Page 70 of The Forest Bride
“I still wonder what happened.”
“I am a decent archer and I needed the prize. The arrow went askew. That is all.”
He pulled back the string, paused, then shot. The arrow arced high and struck the wall above the door, clattering off the stone. “Your turn, my lady.”
“Not bad,” she said of his shot. “The brooch. I wanted it.” She took up one of her arrows and stepped forward. She touched the pendant at her throat and set the bow.
“Do you always tap your necklace for luck before you shoot? It is a curious thing, that crystal you wear. Like a carved arrowhead.”
“Grandda gave it to me, so it may bring some luck.” She aimed and released. The arrow plunked into the center of the linen target.
“Very nice. Was that luck, a faery charm—or skill?”
“All three.” She gave a reluctant smile. She was in a peculiar mood, and he wondered about it.
“Would you swear you did not intend to harm Menteith?”
“I wanted to find him, but it was not my intention to harm him.” She touched the pendant again, fingers trembling. “I desperately hoped something would delay him so he would not take Lilias away if he had her. It was just luck the arrow went astray.”
He nodded without reply, tipped the longbow, and released an arrow that curved high to sail over the wall. He turned and bowed almost comically, hoping for a smile.
“Too much strength,” she remarked. “Now you will have to fetch the arrow. Sir Malcolm said we could send Effie’s Owen out the gate to find the ones he lost.”
“Come with me.” He waved her ahead, and they walked across the bailey. Near the entrance gate, Bran stood talking with two Brechlinn men. Mungo, the larger of Duncan’s wolfhounds, rested on the ground beside them and leaped up as Duncan approached. He ruffled the dog’s head and patted the high shoulders, then gestured to Bran, who pulled the iron-studded oaken door open.
“We will be back soon. Lady Margaret, if you will. Come, Mungo!” Duncan waved the hound out ahead of them as he ushered Margaret through. Then he held up a hand, glancing this way and that to be sure it was safe before he motioned her out with him.
Overhead, the sky was going to lavender behind soft gray clouds. “We must hurry to catch the light if we want to find the arrows,” Margaret said.
“Aye. Though twilight comes later now, with the days longer in May.” He walked beside her, the rippling blue loch to one side, forestland to the other. They went toward the trees, crossing turf and hillocks as they followed the curtain wall toward clusters of oak and birch surrounded by ferns and a froth of tiny wildflowers, white and purple blooms. Just past the breach in the wall where stones filled the gap, Duncan walked into the trees, Margaret following. Mungo zigzagged through the grasses, nosing about.
“I do not see the arrow. It must have sailed into the trees,” Margaret said.
“The woodland here catches plenty of arrows. Longer shafts from the larger bows sometimes go far into the trees. We do not always find them.”
She skipped ahead, lifting her green skirt to walk through ferns and tiny blooms between saplings and older trees. The land rose and fell in low hillocks, a green and quiet forest touched by golden beams of afternoon sun. She went deeper into the trees, peering as she went.
“There—oh, just a stick. What color was the fletching?”
“Gray, I think.” He turned. “This is not so easy. Usually a stable groom forages for the lost arrows.”
“You do not have many servants here, soldiers either.”
“I have requested more men. Here, Mungo,” he called as the hound looked up from some distraction. “If he sees something interesting, he will run and we will be out here for a while.”
“That would suit me. I love being in the forest best of all places.”
He glanced at her, seeing the forest in her eyes, the green sparkle there, happiness pinking her cheeks. An answering glow warmed his heart. “Do you, now?”
“I do. I feel good here. It fills me somehow. It is so alive, so beautiful, so peaceful.”
“Aye,” he said, looking at her.
She walked on. “Will Edward send English here to add to your garrison?”
“I hope for more Scots,” he said, skirting who might send them. “When enough are housed here, we will hire more servants.”
“You need a cook soon and should give Effie MacArthur rooms in the castle.”
