Chapter 12
Patrick was about to find out.
Robert Campbell strode toward him, one of Patrick’s arrows in his hand. From the rigid set of his shoulders Patrick knew he was furious, but the assessing glint in his gaze bothered him far more. The other man stopped before him, studying his face for a long time before saying anything.
“A definitive win,” he conceded. Gracious, Patrick noted, even in defeat.
Glenorchy’s son was proving to be a difficult man to despise.
Hell, the only mark against him that Patrick could find was that he was Glenorchy’s son.
A problem for a MacGregor, but not for a lass seeking a powerful alliance.
“Next time I will have more care in choosing my words.” He tapped the arrow in the flat of his hand a few times, the dull thud an ominous tolling.
“Quite remarkable. I’ve only seen something like it once before. ”
Patrick held his body in check, though every instinct flared. He kept his voice politely questioning. “Aye?”
“Aye,” Campbell repeated. He stared right into Patrick’s eyes. “A few years back I saw the outlawed MacGregor chief shoot down two men with one shot. The Arrow of Glenlyon is regaled not only for his skill with a bow, but also for his unusual trick shots.”
Patrick didn’t betray a muscle at the mention of his cousin. “ ’Tis no trick, just hours of practice. I’ve seen the MacGregor’s skill as well—’tis where I got the idea.”
Campbell’s eyes turned hard and flat; perhaps there was a bit of his black-hearted father in him after all. “You know the outlaw, then?”
He was treading disturbingly close to danger. Patrick figured that it was better to appear forthright and admit some familiarity. “We’ve met. My laird provided caution for him and his clansmen a few years back.”
Campbell rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Aye, I remember. I also remember that Tullibardine sheltered the scourge the last time the MacGregors were put to the horn.”
“And was fined heavily for his actions,” Patrick reminded him. “ ’Tis not a mistake he will make again.”
“Hmm …” Campbell weighed the arrow back and forth in his hands, then held it up to examine the shaft and fletching.
The feathers. Hell. The distinctive fletching was identical to that of his cousin. Patrick forced himself to breathe evenly. He noticed that Finlay had come up behind them and was following their conversation with keen interest.
Finally, Campbell handed it back to him. “The MacGregor is also said to have the finest arrows—he makes them himself.”
“Is that so?” Patrick said with just the right amount of interest. His pulse raced, knowing the treacherous path this conversation was taking. “Then we have that in common. I make my own arrows as well.”
Lizzie’s interruption came not a moment too soon. “What are you suggesting, Robert? You can’t think Patrick has anything to do with those vile men.” She shuddered. “If not for Patrick and his warriors, I would not be standing here.”
Vile men. He had no right to blame her after what his brother had done, but the revulsion in her voice ate at him nonetheless. What would she do when she found out the truth?
Could she ever accept him for what he was? A MacGregor. An outlaw. It was a question he’d never dared ask himself before, too wary of the answer.
Campbell gave him one more long look before turning back to Lizzie, apparently satisfied by Patrick’s explanation.
“Forgive me,” he said. “Of course I’ve not forgotten the debt we owe to Murray here.
I’m most grateful for his skills.” A wry grin turned his mouth. “Even if it means I must lose a wager.”
Lizzie, being Lizzie, immediately responded to his self-deprecating charm and moved to soothe his injured pride. “But you acquitted yourself quite impressively as well. I’ve never seen such exceptional shooting.”
Bloody hell, Patrick thought with renewed irritation, staring at the hand she’d instinctively placed on the other man’s arm. Even when he lost, Campbell managed to come out ahead.
The group of riders who made their way back to the castle was decidedly more subdued than the group that had set out a few hours ago.
The dramatic conclusion to the archery contest seemed to have exhausted their excitement, and none more so than Lizzie.
She couldn’t believe what Patrick had done.
Two arrows fired at one time and both with exceptional accuracy. Never had she seen anything like it.
He was magnificent. A champion to set any woman’s heart aflutter—and she was certainly not immune.
From the first moment she’d met him, Patrick Murray had seemed an answer to her dreams. A romantic dark knight who’d ridden into her life slaying dragons.
She wanted to believe in faerie tales, but her past had made her cautious.
Part of her still couldn’t quite believe he wanted her. Really wanted her.
But she knew that her time enjoying the attentions of two men was at an end; she had to make a decision before matters spun out of control. Next time, their confrontation might not be so civilized.
A contest to decide a lady’s favor might make for a romantic story, but she had no intention of allowing her future to be decided by the vagaries of male pride. Just how she would decide, however, was equally unclear.
She felt a sharp tug in her chest. There was something else she’d been avoiding, but she owed her future husband the truth. Would either man still want her when they learned that she was not a maid?
She sighed, not looking forward to that conversation but knowing it must be had.
Having satisfied her obligations as hostess by conversing with each of her guests, she slowed her mount a bit to fall back with Patrick and his guardsmen, who were bringing up the rear.
Though he was often out of her sight, she knew the reverse was not true. No matter his brooding silence, he took his job as her protector seriously. The weight of his gaze followed her wherever she went.
If only she knew what he was thinking. Unfortunately, trying to discern his feelings was like trying to penetrate granite.
She drew up beside him. Robbie, who’d been riding on his other side, greeted her with a smile and then quickly fell back to talk with some of the other men, leaving them alone.
They rode in silence for a while. She eyed him curiously. He certainly was not acting like a man who’d won. But there wasn’t much that made sense about his actions today.
“Are you going to avoid talking to me all day?”
He lifted one brow in a sardonic arch. “I wasn’t sure you wanted to talk to me, after last night.”
Her cheeks pinkened at his bold reference to the intimacies they’d shared. “If that’s an apology—”
“I wasn’t aware I had anything to apologize for. You didn’t seem to have any complaints at the time.”
Pink deepened to scarlet. He was purposefully trying to embarrass and discombobulate her. But she refused to be so easily diverted.
“That was quite a display today.” He gave no indication that he heard her. “I’ve never seen anything like it. Your skill is remarkable.” She pursed her lips together; his blank expression was infuriating. “That was a compliment if you didn’t realize it.”
His mouth twitched. “Thank you.”
“It’s strange, though …”
He turned to look at her. “And now I suppose you are waiting for me to ask why?”
She ignored his sarcasm. “It’s strange that with skill such as yours no one has ever heard of you. Do you not participate in the Highland games?”
“As I told Campbell, skill is best determined on the battlefield. I have no use for contests.”
“Hmm.” He was unusually modest for a warrior.
Most men weren’t nearly so circumspect—particularly in the Highlands, where a warrior’s reputation was as powerful a weapon as his sword and bow.
Was there another explanation for his reticence?
She straightened her back and looked him full in the eye.
“Why did you purposefully miss your second shot?”
The dark slash of his brow cocked. “What makes you think I did?”
“I saw the small adjustment you made right before you fired.”
“It’s called aiming. Although I appreciate your confidence in my skills, I do occasionally miss the mark.” He met her gaze. “What reason could I have to do so?”
She lifted her chin. “You tell me.”
“There isn’t one, but I thought—since you seem to be doing such a good job of figuring everything out—that you might have something in mind.”
His evasiveness left her even more convinced that he was hiding something. “Why would you want to conceal your skill?”
His mouth curved into a crooked smile. “I can hardly be accused of that.”
She ignored his attempt to deflect the question. “That’s just it. What I don’t understand is why, after going to all the trouble to lose, you changed your mind.”
He met her gaze, his green eyes hot with intensity. “Maybe I decided that the prize was worth the price.”
Me. A shiver ran down her spine. The look in his eyes sent heat pouring through her veins. It was a look of possession. Of pure masculine desire. It claimed her so thoroughly that it took her a moment to find her voice. “What price? What would you possibly lose by winning?”
He didn’t answer right away, turning his gaze back toward the path that wove through the forest, choosing his words with care. “I deemed it prudent under the circumstances.”
Lizzie wrinkled her nose. “I don’t understand.”
His jaw flexed tight. He spoke through clenched teeth, extracting the words with difficulty. “Robert Campbell is a powerful man.”
Lizzie tilted her head, studying the hard lines of his proud, handsome face. “And you thought besting him would bring retribution?” She shook her head. “You don’t know Robert.”
His gaze could have cut stone. “Not, apparently, as well as you do.”