed and left to join the other competitors. Shona scanned the crowd. There were perhaps two dozen prospective archers, snapping their strings and testing their supple weapons.

Her own fingers itched as she watched them. There was something exhilarating about the smooth feel of a fine oaken bow in her hands, something that she desired now.

"Ye said ye had no wish to shame them, lass."

She turned at the sound of her father's voice. "Whatever do ye mean?"

"Ye know exactly what I mean, so dunna bother to look the innocent."

She tried to look offended instead. "I am innocent," she grumbled. "And I am sweet."

He laughed. "Then rid yourself of the gleam in your eye afore ye frighten someone."

She scowled. "It seems to me, if they are afraid of competition they shouldn't be stringing their bows."

"Shona," he said, his tone warning. "Do ye wish to die unwed?"

She thought about it, but apparently she took too much time, for in a moment he urged her again.

"Shona?"

"Nay I dunna," she said grumpily.

"Then behave yourself. Just because I taught ye the skills of a man does not mean ye dunna need a man."

"Then I would have a man who wouldna be afraid of a woman who can shoot an arrow."

"We men are a tender lot, daughter mine," he said. "Best not to bruise our frail opinions of ourselves. We like to think we are quite superior, in raw strength if naught else. Ye dunna wish to scare them off."

"But ye weren't scared," she said. "And ye were up against a woman who abducted ye at knifepoint and threatened to skewer ye to a tree."

"Aye well." He sighed as he put his arm about her and turned her toward a pleasant spot beneath a bent hazel tree. "If the truth be told, I am a better man than most, Shona."

"Or as Mother would say—"

"Shush, Daughter," Roderic said. "Watch the show and prepare to look impressed."

She all but grunted.

The archers lined up, several per target. The arrows bore tiny scraps of cloth of varying colors.

The competitors lifted their weapons shoulder high. Despite everything, Shona found she was holding her breath.

"Be ready," called Bullock, who officiated again.

The archers drew back on their strings. The crowd fell silent.

"Let fly," yelled Bullock.

The arrows hissed like swarming locust toward the targets. There was a barrage of twangs as some struck home, some soared into the distance.

Bullock stepped forward to check the results of the target nearest himself. "The three arrows closest to the mark are the gray." He paused. There was a moment of silence before a young lad, not past his sixteenth year, raised his arm in triumph. "Gilmour of Lairg," Bullock called.

The crowd cheered.

Bullock held up the next arrow. "The red." Bullock grinned. "Me own son, Michael."

Shona smiled and cheered, feeling the joy of the moment, despite herself.

"And the green," Bullock called, lifting the last arrow. Dugald raised his arm.

Shona fell silent, and in that moment Dugald glanced at her, his devilish eyes laughing.

From across the field, another official called the three top archers. But Shona failed to notice their names. The targets were moved back. Only the six best archers shot this time. Again Dugald's arrow soared skyward only to arch like a magical rainbow and land with sickening precision in the bull's eye.

Shona watched as he stepped forward to accept his award. Her fingers curled into fists. She pursed her lips. She had told her father she would not compete, and she would not. She would not.

Dugald lifted the brooch he had won and turned toward Mavis.

And Shona stepped forward, pulled against her will. Her mind demanded she remain silent, but her lips were already moving. “It hardly seems right to let this brooch leave Dun Ard," she called.

Dugald turned toward her, his brows raised. She had no time to notice the rest of the crowd that must be staring at her as if she'd lost her mind, which, in fact, might be the case.

"Are ye thinking of wrestling the lad for it?" Bullock asked, leaning toward her.

Shona didn't bother glaring at him. He would only laugh anyway, for he knew her too well.

Instead, she gave him a smile that said she was just a girl, fragile, bonny and harmless. “Of course not. But mayhap there are others who would have liked to enter." Beside her, she felt her father's glower.

"Then they should have been here, lass," Bullock said.

"Aye." She tried the smile again. "But surely Dugald of Kinnaird is not scared of a bit of competition. After all, he canna be called 'the Dragon' for nothing."

She dared not look at her father. But suddenly Dugald stepped forward. He held the brooch in one hand. There was the slightest smile on his face and a quicksilver spark of mischief in his eyes.

“If you are so fond of the brooch, Mistress Shona, I would give it to you. There is no need for you to fret."

"I am not fretting." She returned his smile, upping his brilliance. "But I am certain a man with your...vanity...would have no wish to win unless he knew he had beaten all comers."

He glanced about him, looking innocent. "Is there, mayhap, some other man who would challenge me?"

She gritted a smile at him. "Not a man, but a woman."

His brows rose again, but in that moment she realized he was not the least bit surprised. He bowed, still smiling and lifted his bow toward her. But suddenly Hadwin rushed forward, his own weapon strung and ready.

"Please, Lady, twould be my pleasure if ye would use mine."

Out of the corner of her eye she saw Stanford clench his fists, but she was beyond worrying if the two of them beat each other senseless over this new silliness. Instead, she took the bow and beamed at the bearer before turning back toward Dugald.

"Surely ye dunna mind being bested by a woman," she said.

"That depends what arena we speak of," he returned softly.

"Archery."

"Ahh." He seemed to be attempting to stifle a grin. "I would not mind, of course. But I do not think it can be done."

"Really?" Every instinct in her, female and otherwise, perked up. "Then ye willna object if I try."

"But I have already been awarded the brooch," he said quietly. "What would I receive if I win this contest?"

Their gazes clashed. The crowd receded in her mind. "What would ye like?" she murmured.

They seemed very close suddenly, and the day very warm. His lips were full, quirked upward in that irritatingly male half smile. And his eyes were an unearthly blue that never failed to steal her breath.

“What would ye like?'' she asked again, and against all her better judgment, she was pulled closer.

They almost touched. She could taste his kiss like forbidden wine as she was drawn under his spell.

"Your amulet," he said.

She pulled back with a jerk. Her hand flew to the chain from which Dragonheart was suspended. "Ye jest."

He shrugged, grinning again. "It seems a fair wager. Unless ye fear losing."

"I dunna."

"Then you agree?"

She paused. She would have to be a fool to make such a bet. Liam had warned her to keep the amulet safe. Twas special, he had said. Precious.

“Mayhap there is something else you would not mind parting with. Something more personal?"

he asked.

His meaning was clear, for in his eyes, the humor had suddenly been replaced by a more intimate emotion.

Shona gripped the chain harder. Dragonheart slipped into her hand. It felt warm, as if it pulsed with life. She should set this Dugald fellow back on his heels, she knew. She should give him a slap sound enough to echo in his empty brain—if not physically, at least verbally. But she could not come up with a single scathing remark. "The amulet against the brooch, then," she said.

The spell was broken. He moved back a step and nodded. "Two shots," he said. "The highest score wins, and you go first."

She nodded as she let the dragon drop between her breasts. Hadwin's bow felt strange in her hand, but she lifted it now, weighing it, assessing its qualities. It was somewhat heavier than her own, perhaps six feet long and well strung.

She sensed Roderic's approach beside her, but she dared not turn toward him. Later, she would accept his scolding. Now she must concentrate.

Setting the arrow to the bow, she lifted it and tested the tension of the string. It was nicely balanced. She sited along the feathered shaft. The crowd fell quiet, and suddenly it seemed to Shona that all the world had receded. As if she was the arrow itself, as if she could fly sure as the wind to her target.

She drew back the string and loosed the missile. It arched into the air like a bird in flight then hung in the clouds for an eternity. But not for an instant did she doubt its destination.

In a heartbeat it had severed the outer rim of the bull's eye.

The crowd erupted with applause.

She turned to accept their accolades, but when she looked at Dugald, he only nodded and gave her the briefest edge of a grin, as if he knew some secret she was not privy to. Her confidence slipped a hair's breadth.

Dugald stepped into place. Standing sideways, he quickly bent his bow and loosed his arrow. It flew like a falling hawk to pierce the target directly adjacent to Shona's hit.

Shona looked from the target at Dugald and found that he was already staring at her, as if he had not even bothered to see where his arrow landed.

Doubt knotted her stomach. But surely she could not turn back now.

She scowled as she fitted another arrow in her bow. She would not lose, she told herself, and carefully forced her thoughts away from Dugald's otherworldly eyes and ungodly confidence.

The daughter of the Flame and the Rogue could not lose. She was born for this.

Her fingers moved of their own accord, setting the arrow to the string, bending the bow. There was a moment of concentrated delay, and then the arrow sped away. Dragonheart pulsed against her chest, seeming to purr as the bull's eye dragged the arrow into its center.

Joy burst in Shona's chest. The crowd cheered. Shona turned toward them with a smile. From the corner of her eye, she saw her father watch her. His expression was less than jovial. She turned quickly away and waved to Kelvin, who was jumping up and down in his glee. Hadwin was grinning, Stanford was staring with an open mouth, William was watching in silence. Not far away, Sara and Rachel raised their arms in unified support.

There was no way now for Dugald to win unless he was to split her arrow with his own, and that only happened in minstrels' tales.

She turned toward Dugald, more than ready to accept his defeat, but when she saw him her grin froze on her face. Not a shadow of a doubt shone in his expression, not a breath of uncertainty. Their gazes met and fused. Time halted.

But finally he turned away, lifting his bow as he did so.

Heaven's wrath, he was going to do it! He was going to win. Shona was suddenly certain of it.

Panic welled up in her. If the truth be known, she was a terrible loser.

She watched him site along the arrow's shaft, watched him draw back his string, and suddenly her fingers went cold.

Hadwin's borrowed arrow fell from her hands. Not thinking, she bent to retrieve it.

Dugald let his arrow fly just as Shona reached for hers. From the corner of his eye, Dugald saw her bend, saw Dragonheart flash in the sunlight, saw her breasts swell more fully into view. And in that moment all was forgotten but the sharp pull of her allure. His arrow could pierce the moon for all he cared.

Shona straightened. So close was she that he could see the pulse beating in her throat, could smell the fragrance of her skin, feel the thrill of her awareness of him.

Regardless of whether she loved him or hated him, she was drawn to him with that same rabid longing he felt.

"Lady Shona wins by an auburn hair!" Bullock called.

Dugald snapped his attention back to the business at hand. Their arrows were touching, coupled like fervent lovers, lying side by side and— Mother of God! What was wrong with him? It was not a good sign that he was imbuing the arrows with sexual attributes.

Pulling his thoughts together, he realized the crowd was chattering, extolling Shona's abilities.

He turned toward her and extended his hand, ready to concede his loss, but the soft swell of her breasts was still visible and between them, resting like a smug lizard, the dragon winked at him. His breath stopped in his throat.

"Twas a good match," she said and slipped her hand into his. The physical contact nearly knocked him off his feet, so powerful was the attraction that sizzled between them.

He fought her allure, but there was no hope. "I would have another bout," he murmured, stepping closer, pulled near by invisible strings.

Memories flashed between them—a moon-kissed night, smooth skin, hot kisses, pulsing...

She ripped her hand from his. Their melded thoughts were torn asunder. She wiped her palms against the skirt of her gown.

"Are ye saying twas not a fair match?" she asked, her tone panicked, fear bright in her eyes.

He found his equilibrium with some difficulty, forced himself to relax a mite, and smiled. God in heaven, she was hypnotic. And if he had the brains of a water beetle he would leave before it was too late. But he couldn't. In fact, everything in him scrambled for some way to keep her close.