Their eyes locked, and Cameron realized with a start that what his brother had said made sense. He had given up, had settled on being the reckless brother.
He clasped Graham’s shoulder. “Thank ye, Brother. I’ll nae give up.”
Graham nodded as they moved onto the shore from the stairs, and the noise of the assembled crowd swallowed them. They weaved through clansmen and strangers, and in and out of bonfires that had been lit to ward off evil spirits. Near where all the contestants were lined up side-by-side for the dagger-throwing competition, Cameron halted as a group of barefooted children raced in front of him, giggling and waving sticks as they pretended to battle one another. Once they were past, Cameron strode toward Iain and Catriona, who leaned against her husband, looking pale as the moon and fragile as a newborn babe.
Cameron’s throat tightened at his sister-in-law’s sickly state. Her difficulty breathing and horrid coughing spells seemed to be worsening by the day, but he’d not utter the thought aloud. To do so would bring his brother’s wrath down upon him. If a body could be saved from death by the love of another, then Cameron had no doubt Catriona would regain her health, as his brother loved her mightily.
When Cameron moved to his place in the line of competitors, Iain gave him a narrow-eyed look that conveyed, without doubt or words, his vexation with Cameron for being late. His older brother was almost always irritated with him, just as their father had always been, but maybe it was a test, as Graham had said.
Cameron was about to apologize for his delay when Archibald looked at him and spoke. “We were all beginning to wonder if ye were scairt to face me in competition.”
“I dunnae fear ye, Archibald,” Cameron drawled as he donned his plaid once more. “Yer aim is about as impressive as this day is short.” He twisted his mouth in a smirk.
Archibald furrowed his brow. “’Tis one of the longest days of the year…”
“Aye,” Cameron said with a chuckle, then tapped the man on the side of the head. “The day is nae short, and yer aim is nae impressive.”
Guffaws rang out down the line of twelve men.
Archibald smacked Cameron’s arm away. “I’ll show ye how impressive my aim is,” the man thundered, swinging a punch at Cameron.
As Cameron ducked, a hand shot out in front of his face to stop Archibald’s fist.
Alex appeared seemingly out of the mist. Archibald’s cousin towered over him, dark and grimacing. “Keep yer temper and yer wits about ye, or ye’re certain to be bested as ye were the other day by my wee sister.”
Bridgette MacLean tossed her long red hair over her shoulder before offering a smirk from where she stood with the other women. Her green eyes danced with mirth. Knowing Bridgette, she’d much rather be in the competition than watching it, but her brother had refused to let her participate.
“She did nae best me,” Archibald grumbled. “I let her win.”
“Ye’re lying to save yerself the mortification,” Bridgette replied matter-of-factly. “I told ye then, and I’ll tell ye now—women are better at dagger throwing because we’ve more patience.”
“Step up in line and prove it,” Hugo, the Earl of Ross’s son, jeered.
Cameron grimaced. He’d never liked the grasping bastard son of the earl, and it had nothing to do with Hugo being the result of an illicit affair between the earl and his wife’s sister. Cameron didn’t give a saint’s sniff about the shame that others said was attached to Hugo. What Cameron did care about was that Hugo had used the fact that his father was cousin to King David to attain land he did not deserve. But as of late, fate had taken care of Hugo and the earl, as both seemed to be falling out of favor with the King of Scots, who was presently imprisoned in England.
“What’s the matter, Bridgette?” Hugo taunted. “Are ye fearful ye’ll shame yerself if ye throw with the men?”
Cameron glanced swiftly at Graham, wondering if his brother was going to finally make known his feelings for Bridgette by coming to her defense. His jaw was set and his sword drawn, but as he stepped forward, Bridgette snorted and waved a dismissive hand at him. “Och, if my brother would let me throw, ye’d be the one shamed, Hugo.”
Iain raised his hands for silence, and a hush fell over the assembled crowd. “Ye all ken the rules, but they bear repeating. The dagger closest to the target wins. Twelve men stand ready to compete and have offered up the necessary purse of coin. The winner takes all twelve purses.”
Iain quickly called out the clans present, as well as one lone competitor. The man had no plaid on to indicate he was part of any clan, so Cameron assumed the stranger was a Ceàrdannan. He wasn’t overly taken aback to see a Summer Walker at Dunvegan for the festival, but he hadn’t expected to see one competing. The clanless land travelers usually did not partake in such things.
Cameron studied the man at the end of the line. His build was unimpressive—slight, really, almost like that of a lass. The stranger’s hands looked smooth, his fingers long and thin, but he displayed amazing skill as he stood there flipping his dagger repeatedly. He twisted it over his wrist and then under it, clearly adept and comfortable with the weapon. The competitor wore a cloak with a hood pulled low. Cameron’s gaze trailed up to the warrior’s face, but all he could see was the tip of the stranger’s chin. Cameron would have thought that odd enough to confront the man, but Summer Walkers were known for disregarding convention, so he let it go and began his own exercises to warm up his throwing hand.
He took a long, slow breath in preparation to throw and moved his gaze across the crowd and down the long center of the twenty blazing circles of fire. The small target was fastened to a post at the end of the circles.
He gasped at the sight of Eolande suddenly standing in front of the target, her dark hair billowing around her shoulders, though the wind was not strong enough to cause such a thing. His gut clenched as he felt the coldness of her violet gaze land on him. The white léine she was wearing seemed to shimmer like jewels upon her as she raised a hand and motioned in his direction. Was she beckoning him? He glanced around at the others, but no one else seemed to notice her.
Cameron rubbed his eyes, unsure of his own mind. When he brought his hands away, all he saw was the fire and the shadows cast in the darkening sky. Relief washed over him, and he raised his hand just in time for Iain’s signal to throw the daggers.
The knives swished through the air, numerous thuds resounding in rapid succession, almost simultaneously meeting their marks. The men whooped in hopeful triumph, and Cameron’s blood rushed through his veins in his own expectation of victory. He took one step out of line toward the target with the surety that he was the winner, but as he moved, a dagger whistled through the air and hit the target hard, sending a vibration through the now-silent crowd. A collective gasp sounded from the spectators, and Cameron glanced at the man who had thrown his dagger well after everyone else—the Summer Walker.
His first inclination was to cry foul, but he kept his mouth shut. No rule had been made that all contestants had to throw their daggers at the same time. The only thing this man had done was make a clever choice to wait. Cameron clenched his teeth in anger, but it was at himself. All the competitors, save himself and the Summer Walker, rushed toward the target, and most of the crowd that had been watching did so as well.
Cameron looked from the stranger to the target. His gut told him he’d lost. His dagger had a black hilt, and from here, it looked like a dagger with a light-colored hilt was lodged in the center of the target. He turned to study the man once again. The Summer Walker stood perfectly still except for his slender hands, which were twined together as he tapped his thumbs in a frenzy. The man was nervous. But why?
“’Twas clever of ye to see the advantage of waiting to throw and taking it,” said the man—well, he was nearly a man—standing beside her.
Sorcha Stewart sucked in a sharp breath at the warrior’s admission. As she looked at the man who was studying her, it was hard to think upon her plan, upon anythi
ng other than him. He was tall and surprisingly thick with muscles for a man with such a young face. He looked to be a year, maybe two, ahead of her fifteen summers. His gaze was probing, like that of someone much older, and it was locked upon her. It felt as if his will alone could move her hood to reveal her face. She nervously tugged the material farther down, though she knew very well it was impossible for someone to move something without touching it.
The man—Cameron, she’d heard him called—tracked her movements, and she had to force herself not to fidget. His expression had become one of fixation, as if he was trying to figure something out—likely her—but there was a friendliness to his face that made her want to smile at him.
Down near the target, a cacophony of shouts exploded in the semi-silence. A deep, angry male voice sounded above the others.
She tensed as she glanced toward the target. She had to flee now before she was caught. She took a step to do so, but Cameron clasped her shoulder. It took only a breath to realize fighting him would be futile. She jerked away twice, and his grip tightened, unrelenting.
“Are ye nae going to speak to me?” he asked, his voice gravelly. His eyebrows, thick and golden like his hair, rose into a high arch.
She shook her head. She prided herself on her ability to judge people the minute she met them. It was a skill she’d acquired when quite young and living in a house where everyone had secrets. She considered herself quite adept at forming quick conclusions on the make of a man—or woman, for that matter. This warrior before her was clever and curious; it was in his searching, twinkling eyes. He’d hear her voice and know immediately that she was not a man, and then she’d be found out. And her father would learn she’d not stayed in the tent as he had told her to do, which would be a very bad thing. Father had ordered her twin brother, Finn, to stand guard at her tent, but Finn had left to chase a lass the minute Father had departed. So if it was discovered that she had departed the tent, Finn would pay dearly, and she didn’t want that.
Devil take her faults! If only Hugo had not bested her by cheating when they had thrown daggers yesterday, then she would not have felt the need to best him today in an honest competition. He was such a braggart, and she detested the way he tried to make her feel inferior and weak every time he and his father came to visit her father. He did it to Finn, as well, and she could never fight the urge to protect her brother. Yet, it did seem that lately he was resentful of and irritated by her need to watch out for him. She intended to tell Hugo what she had done later and happily watch his face drain of color. There was no worry Hugo would reveal her secret either, as he would rather have his eye stabbed out than let it be known that a lass—especially one three years younger than he was—had bested him.
“That man used tricks to win!” someone bellowed from near the target.
Sorcha flinched, and her heart jumped from her chest to her throat. Pinpricks raced across her skin as her stomach tightened. Now she was done for. If they dragged her down to the targets to quarrel about if she had won fairly, they may demand she pull back her hood, and then they would discover she was a girl and not a man at all. Of course, Hugo would be humiliated, but risking her father’s temper wasn’t worth the public shaming.
“Cameron!” called a deep male voice from the target. “Get yer arse down here now and bring the Summer Walker with ye. The man needs to defend his win.”
A fleeting spark of pride filled her, but it died quickly, smothered by worry.
“Ye heard my brother,” Cameron said. “It seems ye’ve won, and though it pains me to be outwitted I’ll take it like a man… unlike some others.” Releasing her, he glanced toward the crowd gathered in the distance. “Shall we?” he asked, his head still turned.
Her answer was to run.
She quickly turned and sprinted in the opposite direction of the laird and the other competitors. Behind her, Cameron’s footsteps thudded as he raced to ride up to her. Her breath rang in her ears, the puffs coming in a rhythm of one in, two out. He called to her, his voice seeming closer now. She dashed in front of a cart, and a woman yelped and threw a pitcher, which Sorcha ducked under just before it thumped to the ground.
She pushed her legs harder, her hood falling away, and her hair flew out to flap against her shoulders as she twisted through the crowd. She made for the thick rows of tents beyond the rocks. If she could reach them, she felt sure she could lose Cameron and make it back to her own tent before anyone was the wiser.
A group of children ran in front of her waving sticks and laughing, and she had to come to a shuddering stop to keep from trampling them.
“Part!” a high, melodic voice commanded. The children gasped as one and quickly obeyed, leaving an opening for Sorcha to run through.
She didn’t question it nor hesitate to flee. She glanced over her shoulder only to see how close Cameron was, and her jaw dropped as their eyes locked. Even from a distance, she could feel his gaze burrowing into her, memorizing the details of her face. Thanks be to God that Cameron had been stopped by the children and a woman with long, flowing black hair.
A relieved laugh escaped her, and she boldly raised her hand, waving farewell to the warrior she’d bested. But the woman beside him caught Sorcha’s notice. Her gaze probed Sorcha, causing unease to prickle across her skin. Though it was impossible to hear the woman say anything given the distance between them, Sorcha was certain that the woman was talking about her.
“Allow the lass to flee,” Eolande said.
“And why should I do that?” Cameron demanded, stepping to move around the seer and frowning when she shifted to stay in his way.
“’Tis not yer time to meet her.”
“Well,” he said, “considering I’ve already met her, I’d say it is my time. It seems—” He stopped talking as he stared in amused shock at the slip of a lass with long golden hair. She paused in her flight, turned toward him, and grinning, waved a farewell before turning her back to him once more. He started toward the lass, her smile as blindingly beautiful as the now-full moon, but Eolande put up a hand. Before he could move away, she grasped him.
His entire body went rigid as she curled her long fingers around his arm. He could have broken free if he’d had the ability to move, but that was the thing he had always heard about seers: once they touched ye, they stole yer capacity to move as they saw into your future. His feet felt heavy as stones as Eolande’s nails dug into his skin and her violet eyes speared him.
“’Tis nae time yet,” she pressed.
“Why?” he demanded.
Eolande hissed between her teeth, her breath coming out in white circles as if it were freezing cold out, not as warm as it was. Wariness stirred deep within him as she spoke. “Because it is too soon. She will come to ye again, but this time in battle, bathed in blood and marked by a heart.”
“What do ye mean she will come to me?” he found himself asking, even though he had never wanted to know his future.
Eolande didn’t seem to hear his question. She looked through him as if he was not there. “To yer knees she will bring ye, and for her, ye will betray everything ye hold dear.”
Cameron jerked, his denial surging through his veins. “I’d nae ever do such a thing.”
“Ye will,” Eolande said flatly in a voice so eerily certain that his gut twisted. “Ye will betray yer king, yer family, the very honor ye cloak yerself with.”
The tic from earlier began to pound in his jaw. “I’d nae ever do these things for a lass, nor any other,” he growled.
Eolande’s mouth pulled into a thin smile. “I only tell ye what I have seen.”
“Yer vision is cloudy, then, Seer,” he ground out.
“Perchance,” she said with a shrug that contradicted the surety of her tone. “But I dunnae believe so. She is the mate of yer heart and the enemy of yer clan. With her comes life and death born of yer choices.”
He looked past the seer toward where the lass had disappeared. The powerful urge to search for her, despit
e what he’d just heard, swept over him, leaving him vexed. He locked gazes with Eolande once more. “I will always put my family, my king, and my honor above all else.”
“So says the blind man,” Eolande replied, releasing him. “Yer eyes have just begun to be opened to lasses.”
He could not help but laugh at that. “I assure ye, Seer, I have seen lasses for a good while.”
“Nay. Ye have used lasses to cope with the loneliness ye bring to yerself.”
Her words struck so close to the truth that a knot formed in his chest.
“That lass”—she pointed to where the girl had last been—“will catch ye like a fly in a web of longing. Kenning her will lead ye all the way out of the prison ye have created by allowing yer past to overshadow yer future.”
“Enough,” he snapped, not wishing to hear one more word about a future he’d never let come to pass. “I bid ye a good night,” he growled and moved away.
Behind him, Eolande chuckled. “Ye kinnae run from yer future.”
“Who’s running from it?” he called back without stopping his flight. “I’m racing toward it. There are two lovely lasses waiting for me, and I intend to see them both. What say ye to that?”
She laughed. “I say it will be amusing to watch a blind man stumble in the dark.”
“Blind man,” he muttered, ignoring the curious gazes of the people he passed. “She’s the one who has lost her sight.”
Yes, that was it. He was certain of it. Because the future she foretold was simply not possible. Even on the slightest chance that it was, he knew of it now, and he would not allow himself to become so attached to a lass that he was willing to sacrifice honor, family, or king. He was worthy of the MacLeod name, and he’d never do anything to confirm otherwise.
One
1360
Abernathy, Scotland
Sorcha was supposed to be asleep, but her father’s yelling had awakened her. Of course, she could have stayed abed, which was what she knew she should do, as it was not yet even dawn, but she’d always had trouble doing what she was supposed to do. Her mother, God rest her soul, had said it was because Sorcha had needed to battle her way into this world, turned the wrong way as she had been in her mother’s stomach, and then she’d been born sickly and had to struggle to stay alive. Mother had always said Sorcha was a natural-born fighter.
How a Scot Surrenders to a Lady (Highlander Vows: Entangled Hearts Book 5) Page 2
