“Did you ever participate in these?” Gwen asked Reilly as he bought her a pasty from one of the food stalls.
“Aye.”
Mary puffed up with pride. “He not only took part, he won every game he entered! ’Twas a wondrous sight to behold. When he was but six, he won his own steel sword. When he was eight, he threw a lead ball further than any of the grown men! And the anvil toss—”
“What’s that?” Gwen interrupted, fascinated.
“Mam,” Reilly tried to put an end to her maternal bragging, but she hushed him with a wave of her hand.
“The anvil toss is just over there. See those beams set up, with the beam across them?”
Gwen stood on her tiptoes and looked in the direction Mary was pointing. Two tall poles stood with a bar across them, about a third of the way up, looking almost like a giant H in the middle of the events field.
“I see it!”
“My Reilly,” Mary boasted, “stood at just ten years old and put the other competitors to shame! You see, lass, you must stand with your back to the beams. Then, you reach down, lift an anvil weighing your own weight, and toss it up and over your head. If it clears the beam, it’s a successful throw.” She beamed. “Reilly was the only one to clear it!”
“Is there anything you can’t do?” Gwen smirked at his discomfort.
He noticed the smirk and smirked right back at her. “At these games? Probably not.”
“He’s not the best with a bow and arrow.”
“Mam!” Reilly exclaimed with a good-natured laugh. He turned to Gwen, his eyes twinkling. “Don’t listen to her. Though I’ll admit, I’m much better with swords and jousting.”
“So there is something I could beat you at,” she teased.
He raised a brow. “Think you?”
She folded her arms and raised her own eyebrows (both of them, as she couldn’t do just the one, no matter how hard she tried). “I do.”
“Lass, I said he wasn’t the best with a bow and arrow,” Mary said worriedly. “He won that game as well.”
“You said earlier that women participate in these games?” Gwen looked at Mary for confirmation, and at her nod, Gwen grinned. “Perfect.”
Suddenly, someone shouted, “Mary!”
The three of them swiveled their heads toward the man calling out her name, and Mary flushed. “’Tis the laird.”
“Go on, we shall wait for you here,” Reilly encouraged her. Mary quickly headed over to the man, who looked more than a little fierce.
“He’s scary,” she remarked.
Reilly guffawed. “Darragh? Nay, he’s a lamb. At least when it comes to my mother.”
Gwen’s eyes grew round and she looked up at Reilly. “Do you mean that he likes her?”
“He’s proposed to her no less than twice a year for the last five years.”
Gwen’s mouth dropped open. “Why has she refused him?”
“She claimed she and Sorcha had everything they needed.” His brow furrowed. “But now, with Sorcha married…mayhap she’s a bit lonely?”
“Perhaps she’ll agree, if for nothing more than companionship,” Gwen agreed. She frowned. “Wait a second. If she agrees, does that change the past you know?”
“Damn those Fates.”
Gwen’s heart constricted at his bleak expression. She needed to distract him. Thinking fast, she turned fully to him with a cheeky grin. “So, since you’re basically the reigning Mr. Medieval—”
He flexed his bicep. “Medieval is so restrictive. Throw the word Modern in there, too. It’ll be more fully representative.”
“Oh, you’re so arrogant,” she scoffed, laughing. “Back home you’re so far from earning that title, it’s laughable.”
“Is it now?” he asked, his eyes glittering dangerously. He took a step toward her, and she restrained the smile pulling at her lips. “Who could possibly take that title, if not me?”
“Well, your competition includes Chris Hemsworth—”
“That Australian actor who played the god in your superhero movie?” he exclaimed. “His accent was terrible.”
“No way, it was sexy. And he’s a god,” she added, just to get under his skin.
“I’ll have him as my competition then. So far, I win.”
“You also are up against Hugh Jackman. I mean, hello, male perfection. He’s also been married for what, twenty years? That’s dedication and loyalty. He’s adopted children, does loads of charity work, looks amazing without a shirt…”
“You seem to enjoy the Aussies,” Ry replied darkly.
“Aye,” she mocked in his accent, “though I be likin’ yer Irish lads Colin Farrell and Liam Neeson as well.”
He growled at her, and she squealed as he grabbed for her. She avoided him once, but he caught her with his second attempt and hauled her against him. “Makin’ craic av me accent, aye?”
His breath fanned over her, and her heartbeat picked up. His body heat seared through her gown, sensitizing her flesh. His hard body, honed by so much more than a gym, combined with the indefinable scent that was intrinsically Reilly threw Gwen’s hormones into overdrive.
With her intense and unexpected reaction to his nearness, Gwen’s traitorous knees did what they’d never before done. They gave out on her.
Reilly caught her before she fell fully, and he lifted her, clasping her against his chest, so that they were almost eye-to-eye.
Oh, why did he have to smell so good? It should’ve been impossible, because they were in medieval Ireland, and the other people didn’t smell nearly so nice, and he had bathed that morning outside in the freezing creek…where could he possibly have gotten a bar of soap that didn’t smell like the one she used? And was it her imagination, or had the yellow flecks in his eyes turned a deep golden color? His gaze was hooded, but when her eyes met his, the connection between them surged to life. A spark, almost tangible, crackled the small amount of air between their faces. Her insides pooled, and her entire body softened, as though it didn’t care what her mind told it, as it wanted Reilly.
She wanted Reilly.
He released her slowly, sliding her down his body. His nostrils flared slightly, and his eyes focused on her lips. She didn’t step back when her feet reached the ground; if anything, she pressed herself further into him. The world shrank to just the two of them; nothing existed but the moment. She forgot to breathe, forgot to blink…she forgot everything, except Reilly O’Malley, and the golden flecks of his irises, and his strong arms encircling her waist, holding her where she most wanted to be.
Her breasts felt heavy, and her arms ached to slide up his and twine themselves around his neck. Her fingers flexed on his forearms, and she just barely stopped herself.
“Gwendolyn.” His voice, merely a whisper, was laced with something that echoed her own thoughts.
She watched him, mesmerized, unsure what was going to come out of his mouth. Silent, crushing hope flared in her heart, while her mind called it ten times the fool.
“Sir Reilly!”
Gwen blinked then, shaking herself out of spell, embarrassment flooding her. Oh God oh God oh God. No. I can’t go through this again. The rejection. It was a sure thing. And hadn’t she promised herself she wasn’t going to feel this way anymore? Nope, nope, triple nope. She was moving on with her life.
Yet no matter how many times she had that thought, her unruly heart wouldn’t pay the words any heed.
Reilly smoothly extricated himself from her and turned to face Mary, who was hurrying toward them from behind the laird as they pushed through the crowd to get to them. The laird spoke in rapid-fire Gaelic, slapping Reilly on the back multiple times as he spoke. Reilly nodded a few times, then responded and gestured to Gwen.
“Oh, forgive me, lass. I’m no’ one to accept the English, but as you’re with Sir Reilly, that’s to be overlooked, of course. I’ll speak in your tongue so as to not upset your beau.” The laird patted her hand, and she tried to smile at him, though she was sure her face look
ed more like a contorted mess of uncertainty than delight.
Apparently done with her, the laird turned his attention back to Reilly. “I’ve been asking yer mam to marry me for years. Claims she’s useless as she doesna want any more bairns. But I’ve got me three sons, so what do I need more bairns for? Nothing, I tell her. So now that Sorcha is settled, she’s agreed to be me wife, with yer blessing.”
Reilly looked at his mother seriously. “I’ll need speech with you first, Mam.”
Mary nodded meekly, and Gwen’s BS radar went on full alert. Mary didn’t strike her as someone who would be meek about anything, much less about her decision to marry.
“Do excuse us, my laird.” Reilly nearly dragged Mary away, and Gwen followed, unwilling to be left with the English-hating laird, no matter how nice Mary claimed him to be.
“This is what you want?” Reilly demanded.
Mary lifted her chin a notch. “Well, he’s been asking long enough. Makes me think he’s serious.”
Gwen couldn’t help the giggle that escaped.
“Oh, you find this humorous?” Reilly snapped, though there wasn’t any heat to his words.
Gwen ignored him. “Mary, do you love him?”
Mary looked over at Darragh, who was unabashedly watching them. “Perhaps.”
“He’ll provide great security,” Reilly conceded. “You’ll move into the castle, so there’s that. And your position would be greatly elevated. Lady of the clan; you’re well-suited to it.” He lapsed into a slew of Gaelic, and Mary simply continued to nod thoughtfully.
“Will you be safe if you don’t marry him?” Gwen asked, concerned.
“Well, aye, of course,” Mary replied, a bit taken aback at the vehemence in Gwen’s tone.
She pressed, “Ok, so perhaps you love him. That’s the only thing to consider, right? Because if you don’t…well, just be sure.”
Mary blinked. “At this point in my life, lass, love isn’t the most important thing—”
“Don’t marry him if you don’t love him,” Gwen interrupted desperately, grasping the woman’s hands. “Don’t settle if you don’t have to. You’re worthy of love. Great love. We all are, right? I mean, too many women have to marry someone just to find that peace you’ve already found. Don’t throw that away for greener grass!”
Mary stared at her, and Gwen watched as understanding dawned on her face. “Aye, lass, I ken your words. I ken.”
Gwen nodded, her eyes filling with tears, though she didn’t understand why. Or maybe she did.
She didn’t know anymore.
Mary looked at Reilly, though she still held Gwen’s hands. “Aye, Reilly. This is what I want.” She looked back at Gwen. “I had my happiness with my first husband. When he died, a piece of me died, too. But Reilly’s da, he knew what he was about. He told me to wait until my heart healed, for heal it would. And so I sat, in my little cottage, waiting.” She patted Gwen’s cheek. “I’ve waited long enough. I vowed I wouldn’t settle for something less than everything.” She leaned in and whispered, “Don’t wait as long as I did, Gwendolyn. But don’t make anyone make you settle, either.”
Gwen nodded, a slight movement that barely registered for anyone watching.
“Then of course you have my blessing. My lady,” he added with a grin. Mary headed back over to the laird, leaving them alone again.
“Greener grass?”
Gwen stared at Mary’s retreating form, her mind a million miles away. “She’s a wise woman, your mother.”
“Aye.”
• • •
Reilly still wasn’t sure how he ended up with a bow in his hand. Gwen stood a few feet away from him, also holding a bow, and she seemed not ill-at-ease with it.
Curious.
“Why did I agree to this?” he asked again, drawing an arrow from the quiver on his back. He inspected it, decided it was straight, and nocked it.
“You didn’t,” she informed him, smoothing her fingers over the string of her bow. She nodded, satisfied, then glanced at him. “I merely wanted to see you try your hand at archery, after your mother exposed it as the one thing you might not be amazing at.”
“There are but few things I’m ‘not amazing at.’ But there’s no need for me to put on a show about them,” he grumbled.
“Oh, relax. No one is even paying attention to us.”
That, at least, was true. Archery wasn’t set to begin until after the noontime meal, and the archery site stood empty. At Gwen’s insistence, Reilly reluctantly procured arrows and bows for them both.
He got the impression that Gwen thought herself to be a good archer. He didn’t care to trump her, but he truly was an expert-level archer himself. Part of his training with the Fates, they’d ensured he could get out of a tight spot with any weapon. While it wasn’t his favorite weaponry, he wasn’t opposed to its uses, especially when one’s foe was too far away for swords.
“My arrows look straight, and my bow is tight,” Gwen announced. “I think they’ll be fine. You ready to give this a go?”
She looked like a warrior princess, her hair escaping its plaits, the wind blowing her cobalt blue dress around her as though it was encouraging her.
He sighed. “If you’d like, you can simply shoot them all.”
“Afraid I’ll make you look bad?” she asked sympathetically.
He straightened. “Hardly. I don’t care to disabuse you of the notion that you’re any good at this.” When she openly laughed at him, he narrowed his eyes. “Lass, I’ve never even heard you speak of arrows before. What makes you think you’re better at them than me?”
She smiled mysteriously. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”
He leaned forward. “What’s your confidence level?”
“Exceptionally high,” she replied without inflection.
“A bet, then. Winner takes all.”
“All what?”
“We shall allow the winner to decide,” he demurred. “We each shoot three arrows into the target. The one with the closest bullseyes wins.”
“Done. But I’ll have to think on what you’ll be giving me when I win.”
His eyes glittered dangerously. “Oh, lass, you’ve no idea what you’re baiting when you boast about things you can’t possibly do.”
She smiled sweetly at him. “Do your worst, O’Malley. Do you need a practice shot before we start?”
He snorted. “Nay, but perhaps that’s your way of letting me know that you do. So, ladies first. Take your practice shot.”
She shrugged, then took up her stance. She nocked her arrow, set up her bow and string, and aimed. She drew the bow back—rather well, he thought with some surprise—and let the arrow fly. It hit a few inches off the bullseye.
“Step aside, and watch how ’tis done,” he said with exaggerated patience.
She barely contained her grin, but he ignored her. He did the same as she did, and landed his arrow significantly closer to the center.
“Last chance to back out,” he warned as they retrieved the arrows.
She pursed her lips. “Reilly, shut your trap. I agreed to this, as did you. Any ideas what you’ll demand if you win?”
“Ah, that’s the way of it,” he replied approvingly. “I also know I’ll win.”
She rolled her eyes and took up her stance again. But this time, Reilly noticed she was a bit more focused. Her head was up, and her shoulders were relaxed. With supreme confidence, she set herself up, then, with precision archers the world over would weep for, she let the arrow fly…into the center of the bullseye.
He stared in shock.
“Would you be a dear and grab that for me?” she asked, trying—no, purposefully failing—to keep the smugness out of her tone. “I’d hate to split that perfectly good arrow with my next shot.”
“You’ve never split an arrow,” Reilly protested.
“Well, no,” she admitted. Then she gave a sly smile. “Rather, the arrow slides in next to it, ruining the wood and sometimes splicing th
e feather. I hate doing that, too.”
“I don’t believe you,” he declared.
She shrugged. “Okay. But if those guys over there demand someone replace these two arrows, that’s on you.”
“Deal.”
She selected another arrow, and, with frightening accuracy, slid it home next to the other one.
“What the devil…?”
She brushed an imaginary piece of lint off her shoulder, then ruined the effect by grinning at him. “United States Archery Association’s Outdoor Archer of the Year, five years in a row. Youngest ever to hold the title, back in high school and college.”
He gaped at her. “You never mentioned a word of it to me!”
“Guess it never came up.” Smoothly, she shot her third arrow, aiming it slightly to the left of the first two, then gave him an exaggerated bow. “Your turn, Mr. Medieval.”
He clenched his jaw. Carefully, he took his stance, relaxed his shoulders, and picked his chin up slightly. He released his arrow…bullseye. He just barely resisted the urge to pump his fist.
“Excellent shot,” she said approvingly. “Shall I remove the arrow?”
“If you wouldn’t mind,” he replied through gritted teeth. He was going to win if it killed him.
Not because he wanted to beat her, though of course he did. But if he won, his “all” would be to finish what they started earlier. His lips, on hers, where they were meant to be.
He needed to kiss her, and he needed her to want to kiss him back as much as he needed air.
Carefully, he shot his next arrow, and it, too, landed in the bullseye, though it was almost on the line. He wondered…
“If you’re thinking of a tiebreaker in which you distract me, think again,” she called out.
He glowered at her. “Reading minds, are we?”
“Didn’t need to. It was written all over your face.”
He grunted in response, wishing he’d never agreed to this nonsense. But agree he did, so he yanked another arrow out of his quiver.
Falling Through Time: Mists of Fate - Book Four Page 21
