Chapter 4
4
Iris moved through the throng of people before her, ignoring their looks as she elbowed past them. They had arrived at the gathering a few hours ago, but she had yet to make her way through the entire lot of people.
All sorts of clans had arrived before them, with many different tartans represented. Iris had never seen so many clans together before. Most were full of warriors, like hers, big burly Scots that had no qualms about using the butt of their swords to hammer in the stakes for their tents into the ground.
Others were smaller clans, with Scots who looked like lads that had never seen the battlefield. Why, there was even one clan that Iris had seen nothing but lasses about, though these lasses were not ones to be trifled with. They had brawn like the Scots she had observed, their swords gleaming from the scabbards at their backs as they had unloaded their wagons with ease.
Iris imagined that none had brought a gown for the feast.
Still, it was a sight to behold. When they had arrived, a member of the host clan was there to greet them, offering a respite of ale for all who wished to have some before showing them to their location on the rolling green pasture. While many of the clans had yet to arrive, Iris was amazed by the sheer number of tents that had already been put up. Even her father had whistled at the sight.
“’Tis bigger than any gathering I have ever been to,” he had stated while enjoying his ale.
And it wasn’t just the tents. Iris had marveled at the other things that were set up as well, including the area in which the games would be taking place. A platform had been set up, presumably for the host laird and his family, as well as targets for what was likely to be bow shooting and a dirt pit that could only be described as sparring.
It all excited her. Even her brothers had made mention of what was before them, including the lasses they were able to make eye contact with as they passed.
Iris had just rolled her eyes at their catcalls and the giggles that drifted in the wind. It seemed that her brothers had only one thing in their minds for this gathering.
Well, she did as well. Iris was going to win the gathering games for their clan. It wasn’t a matter of if she could do it. No, Iris knew that she was smarter, quicker, and far more talented than any opponent they could put in her path.
Ian found Iris watching the scene before her a little while later, slinging his arm around her shoulders.
“Well, dear sister, still want tae compete?”
“Aye,” she stated, shrugging off his heavy arm. “Mah mind is made up.”
He chuckled, crossing his arms over his massive chest. “I figured as much.”
She eyed him, anger rising in her chest. “Dinnae think I can win?”
Her words seemed to take him aback and surprise filtered through his handsome countenance.
“Nay, I think ye will show them all wot our clan is made of. I have nary a doubt that ye will be a victor.”
His praise warmed Iris to her core, and for the first time, she wanted to embrace her brother. They were not a sappy lot of Scots. Their lives had seen very little softness, which was fine with Iris. She didn’t understand where her sisters got their soft side from, but she much preferred the grunt of approval from their father instead of some embrace.
“Aye,” she sniffed, fighting back the swell of emotion. “It means a lot coming from ye.”
“Why?” he teased, his voice softer than normal. “Because I’m the better fighter?”
Iris rolled her eyes at him and punched him lightly in the shoulder. “Ye are such a sod.”
Ian winked. “Be careful out there, will ye? I dinnae wish tae train another warrior tae take yer place.”
“Is that all ye can think aboot?” she teased, knowing that he was doing the same thing with her. “Training another bloody Scot?”
“Aye. I cannae show favoritism, Sister.”
Iris laughed as Ian strolled off, a catchy tune from his lips about some buxom wench he had met at a tavern. Though she wouldn’t admit much to her brothers, knowing she had Ian’s approval gave her the additional fight she needed.
Turning back toward her clan’s camp, she straightened her shoulders. Now all she had to do was wait for the call for participants.
After a while, a lone horn sound filled the air, cutting through the sudden noise that had filled the large pasture. Iris stepped out of the tent she had been working in to find the platform occupied by the host laird, surrounded by his warriors.
“Welcome!” he called out, raising his hands to quiet the crowd. “I am here to announce that we will be taking the name of the victor from each clan! Come make yer mark on the ledger.”
“Go on,” her father said, nodding to her. “Ye wanted tae be our victor. ’Tis time for ye tae live up tae yer own words, Daughter.”
Iris felt the flutter of excitement in her stomach as she gave him a single nod and stepped forward, falling in line with the rest of the men clamoring to make their way toward the man near the wooden platform.
It seemed that she wasn’t the only one excited by the prospect, the murmur of voices and laughter as the other Scots waited their turn. She only saw one other lass in the line, one from the all-lass clan that she had observed earlier.
A worthy opponent indeed.
Little by little, the line moved until Iris found herself standing before the Scot, the leather-bound ledger balanced in his hands.
“Name?”
“Iris,” she stated, seeing his head pop up in surprise. “Iris Wallace.”
His mouth turned into a half grin as he eyed her. “Wot is this? Some sort of trickery?”
Iris narrowed her gaze. “Wot are ye talking aboot?”
He gestured with his feather in her direction. “But ye’re a lass! Surely ye arenae going tae represent the Wallace clan!”
There was laughter at her back but Iris ignored it, drawing to her full height.
“Aye, I am.”
She wanted to pull out her sword and show the Scot how she could wield it, but she was, as he had stated, representing her entire clan.
There would be a target on their back and hers if she caused such a stir on the first day.
Or perhaps it would be exactly what she needed.
“Is that a problem?”
“Write down the lass’s name,” the laird drawled, catching Iris’s attention. He was a portly Scot with a long red beard and eyes that seemed to hold some version of kindness toward her rather than pity. “If she wishes tae participate, then she should be able tae.”
“A-Aye, mah laird,” the man said hastily, the laughter fading from his expression as he scribbled her name. “Welcome tae the gathering games, Wallace.”
Iris ignored the man, looking up at the laird instead.
“Thank ye.”
He gave her a nod and she turned, running into a solid mass as she did so.
“Steady now,” a deep voice murmured, strong hands gripping her upper arms.
Iris looked up to find a pair of green eyes staring back at her, attached to a handsome face that sent her stomach in knots. He was tall, taller than even Ian was, with his red hair about his face and a scruffy beard that hid his strong jawline. His grip was strong; she could feel the heat of his skin burning through her simple tunic.
Realizing that they were being watched, Iris yanked herself out of his grip, hoping that her cheeks weren’t as red as they felt.
“Wot are ye doing?”
He crossed his arms over his chest, a hint of a smile on his face.
“I believe ye ran intae me, lass.”
“I didnae,” she countered, mimicking his stance and glaring at him as she did so. “Ye were in mah path.”
He looked over her shoulder. “I was trying tae get tae make mah mark, lass, but it seems I have tae go through ye first.”
He was going to compete? Iris let her eyes drift down his strong form, her heart beating rapidly in her chest.
“Well,” she drawled, deciding that he was just another Scot who thought she couldn’t win. She would show him as well. Iris would prove to the entire lot that she could beat them all. “I cannae wait tae show ye how hard I am tae go through.”
He arched a brow, clearly surprised by her tone and her words.
“Is that right, lass?”
Iris stepped closer to him, her eyes flashing. He didn’t believe she could either. It was the fight she had fought all her life and would continue to fight until her dying breath.
“I will enjoy watching ye fall on yer arse then,” she snapped back, letting the ire come out in her words. “And watch as ye taste the dirt around ye in defeat.”
Her father had always said she had a way with words, which was what had gained her respect amongst the other warriors.
She pushed at his shoulder, forcing him out of her way and ignoring the laughter around them.
“Och, lass, I cannae wait!” she heard him call out behind her.
Iris chose to keep walking, clenching her fists at her sides. Perhaps she would be paired up with him with the first round of games and force him out just as quickly.
Yes, that would be worth her time to see the surprised look on his face as her arm was held up in victory.
Still, as Iris made her way back to her clan’s tents, she couldn’t help but think about his laughing eyes or the well-formed body that had been on display. He was a handsome devil, that one, but it would take more than just his handsome face to impress her.
Iris’s steps slowed, and she shook her head. No, she didn’t care about being impressed! She came to win the games. It was her brothers who would go through the camp before the week’s end and make their presence known with the lasses.
She was not her brothers nor did she have any interest in doing so! It would be in her best interest to remember why she was there and not have her head turned by the first handsome Scot she saw. It was her sister’s fault for having their talk before she left, Iris decided as she stalked back to the tent.
Iris had no interest in that sort of life, no matter what her sister thought.
Iris snorted. Handsome indeed! He wasn’t that handsome.
But as she thought about her words, Iris felt deep down that she was lying to herself.