The Campbell Trilogy Read online

  “I’m afraid Patrick’s right, Robert. My brother was quite clear about it.” Her lingering anger at Patrick for his cold treatment made her turn and give him a sugary sweet smile. “But Patrick and his men won’t interfere. I’m sure we’ll hardly know they are there.”

  She saw the sudden spark of anger in his eyes and knew her barb had struck. Good. She was tired of being alone in her uncertainty.

  Her words had also served to mollify Robert. He spoke to her, not to Patrick—a subtle reminder of Patrick’s position. “Very well, but I hope they can keep up.” He paused, a sudden gleam in his eye. “As long as they are going along, we might as well see what they can do with a bow.” And with that none-too-subtle challenge, they were off.

  For the next few hours, they rode across the countryside stalking their prey. But hunting deer and fowl soon became secondary to the subtle battle being waged between Patrick and Robert.

  Lizzie felt as if she were at the center of a tournament with two knights jousting for her favor. Each time Robert took a shot, Patrick would respond with one of his own. If Lizzie had been worried that Patrick would trounce Robert with his skill with the bow, it had been for naught. Surprisingly, they appeared evenly matched.

  Appeared.

  Though there was nothing Lizzie could point to, she had the distinct feeling that Patrick was holding back. But why?

  As the unofficial competition continued, the tension between the two men mounted—as did her unease. She’d never seen Patrick like this before; he seemed not just dangerous, but unpredictable. There was a reckless edge to him that did not bode well.

  Though she admitted a certain womanly thrill to have two fierce warriors fighting over her, she’d begun to fear that their game might take a very real turn. Thus, she was glad when the men decided to stop and water the horses at the edge of a narrow loch.

  The break, however, would prove no rest for her unease. Indeed, the battle was only climbing toward its climax.

  Patrick and a few of his men were sitting on a group of boulders nestled beside the loch, eating oatcakes and dried beef, when Robert ambled over toward them. Lizzie felt the back of her neck prickle. He was carrying his bow. He stopped right before Patrick, who looked up only when Robert addressed him. “You’ve fine skill with the bow.”

  Patrick nodded his head in acknowledgment.

  Lizzie feared what was coming next. She hurried toward them, intent on intervening, but it was too late.

  “But it’s hard to measure the skill of a man in the wild,” Robert said indolently. “I’ve always thought it better decided by contest, don’t you agree?”

  Patrick took a bite of beef, then chewed it slowly before responding, appearing to weigh his words carefully. “I find no better measure of skill than in the wild. Life or death seems a fair enough determinant. A contest serves no purpose but to satisfy pride.”

  Though there was nothing overtly wrong with Patrick’s manner, it was also clear that he did not offer any deference to Robert for his station. He hadn’t even bothered to stand up.

  Whether it was because Patrick did not rise to the challenge or because he’d issued a subtle one of his own, Robert dropped the pretense of equanimity. His face turned florid, and the charming smile flattened into a hard, thin line. “Spoken like a man afraid to test his skill.”

  A harsh silence fell.

  Lizzie sucked in her breath, not daring to let it out before Patrick responded. To a one, Highlanders were an exceedingly proud race, and Patrick, she knew from experience, was no exception. Inadvertently she’d pricked his pride before, but it was nothing like the blow just wielded by Robert.

  Patrick’s jaw flexed, the only outward sign of his rage. Though on the surface he was calm and controlled, Lizzie could tell that he was fighting to hold back some very fierce emotion. He stood to face Robert, a dangerous glint in his eye. “There is very little I fear, my laird.”

  The two warriors squared off against each other. Patrick held the advantage in size, though both men were tall and muscular. For a moment, she thought they might come to blows. She knew that this was about far more than skill with a bow and arrow; this was about her. Robert was trying to put Patrick in his place—force him to acknowledge that he reached too high.

  Thinking to defuse the situation, Lizzie quickly stepped between the two men. “Should we start back?” she asked, her voice a tad too chirpy. “We’ve success enough for the day.”

  It was a testament to the dangerousness of the situation that both men ignored her.

  She looked to Robbie, silently begging him to do something, but his face was every bit as implacable as Patrick’s. Robert’s challenge could not be ignored.

  “We can’t have a contest without a prize,” Robert said. “Should we say a gold scepter piece?”

  Lizzie bit her tongue to keep from objecting on Patrick’s behalf. She knew he was not a man of wealth. A scepter was worth twelve pounds Scots, and more gold than Patrick might earn in a month. But it was also clear that the money was not the real prize. The real prize was her.

  Obviously, they thought to leave her no say in the matter. As if she would let some ridiculous contest decide her fate. Her outrage, however, would have to wait.

  Patrick shrugged indifferently. “It’s your challenge.”

  Robert smiled. “Shall we say three shots, closest to the target?”

  “What target do you have in mind?”

  Robert turned to Elizabeth. “My lady, might we borrow one of your ribbons?”

  She colored and lifted her hands to unwind one of the blue satin ribbons securing her hair, but Robert stopped her. “Please. Allow me.”

  His fingers brushed her neck as he carefully slid one from her hair, lingering for perhaps a moment too long. Had Patrick noticed? She peeked sidelong from under her lashes. The white lines etched around his mouth told her he had.

  Ribbon in hand, Robert walked about a hundred paces away from their position and tied the length of blue satin around the nearest tree at about eye level. At that distance, only the thinnest line of color appeared around the tree. When he returned he said, “Any arrow that strikes blue will count as a point.”

  “And if they all land in blue?” Patrick asked.

  Robert smiled. “A bold question, but I appreciate your confidence. In the unlikely event that all our arrows hit the ribbon, the closest to the knot wins. If you can see it from here.”

  Patrick’s expression was grim. “I can see it.”

  Robert drew a line in the dirt with his dirk and then turned to Patrick. “We’ll need a judge. Do you have any objection to the Laird of Dun?”

  “Nay.”

  The Laird of Dun made his way down to the target, and both men took their positions behind the line. Robert would shoot first.

  There was complete silence as he carefully threaded the arrow, lifted it to his eye, drew back his hand, and released it with a loud swoosh. It was followed seconds later by a solid thump! in the tree beyond.

  Elizabeth could tell by Robert’s reaction that it was a good shot.

  Dun confirmed it. “Damn good shot, Campbell. Right through the ribbon.”

  Two more followed in quick succession, each better than the last. Of Robert’s three shots, all had found the thin blue target.

  His men cheered. It was an impressive feat of shooting. Robert didn’t boast, but his eyes when he looked at her said it all: He’d won the prize—or at least he thought so.

  Patrick’s expression betrayed nothing of his thoughts as he strode to the line. But they were all well aware that if he missed the ribbon with any shot, he would lose.

  He moved quickly and surely. With cool precision he prepared his shot, drew back his hand, the bulging muscles of his arms and shoulders the only indication of effort, and fired.

  In spite of her unease, Lizzie was swept away by the excitement. Her heart pounded as she awaited the result. She could tell nothing from Patrick’s stance.

  Dun shouted ex