Page 70 of My Scot, My Surrender
“We won’t say a word.” Sorcha arched an eyebrow. “Or is it that you’re afraid to be bested by a woman?”
He laughed again, but it had a nervous edge to it. Her scars weren’t the only part of her reputation that preceded her. Her skill would have, too. But she wasn’t worried that he would refuse, not with his pride on display before all his men. She almost felt sorry for him.
“Someone give the Beast a sword,” he growled.
Aisla sidled toward her. “Sorcha, are ye certain this is wise? He’s twice yer size, and he’s one of the laird’s strongest men.”
“But I am the infamous Beast of Maclaren,” she said with a grin, palming the sword and relishing the weight of it in her callused palms. “Now pay attention.”
Diah, she’d missed the feeling of being in a fight. Her blood pulsed hot as she took up position, her sword held high. Her foe stared blankly at the hefted sword before he came slashing forward with a sideways thrust. Sorcha danced out of the way, swinging her sword backward to slap flat-ended on his rump. A spattering of laughter burst through the gathering crowd. She could have cut him, but this wasn’t arealfight.
Shouting, he rushed her again, only to have the satisfying sound of steel meeting steel echo through the air. Sorcha parried again on the downswing, sparks flying from the force of her strikes. She whirled out of the way of a forward lunge and spun back to deliver an attacking lunge of her own. The tip of the sword cut through leather and wool, scraping along the breastplate her opponent wore.
Sorcha could have continued thrusting and parrying for hours, but they didn’t have much time at the fields, and she wanted to show Aisla a thing or two with the bow. With two decisive steps, she caught the man behind the knees and took him to the ground. The point of her sword swiftly followed to rest at his throat.
To her surprise, the crowd broke out into cheers. Pulling the sword away, she reached out her arm to the man, and was surprised once more when he took it to haul himself upright.
“Ye fought well,” he said with a grudging half bow. “I suppose the rumors of ye prowess are true.” He smiled, and the dimpled effect on his face was startling. “As it turns out, ye also wield yer sword better than I do.”
Was that anapology? Sorcha’s mouth almost fell open in shock. It did fall open when he turned and bowed in Aisla’s direction. “My Lady Aisla, apologies fer my careless words before.”
“Of course, Geordie.”
And suddenly, they were swarmed by the men who wanted to know more about her skills and how the warriors trained at Maclaren. She answered them one after the other and was made to blush when one of the men—a handsome black-haired Scot with the bluest eyes she’d ever seen—remarked that he’d heard she was hideous when she was nothing of the sort. His overt flirtation and blatant interest made her laugh.
“Back off, Fergus, ye clot-heid,” Aisla said, shoving him in the shoulder. “She’s married.”
“Och, more’s the pity!”
No one but her brothers—and more recently Brandt—had ever complimented Sorcha before. Though she basked in the attention, there was only one man whose notice she craved…and that, sadly, was the man who held the title of husband. And he was set on dropping her off like a sack of potatoes to Brodie lands. She scowled. Perhaps she should be focusing on bonny Scots like Fergus who wanted to pay her compliments.
Handsome Montgomerys aside, she’d promised she would show Aisla how to shoot a bow. They marched over to the archery markers. Several of the men followed, including Geordie and Fergus. She felt conspicuous as she grasped hold of a bow, testing its tautness and flexibility before drawing an arrow from the nearby quiver. She did not shoot, but handed the bow to Aisla who gaped at her. “This should do.”
“Now?” she squeaked.
“No better time than the present.” She showed her how to hold the bow and set the arrow, and Aisla mimicked her motions. “Keep your left arm straight and set your sights down the length of the arrow. Now carefully, draw your right arm back until the feathers touch your cheek.” She nodded as Aisla did as she was told. “Good, notch the space between your thumb and forefinger under your chin. Release when you’re ready. Aim for the first bundle.”
Where they stood, there were three bundles tied to stakes in the ground at varying intervals. The first was the closest and would be the least difficult. Sorcha stepped back just as Aisla let the arrow fly with a loud twang. It flew through the air and landed just to the left of the target.
“I missed,” she said crestfallen.
“But not by much. Try again.” This time she let Aisla do all the steps by herself. “Don’t rush it. Time it with your breath. Inhale and release on the exhale.”
The arrow lodged scant inches from the target’s center, and Aisla looked as pleased as could be. She shot a few more arrows, each of them hitting the bundle at various points before she turned toward Sorcha. “Now, ’tis your turn.”
Aisla’s command was supported by shouts and whistles, the loudest of which was from Fergus. Sorcha blushed and took the proffered bow. She reached for an arrow, running the stiff fletching through her fingers. As she prepped the bow, the hairs on the back of her neck rose. Somehow, she knew Brandt was watching. She couldfeelthe familiar rolling press of his stare. Glancing over her shoulder, she scanned the crowd of soldiers but did not see him. The feeling did not abate. Perhaps he stood at a window at the keep, though it would be hard to see from this distance.
Exhaling, she raised the bow and nocked the arrow. Brandt had seen her skill on the battlefield. She did not need to impress him, though she wanted to more than anything. Aiming the arrow, she released it.
“Ye missed!” Aisla shouted.
“Look again.” Sorcha grinned and pointed to the very last thatched bundle, well over a hundred yards away. The arrow was lodged at its dead center.
“’Twas chance,” someone called out.
Sorcha raised an eyebrow and lifted the bow again, more confident now. She let the arrow fly, and it knocked the first arrow clean out of the target. The sensation of being watched deepened. She didn’t know how it was possible, but she could feel Brandt’s pride from wherever he was. It caressed the back of her neck with the lightest of touches.
“What if the target’s moving?” Fergus asked, his blue eyes bright with admiration as he slung an arm over her shoulder.
