Page 22 of The Forest Bride
Marcus—the girl—was breathing audibly fast, gripping the upright bow. Duncan watched her, his brow creased. It was her turn, but she looked shaken.
“Nock!” the miller called. “Mark!”
“Steady,” Duncan murmured, as the girl fumbled with her bow. “The falcon looks real, but do not let it throw you.”
“You shoot first,” she answered in a husky voice, and moved back.
Duncan stepped forward. Taking a moment, he raised the bow, nocked, sighted the bird, focused on the eye. All the while he masked the fiery thread of anger that grew within. Was Menteith’s unsettling choice deliberate? Had he seen the falcon recently?
The thought hit hard, cutting into his focus. Few knew about the rare gyrfalcon he kept at Brechlinn. Had someone sighted her over the glen when he or his men exercised the birds? He was always cautious and reminded others to be careful as well.
Heart pounding, he wondered why the girl seemed startled by the painted white bird too. Then it struck him. He knew of only one lass who might react like that to the sight of a white gyrfalcon. But it could not be. That girl was likely praying in a convent.
He flexed his fingers on the bow, propped the arrow shaft along his hand, tilted, tightened the string, sighted. Too distracted, he lowered the bow, lifted, refocused.
“Steady, sir,” the girl murmured. “It is just a target.” Her voice was husky, earnest, yet enticingly feminine. He glanced at her. A strand of red-gold hair slipped free of the dull black cap again. Her gaze met his. Gorgeous green irises full of recognition. She looked away.
Margaret.Safe and well, just here beside him, when he thought her locked away praying somewhere. Here, where he could touch her, talk to her. More than surprise, he felt sheer relief.
Taking a breath, he loosed the arrow into the eye of the bird.
Chapter Five
Not only wasDuncan Dhu Campbell standing next to her, vigorous and stunning, black-haired and blue-eyed, tall and strong. Not only was he the only archer to give her a challenge today. He was, quite frankly, alive.
But how could that be? No one had ever brought news of his survival.
She glanced at him, away, back again. He had matured into a beautiful man, wearing traditional Highland dress—a woolen tunic belted over trews, with a length of plaid draped across his torso, pinned on one shoulder and caught by a leather belt. His hair, nearly black with glints of dark bronze, was tousled nearly to his shoulders. He was unshaven with a scruff of dark bristles on his lean cheeks; his nose had an elegant curve; his dark-blue eyes were long-lidded; his mouth quirked, his gaze was keen.
Her knees went weak and her hands trembled.Duncan.
She needed to take the next shot. She tried to focus, to calm herself. Her thoughts were racing, scattered with shock.
Years ago, she had been ill and raw with heartbreak when she had learned that Duncan had been captured in a terrible battle. Later she was told that he had perished in captivity, she had been free of the betrothal and free of dreams and infatuation. Of love.
She had remained in the convent, sick and heartsick. Two years later, she had come home, and her father had begun arranging other betrothals. She had refused each one. All thewhile, her inner will and her stubbornness grew stronger. She resolved never to marry, and instead, threw herself into helping at Kincraig. She never wanted to risk her heart again. She could not forget Duncan Campbell, and she worried about the gyrfalcon’s fate.
Now Duncan stood next to her, handsome, robust, charismatic, and mysterious. She did not know how to feel—though a sudden urge to throw herself at him nearly overtook her. He was alive. He looked more than hearty—he was compelling.
Clutching the bow, she shook. His arrow struck the target and he stepped back in silence as a boy ran to pluck the arrow from the target.
“Leave it!” Menteith shouted. “Let the second archer split the shaft!”
Split an arrow shaft? She had skill, but few archers had the precise aim and power to do that. Yet she could not lose her great-grandfather’s brooch to Duncan Campbell or anyone else. She had to win and claim the prize. Then she must find a way to accuse Menteith. Here was the justiciar she needed, in the most surprising way possible.
Fate, or saints and angels, had somehow arranged all this. Menteith. The brooch. The justiciar. And dear God—Duncan. What she did next would determine if Lilias was found soon—or too late. And it might even determine her own future.
She swallowed, then took a shaky breath and raised the bow. Once more Menteith brazenly displayed her brooch, holding it aloft, then tossing it to the table as if it was nothing. To her, that pin was a legacy and a promise, trust and magic.
And evidence, she realized. Menteith’s possession of it was proof he had a role in taking Lilias de Bruce.
She sighted down the shaft, closed her eyes, saw the fletched arrow in her mind. Opening her eyes, she released the bolt.
Her arrow grazed Campbell’s, tearing the feathers. But the point bounced off the target at an angle and clattered to the ground.
“Winner! Sir Duncan Campbell, Justiciary of the North, is the archery champion!” Menteith bellowed. He waved the brooch high, silver glinting.
She had lost. Margaret lowered her head. The crowd applauded. Beside her, Duncan Campbell sighed as if exasperated.
