No. She snapped her imagination back where it belonged. The man walking toward her was a Scottish earl in exactly the same cast as her father. In fact, if it turned out that he had a set of racehorses into which he poured every penny in the house, the similarity would be complete.

His smile was all in his eyes. “I have been watching a demonstration of jousting. I begin to imagine myself in a suit of armor,” he said, those eyes glinting with laughter.

“And here I was imagining you a Pict,” she said, putting her hand on his arm and walking away from Rosseter as if he didn’t exist.

One eyebrow shot up. “One of my naked and bloodthirsty ancestors?”

“And mine,” she said sedately.

“In that case, why don’t we try our skill at the bow and arrow?” he asked, playing directly into her hands.

She glanced back over her shoulder and found Rosseter bowing unhurriedly before Griselda, doubtless apologizing for sending the lemonade by servant rather than his own hand. She turned slightly so that Rosseter could see her face and smiled up at Ardmore.

His eyebrow went up again. It was a good thing that she would never even consider marrying him, because that eyebrow could be really annoying in the long run. There was nothing about Rosseter that was irritating, thank goodness.

If Ardmore had any brains at all, he’d know precisely what she was doing and as her countryman, he should be supportive. Helpful, even.

Sure enough: “Do you want me to walk more slowly so that he can catch up?” Ardmore asked. There was laughter glinting in his voice. Apparently he had decided to be helpful.

“No,” she said tranquilly. “I think an exhibition of archery should do it.”

“I see what you mean,” he said. “Englishmen are distressingly slight in their frames, aren’t they? Weedy, almost. But you needn’t worry about your children,” he added. “After all, you have a Pict or two in your background. Most likely the boys won’t get too weedy.”

“My children will not be weedy! At any rate, women dislike being towered over, you know.”

“I’ve never noticed that,” he said, and she thought with annoyance of all those Scottish women who had built up his confidence to these unprecedented heights.

They stopped at the archery tent. A breeze flapped the silk roof, carrying with it a smell of April flowers. There was a pile of bows in the corner. The attendant took one look at Ardmore and handed him one that appeared to have been made out of half a sapling.

Ardmore squinted at the targets, posts with circles painted on them. They were adorned with silk flags, the better to look antique, one had to suppose, and positioned at farther and farther distances.

Then he stripped off his jacket. He was wearing a shirt of thin linen. Annabel had to admit that it wasn’t threadworn and actually appeared to be quite lovely material; perhaps it was woven on his estate. He stretched the bow back experimentally. Great muscles rippled on his back, clearly visible through the clinging linen. He turned to the attendant, taking a handful of arrows. He handed all but one to her and gave her a lazy smile. “In case you haven’t noticed, your chosen one is approaching. He seems to have found himself an escort.”

Annabel looked about. “Oh, that’s my chaperone, Lady Griselda. You met her last night when we were first introduced.”

“I told you I can’t remember anyone’s name.” Then he blinked. “Did you say Lady Griselda?”

She nodded.

He turned. Griselda was chattering with Rosseter, and looking far too pretty and young to be a widow. In fact, if Annabel hadn’t loved her so much, she would have been jealous of her perfect ringlets and lush figure. She looked precisely like what she was: a merry, gossiploving, adorable lady. A perfect—

Annabel glanced up at the medieval knight next to her, who was all but standing with his mouth open.

“The Earl of Mayne’s sister?” he asked.

Griselda and Rosseter moved into a patch of sunlight. Her hair gleamed like the proverbial gold.

“Do you know Mayne?” she asked.

“I met him last night,” Ardmore muttered. He turned about and drew the bow back again, but without fitting an arrow.

At that moment, Griselda walked up to them with a twinkling smile. Rosseter bowed with all the tempered nonchalance of an irritated Englishman. Ardmore seemed to be in an excellent mood. He flexed the bow again; Annabel was quite certain now that he was only doing so to show off his muscles, and not for her benefit either.

If Griselda stretched her blue eyes any wider, they’d likely fall out of her head.

“Shall we have a friendly match?” Ardmore said to Rosseter.

“I have no interest in sports,” Rosseter said evenly. Characteristically, there was no disdain in his tone or anything that a man might take insult from.

“In that case, how about a match between countrymen?” Ardmore said to Annabel.

Griselda laughed. Rosseter shifted his weight from one foot to the other. He said nothing, but she felt his disapproval.

“All right,” Annabel said. She turned to the attendant and gave him a melting smile. The boy scrabbled about and handed her a bow. It was ash, with a pretty curve, but good for nothing. Annabel took a closer look at the bows. “I’ll try that yew,” she said.

It had a sweet curve. She pulled back the string experimentally. Luckily, the small sleeves of her dress didn’t impede her arms in any way.

Ardmore was grinning now, obviously as aware of Rosseter’s disapproval as she was. And Griselda was laughing. Then Ardmore drew back his great bow again, muscles flexing through his shirt.

Annabel looked away and met Rosseter’s eyes. She read approval in his face: Rosseter thought she was avoiding a display of gross masculinity by looking to him rather than Ardmore.

She picked up her bow and Rosseter put a gloved hand on hers. “You needn’t do this,” he said.

“I enjoy archery,” she said noncommittally, turning so that his hand slid away. The boy handed her a clutch of arrows.

Rosseter lowered his voice. “There’s no need to put the Scot in his place. Leave him to his grotesque posturing; Lady Griselda seems to enjoy it.”

She glanced over and, sure enough, Griselda’s dimples were in full play. She was handing him arrows and Ardmore was plunking them into the target, one after another.

“Kind of her,” Rosseter remarked. “I’m sure they won’t even notice if we go for a stroll.” He put his hand on her bow this time.

“That would be impolite,” she said, matching his expressionless tone perfectly.

“Ah,” he said.

She took that as assent, not that she need it. Ardmore turned around and said, “Now, then, Miss Essex, what’s our challenge?”

She walked over to him, eying the targets. “Three arrows each. You’re for that far one, and I’ll take the one with the red flag, in the middle.”

“Go for the blue one; it’s closer,” he said generously.

Annabel glanced up and saw that he thought to win. A smile touched her lips. “The center of the target, of course, is that black dot,” she told him.

“I’m aware of that.”

“Good,” she said sweetly. “I just wanted to make sure, given that you seemed to have some trouble hitting it during your practice run.”