Beneath a Dark Highland Sky: Book #3 (11 page)

13  

The thick haar that blanketed the valley in the early morning and rolled along the edges of the sea had lifted—but the faces lined up to watch the rare contest between maid and laird seemed as dark as storm clouds.

Sorcha realized her clan was concerned.
They thought she was going to lose to the Highlander.

For a moment, she faltered, questioning her stubbornness, the ruse, the dishonesty. Her own arrogance. Was she putting her clan’s safety at risk by trying to thwart a marriage decreed by a king? She hadn’t considered all the repercussions. Somehow they had managed all these years despite hostile border families. Would it be better to have the battle-hardened Maclean laird protecting all those who would look to him for guidance when they needed to defend the keep from future attackers, whether Scottish or English?

A spring breeze hit her full in the face. There was the fierce sound of the sea roaring in her ears. Her resolve returned as rage boiled up inside her, rage fueled by a lifetime of bending to men’s threats, wishes, and decrees. Rage at what she had lost, at what she stood to lose.

She searched the crowd and found Gillis’ face, pride in his gray eyes and a half smile cresting his scarred lips as he watched her. She took strength from that as the Highlander strode up and down the field, examining the mounds and the targets. She waited patiently until Malcolm returned to her side.

They stood about thirty yards from the targets. As Kendrew explained the rules and both Kendrew and Nathair inspected their weapons, she studied Malcolm’s bow. Like her own, it was made of sturdy yew wood, painted with the colors of his clan, and nearly five feet long. It was whip-ended and would project a war arrow a long distance. A small figure with dark skin and a hairy body was painted on the widest part of the bow.

“Is yer bow made from foreign yew?” she asked.

“Yea, from Spain. ‘Tis the best wood for a bow, better e’en than wood from Italy.”

“What is the tiny figure painted on it?”

“’Tis a Black Fairy,
Dubh Sith
, an excellent archer. One should ne’er cross a fairy or dismiss his advice. I had a vision once, of a time many years in the future, when a Maclean chieftain fought a battle and didna heed the Black Fairy’s advice. He took an arrow through the eye.”

“The weapons and arrows are sound,” Kendrew declared, having finished inspecting them. Nathair also gave his blessing.

“Would ye like to trade insults as well?” Malcolm asked, in a deep, teasing voice. “‘Tis a tradition in my clan. Whene’er there is a contest, arrows as well as insults are hurled through the air.”

The sun slanted across his black hair and wide shoulders and Sorcha was reminded of his power. His body was well-conditioned and there was the look of a warrior about him, sharp and alert.

Sorcha was aware her borrowed tunic was worn and thin and she looked like the servant she pretended to be. Still, this field was one of the few places she felt pride and grace and she angled her chin high, matching his stare as boldly as any warrior on the field of battle. “Aye, I’ll take yer challenge, Highlander. I’ve been told my tongue can be as sharp as my shooting. I’ll allow ye one chance to insult me today.”

Cheers arose from the crowd, indicating their approval.

Malcolm looked both irritated and intrigued by her boldness. “Ye ha’e the courage of a man,” he said, his voice a raw, silken whisper meant for her ears alone. “But the recklessness of a lass.”

She laughed. “Ye’ll ha’e to do better than that, Highlander, if yer trying to rattle me.”

Sorcha imagined Malcolm would be fierce on the battlefield, his voice knifelike as he commanded his men, his amber eyes glittering with unshakable purpose, his hair as black as night, his features sculpted, harsh, and ruthless. No doubt he had made many a man cringe in abject fear and terror. But she wasn’t afraid to pit her skills against his.

He smiled and it transformed his handsome, warrior-hard face. For a moment, Sorcha was mesmerized. She cleared her head. “Would ye like to shoot first?” she asked.

“Nay. Ladies first. I insist.” He gave a mock bow.

Sorcha nodded. “So be it.” Standing next to him, her whole being came alive in response to the challenge in his dark topaz eyes and in his voice.

“Let it begin!” Kendrew cried.

When the crowd finally quieted, Sorcha slowly circled the man who towered over her, studying his tall form as if she found a myriad of faults. She spoke loudly for all to hear:

A currish, milk-livered foot licker

with a head like a cabbage

once agreed to a contest with a maid.

He pulled his arrow, the hackit, howlin’ fool

and it flew! Oh it flew!

Right into the loch with a splash

And then the oafish Highlander

Fell on his big, fat arse!

The onlookers, both Douglas and Maclean, exploded in appreciative applause and laughter.

A sudden spring breeze molded Sorcha’s tunic to her body, and Malcolm studied her form. The dark Highlander’s eyes slid boldly over her small curves, his gaze lingering on the firm upthrust of her breasts. Sorcha blushed, hating the color that rushed to her cheeks.

His lips curved in a smile. “Yer insult was amusing,” he said. “But how do ye shoot? I am most eager to find out if ye’ll be able to
hit
the target.”

              In response, she readied her bow and arrow. The crowd fell silent, waiting.

Do not aim, just see,
she thought.

She’d chosen to use her best arrows, made of slender birch with breasted shaft. They would hit the target hard. She hauled the string back until it was past her nose and her eye and close to her right ear. Her breathing slowed and the world shrunk to a pinpoint. Correcting for the slight wind rippling the meadow grass, she released the arrow.

It hissed as it flew through the air, making a heavy thump as it stuck in the target, cracking the oyster shell into tiny pieces that fell to the ground in a shower of white.

She let the bow cord slacken. The Douglas clan erupted with delight and congratulations. She saw Gillis joyously clapping his hands. It was a wonder to see and it warmed Sorcha’s heart, for he rarely showed any joy.

Kendrew and then Nathair both measured the hit with a finger.

“Dead center,” Nathair announced.

“That’s my lass!” Kendrew said, a grin splitting his beefy face.

“Impressive,” Malcolm said.

“What do ye wait for, Highlander?”

Slowly he began to circle her, his eyes again studying every part of her. He reached out to touch her silken, fiery braid as he spoke and she nearly jerked away from him. Sorcha thought,
he is laughing at me. He thinks he is going to put me in my place.
His voice rang out loud and clear across the field:

There once was a Lowlander maid

with a vera long and fiery braid

who liked to boast and prattle.

She challenged a Highland laird to a duel

a contest was had

her shooting was not bad

But fie! She was an artless, crook-pated,

mewling, elf-skinned puttock,

an ill-bred, sheep-biting, rump-fed, spur-

galled,

unchin-snouted buttock!

And I wouldna ride her into battle!

There were some in the Douglas clan who would have thrown sour apples if they had them! The Maclean men roared their approval. Sorcha crossed her arms over her chest. “Nae bad for a mammering, beef-witted gudgeon.”

She watched the muscles flex in his powerful neck and shoulders as he positioned his bow and arrow. A curling ribbon of sensation flooded her being as she remembered the feel of his lean fingers, surprisingly gentle, stroking her face, and the feel of his sensual lips moving hungrily over her own.

His movements were so controlled now it seemed he barely moved. He released his arrow and it flew, finding its mark straight away—decimating the other oyster shell. Nathair and Kendrew both measured the target and declared the first round a draw. Both contestants had hit dead center.

They waited for the targets and shells to be replaced for the next round.

“Ye look disappointed,” Malcolm said. “Ye were hoping I was more of a lout with my bow?”

“So far, ye live up to the Maclean reputation.”

“Which reputation is that? Arrogant, overbearing, impatient, and self-willed? Master of insults?”

“The Lady Douglas and I had heard ye were all of those things
and
a lout to boot. But I was referring to yer clan’s impressive reputation with the bow.”

He laughed, a deep, masculine sound. “My father Leith is one of the best. ‘Twas he who showed me how to hunt and fight an enemy with the bow. Tell me, Nessa, who taught ye how to shoot so expertly that ye rival e’en me?”

“Kendrew, clan huntsman. He recognized my skill when I was a wee child. He didna see me as merely a lass who would grow into a maid one day, someone who would simply cut firewood, draw water, churn butter, pound dough, and wash clothes. He saw me as an archer with great potential and let me take lessons with the lads and participate in archery contests, many of which I won.”

“Ye sound as if ye would ride into battle if ye were given the chance.”

“Aye, I would.” Sorcha felt defiant. “We waste time, Highlander. We each have one arrow left. Ye go first this time.
I
insist. And make it count. ‘Tis the very last chance ye’ll ha’e to best me.”

Malcolm looked at the target and raised his hand to indicate he was ready. He placed his arrow, pulled the string back, and shattered his second target, almost without looking. “I willna show ye mercy just because yer a lass,” he said.

“I dunna
need
yer mercy, Highlander.”

Malcolm crossed his muscled arms over his chest. He looked as if he’d won already and she longed to wipe the arrogant smile from his face. She took her time placing her arrow and finding her stance. The sun was warm on her back. The hedgerows were full of nesting larks and the bluebells had started to bloom.
This field was hers.
This hour was hers. This victory would be hers.
She sighted the unbroken oyster shell. At the last possible second, she turned slightly and fired her arrow at
his target.
There was a loud thump and a crack.

“Holy sarding hell!” Nathair cried. “She’s split yer arrow right down the middle!”

A moment ago, Malcolm had been amused. Now Sorcha could not read the look in his eyes. She remembered the tales she’d heard of his unpredictability. Amusement could quickly turn to anger in a man, as Tomas had proven in the garden when he’d forced a kiss upon her. What would happen if she made the Maclean too angry?

“I offer my congratulations, lass,” he said, bowing. He handed her his large bow, his prized war weapon. “This now rightfully belongs to ye. Take good care of it. I am sorry that my pride has cost me so dearly. Pride, I’m afraid, is a common fault with the Macleans.”

The bow was heavier than Sorcha realized it would be but she stood proudly holding it as she received congratulations from both clans.

Despite besting the laird, bitterness torched her soul. “I may ha’e gained yer bow this day,” she said, “but ye’ve gained so much more. This land given ye by a king. This keep. A
decorous
bride. And all ye had to do was ride in here and claim it as yer own.”

He looked puzzled as she started to walk away.

She turned and her deep green eyes bored into his. “Come! I will show ye all that ye’ve been granted simply because yer a man. I’ll show ye, in great detail, all my clan has lost.”

14

Sorcha guided the Highlander around the lands surrounding the Douglas keep, urging her mount to move quickly and forcing his to keep up.

She knew the hills and valleys well and which bogs, marshes, and ravines to avoid. Feeling mischievous, she intentionally tried to lose him several times on a heavily wooded path, but he was an excellent horseman and kept up.

              She took him to see the village huts near the sea, where the villagers greeted him with curiosity, and then the glens and the orchards. She avoided the ravine with the Black Burn of Sorrow. Eventually they cantered along a wild ledge of beach and sea and further toward the inlet and caves.

              After letting the horses drink from a nearby burn, they tied the reins to a tree branch.

She had packed barley cakes, cheese, and goatskins of ale and they sat in the sun eating and slaking their thirst, with their backs against one of the strange standing stones. There were ten ancient stones in all, each taller than a man.