Page 47 of Sweet Home Highlander
A cheer went up, and it was no surprise that a few minutes later, Aisla found herself being shepherded out of the keep into the courtyard with a grinning Julien and half of Maclaren in tow.
“She’s in a dress,” Makenna said, making a last effort to thwart her brothers.
“That’s never stopped her, or ye for that matter,” Finlay said drily, opening a case that a footman had brought and handing her one of the three jeweled daggers that lay within. Three throws for each of them.
Her husband shot her a mocking smile. “Lasses first.”
Finlay called for silence and everyone in the courtyard immediately hushed.
Aisla hefted the weight of one dagger in her palm, her gaze narrowing at the targets. A wild rush of adrenaline coursed through her, and suddenly, the years seemed to fall away. She grinned as a laugh of pure exhilaration pushed past her lips and flung the first dagger. It lodged just to the right of center. A loud cheer rolled through the courtyard.
Good, but not good enough.
She lifted the second and released her breath on the throw. That one hit dead center. So did the third. Aisla bowed and stepped back while a footman ran down to retrieve the blades and also to mark her shots with white paint.
“Oh, well done,” Makenna said from behind her.
“Thank you.”
Niall stepped up, dagger in hand and assessing the targets, and met her exhilarated, triumphant gaze. “Indeed.”
Without wasting any time, he flicked his wrist and the first dagger lodged in the middle of the target. A round of raucous cheers went up as Niall smiled, reaching for the second blade. His body barely moved as the weapon whistled through the air and again sank dead center. Aisla sucked in a shallow breath. One more throw like the first two and he would be the undisputed winner. Obviously, she’d underestimated his skill—or overestimated her own.
Dazzling blue Maclaren eyes met hers and held them, making her breath fizzle in her chest. Aisla felt tendrils unfold in the pit of her stomach and reach downward, almost as if she were the intended target in some way. Niall’s stare did not release hers as he cocked his wrist back and let the third dagger fly. With a gasp, she dragged her gaze away to see that unlike the first two, the dagger had connected slightly to the right of center.
“I declare a tie!” Finlay shouted, and everyone shouted in agreement.
Aisla blinked, her eyes narrowing on the target, belatedly noticing that each of the blades were lodgedexactlyinto the painted spots she’d hit before. It wasn’t a tie at all. He’d done it on purpose. He’d well and truly bested her.
Niall smiled in her direction. “Congratulations.”
“You won,” she said.
“Nae. ’Twas a tie. Ye heard Finlay.”
“Your shots hit mine directly,” she insisted. “That was no accident, was it?”
With a shuttered smile, he inclined his head and walked away. It was a message, Aisla realized. A retaliation for the kiss, the memory of which still left her rattled and weak. She’d fought for every inch of poise, using everything she’d learned in Paris, to hold herself cold and apart when all her insides had felt like hot, mulled wine. If he’d only known how close he’d come to nearly demolishing her with that kiss, and losing the stupid wager, the triumph would have been his.
She’d walked through hell once…she could not afford to lose herself there again.
After luncheon, the crowd had dispersed to the lower fields where other events were set up, and Aisla wandered aimlessly. She ambled past where the musicians were getting ready for the evening dancing in the courtyard and headed toward the largest throng of people. Julien had disappeared with Makenna to watch the jousting and she found herself alone until she came to a field where several Scots were starting to toss cabers. Lifting and hefting the giant sheared trees was a feat of colossal strength and the sport was beloved by many a Scotsman. Aisla watched for a while, cheering the competitors on while she sipped on a cup of mulled wine.
“Aisla, is that ye?”
At the familiar address, she turned and saw a well-muscled man standing directly behind her. It was another moment before recognition set in, followed by a sweep of anxiety as she glanced around for the Laird of Tarbendale. He would not take kindly to this particular visitor, though she did not know why she should care about Niall’s feelings. She stalled, recalling his admission that Dougal Buchanan had been the one to taunt him with intimate knowledge of her body, and felt a dark urge to kick the man now smiling at her. Why would he have done such an awful thing? No wonder Niall didn’t trust him.
Then again, perhaps Dougal was the advantage she needed to speed things along. “Aye, it’s me. Though it’s Lady Maclaren, as you well know.”
He grinned at her, crossing his thick arms and vaulting an eyebrow. “Yer a sight for sore eyes.”
“Dougal,” she said cheerfully, despite the thread of unease in her belly. “You look well.” She peered around him. “Have you come with your betrothed?”
A mixed look of regret and caution flickered over Dougal’s face. “I thought it wise for her to remain home, being how she hails from the Campbells.”
Aisla shook her head, feigning ignorance. “I don’t understand. Are the Campbells not on good terms with the Maclarens?”
Dougal took a circumspect glance around the festival grounds. “Aye. No’ since Ronan insulted the Campbell laird and his daughters in Edinburgh two weeks past.”
