Bride of Fire

by Glynnis Campbell

  Her earlier concerns about the wench immediately resurged. It was a small step from dallying with Morgan’s men to pursuing Morgan himself. Alicia should know. She’d moved many a man to possessive jealousy by flirting with those around him.

  She ground her teeth and dug her nails into her palms. Somehow she had to get rid of the tedious wench.

  She hoped it wouldn’t be necessary to kill her. Not that the prospect didn’t hold some appeal. Alicia wouldn’t have minded at least destroying the wench’s face with a thorough beating. It would serve her right. The maid was too pretty for a servant and too cocky for her own good.

  But murder would be far more difficult to pull off this time.

  Reminded of her last victims, she wondered what was happening now at Edward’s castle. Did anyone care who had disposed of the lord? Or were the scavengers of his household too busy fighting over the scraps?

  As she pondered the odds of anyone tugging on the dangling threads of her crime, she noticed the nursemaid was doing more than just chatting with William.

  She watched in bafflement as the wench loaded a longbow, drew back the string, and let an arrow fly. The movement seemed as natural as breathing. And when Alicia shifted to see where the arrow had landed, she spied a wee straw target at the far end of the wall, pierced in the dead center.

  When William picked up his bow next, Alicia decided she must be mistaken about the target. The arrow in the bull’s-eye no doubt belonged to him. Perhaps he was trying to impress the wench with his marksmanship.

  He loosed his arrow. It lodged in the upper right corner of the target, far off the mark.

  The two conversed for a moment, gesturing and flexing their bows.

  Alicia scowled. Was William teaching the wench how to shoot?

  That was highly irresponsible. The woman had been hired to care for Morgan’s child. Not to waste her time on archery.

  Besides, a bow in the hands of a woman was hazardous. A weapon in the hands of a serving maid was foolhardy. And if that maid had a rebellious nature and an insolent tongue…

  Alicia lifted a calculating brow. No doubt Morgan would deem that a dismissible offense. And if not, she was certain she could convince him of it.

  Only half-finished with his supper, Morgan nonetheless threw his napkin onto the table and stormed to his feet, scraping back the bench. The fact that Alicia had managed to limp her way downstairs to the great hall to deliver the message to him meant it was serious. And the news she whispered in his ear had the ring of truth to it.

  A quick glance around the trestle table revealed she was right about one thing. William was noticeably absent.

  Why the lad would be teaching Jenefer, a self-proclaimed master archer, how to shoot was a mystery. But that wasn’t what concerned Morgan. He only cared about two things.

  Jenefer had somehow managed to steal out of the keep.

  And she was armed.

  Bidding Alicia return to his chamber and the clan to return to their supper, he left the great hall with claymore in hand to deal with Jenefer’s treachery.

  His heart pounded as he stalked across the sward at the foot of the keep. But as he drew near his bedchamber, he slowed his step to observe the pair of archers beneath his window.

  His wife’s report had been partially accurate. William was indeed practicing his marksmanship, drawing his bow, taking aim at a target. But Alicia hadn’t quite grasped the truth of the situation.

  The lad wasn’t teaching the warrior maid how to shoot. She was instructing him. And the amazing thing was, whatever she’d done, Morgan could see William’s posture was much better, and his aim had improved. For a moment, Morgan watched in fascination.

  Then, Jenefer took the lad’s place. With no apparent effort, she nocked an arrow into her bow, drew back the sinew, and released the shaft. And the breath stopped in his chest.

  She was magnificent. Her form, her strength, the ease with which she took aim, the grace with which she loosed her arrow—as if the bow were a natural extension of her arm—left him thunderstruck.

  He looked beyond her to the target.

  Her shaft had struck squarely in the center of the bull’s-eye.

  His mouth went dry. Jenefer du Lac’s skills weren’t just an amusing curiosity. The woman was formidable. Deadly. Dangerous.

  Clenching his jaw and tightening his grip on the claymore, he strode forward.

  “Hold your arrows!”

  Before he could shout another command, in one fluid motion, the lass wheeled about, whipped an arrow from her quiver, nocked it, and took aim at his heart.

  Chapter 49

  Jenefer had simply acted on instinct.

  She wouldn’t have fired.

  She knew the difference between a real threat and an imagined one. Even if that imagined threat was brandishing his claymore at her again.

  He’d only startled her.

  And she’d definitely startled him. His eyes widened, and he slid to a halt not five yards from her.

  For a breathless instant, frozen in time, they stared at each other. Her three fingers, curled around the taut bowstring, were all that kept her from loosing the arrow and slaying him where he stood.

  And he knew it.

  Two days ago, she might have considered shooting him. This was war, after all. And one Highlander was a low price to pay for a prize like Creagor.

  But two days ago, she hadn’t known Morgan. Two days ago, she hadn’t been in love with him.

  From behind her, William suddenly squeaked with guilt. “M’laird!”

  She heard the lad’s bow clatter onto the grass. Without turning around, she knew he’d turned as red as a cherry.

  They’d been caught. And now Morgan would confiscate her weapon.

  She silently swore.

  Defying Morgan would only make things worse. With a sigh of frustration, she lowered her longbow.

  Morgan’s fear vanished, replaced by anger and outrage.

  “Where did ye get that weapon?” he demanded, indicating her longbow with the point of his sword.

  Jenefer had intended to be reasonable. She’d intended to remain calm. But his question made her hackles rise.

  “This? ’Tis mine,” she declared. “I found my longbow in your armory. Where did you get it?”

  Morgan’s eyes narrowed, and she saw him muttering curses under his breath. To William he said, “Leave us.”

  “Aye, m’laird,” William choked out.

  “Wait!” Bethac’s sharp bark, coming from the nursery window above them, surprised Jenefer as much as it did Morgan. “Ye stay right there, William.”

  The lad hesitated, unsure whether to obey his laird or his grandmother.

  “M’laird,” Bethac continued, “ye cannot blame the lad or the maid. ’Twas my idea.”

  “Your idea?” Morgan burst out. “Your idea to arm a lass who has a grievance against me?”

  “Och, m’laird! She has no grievance against ye. Do ye, lass?”

  To be honest, she had several. But Bethac didn’t give her time to answer.

  “Besides, I’ve been right here, keepin’ an eye on her the whole time,” the maid continued.

  “She has,” Feiyan confirmed, appearing at the window beside Bethac.

  Jenefer didn’t mention that she could have shot William, Morgan, and half the laird’s army before the old maid could have done anything about it.

  Morgan probably knew that as well. “So ye approved o’ this? Ye approved o’ your kin consortin’ with the lass?”

  “Consortin’?” Bethac scoffed. “I don’t know what ye’re talkin’ about. The lass was only doin’ me a kindness, trainin’ my William so he’d not be killed in battle.”

  “Battle?” William yelped. “Is there to be battle?”

  “Nay!” Morgan ground out in exasperation. “There will be no battle.”

  “But there could be,” Bethac argued. “And ye can’t deny his marksmanship has improved. Hasn’t it, lad?”

  “
Och, aye,” William said with a proud grin.

  “He hasn’t missed the target once,” Feiyan said. “And he shot two bull’s-eyes.”

  “The lass is remarkable, m’laird,” Bethac gushed, “as skilfull as Flidhais.”

  Jenefer lifted her chin a notch. It wasn’t the first time she’d been compared to the goddess of the hunt.

  “Flidhais? Is that so?” Morgan asked, arching a sardonic brow. “So ye think I should put her in charge o’ my army now?”

  “Och, nay, o’ course not,” Bethac said, wrinkling her nose. “Just the archers.”

  Morgan pressed at his throbbing temple.

  Jenefer bit her lip. Here was a tempting idea. If Morgan put her in charge of the archers, she’d get to keep her weapon.

  “I’ll do it,” she blurted out.

  “What?” he scoffed.

  “I’ll train your archers.”

  “Ye’ll do no such thing.”

  “Why not?”

  “Aye,” said Bethac. “Why not?”

  He glanced up at the maidservant. Jenefer knew he didn’t wish to reveal the truth to her. That the warrior maids were not in fact guests, but prisoners. Not innocents to be protected, but foes to be feared.

  “I can train them myself,” Morgan said.

  “Do you doubt my skills?” Jenefer said in bold challenge.

  “Do ye doubt mine?”

  She gave him a grim smile. She’d never seen him draw a bow. But she was confident she could outshoot any man.

  “I’ll make you a wager,” she offered. “Three shots. Whoever wins gets command of the archers.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “A contest of arms!” Feiyan cheered from above.

  “You can even fetch your own longbow to make it a fair match,” Jenefer said. “I’ll wait.”

  “I’m not goin’ to shoot against ye,” he told her.

  “Why not? Are you afraid you’ll lose?”

  Young William stepped forward in his defense. “Laird Morgan isn’t afraid of anythin’. Isn’t that right, m’laird?”

  Morgan’s eyes narrowed, and his jaw ticked. He was trapped now. And he knew it.

  “Very well. I’ll shoot against ye,” he said. “But only on one condition. If I win, your bow belongs to me.”

  Feiyan crowed with glee.

  Jenefer shrugged. “Fine.”

  He stabbed his claymore into the ground and gestured to William. “Lend me your bow?”

  Jenefer lifted her brows. “Don’t you want your own weapon?”

  William’s bow was far too small and light for him. Unless he tempered his strength, he risked breaking it.

  “’Twon’t be necessary,” he boasted, taking the bow and three arrows that William offered.

  “You’re sure?”

  He answered her with a smug grin as he stabbed his three arrows into the ground. Then he indicated with a magnanimous sweep of his hand that she should shoot first.

  She looked forward to wiping that grin off his face.

  William quickly removed the arrows still stuck in the target and stood back to watch.

  Jenefer gave Morgan a smoky smile as she slowly drew an arrow from her quiver. Then, just to unsettle him, she didn’t bother turning toward the target. Fitting the arrow to her bow, she waited until the last moment, and in one continuous movement, swung around, drew, and released it.

  It struck the target dead center.

  Chapter 50

  It might have been a lucky shot. But Morgan didn’t think so.

  To say he was impressed by Jenefer’s skill was an understatement. His jaw dropped. He blinked in disbelief. And when he met her self-satisfied gaze, he was forced to see her with new eyes.

  Bethac hadn’t exaggerated. Jenefer was as skilled as Flidhais. She was better than any of his men. Her shooting was smooth. Effortless. And deadly accurate.

  Defeating her would be more of a challenge than he’d expected.

  But he wasn’t exactly a novice himself.

  Bethac cheered from the window.

  He gave her a withering glare. “Whose side are ye on, old woman?”

  Her eyes twinkled, but she refused to reply.

  Jenefer made an exaggerated sweep of her arm. “Your turn.”

  He nodded and flexed the light bow a few times. The weapon wasn’t nearly as powerful as his own. If he drew it too forcefully, the ash would crack. But shooting at this distance didn’t require power, only aim.

  He plucked an arrow from the earth. From the corner of his eye, he saw Jenefer watching him.

  Her longbow rested casually against her shoulder. Her arms were crossed in swaggering self-assurance. But it was her complacent yawn that pushed him over the edge and made him decide to provoke her.

  “Ye know, the claymore is my weapon o’ choice,” he admitted. “I’m no archer.”

  She crinkled her eyes at him. “Do you wish to forfeit the match then?”

  “Nay, nay,” he said, nocking the arrow. “I agreed to your challenge, and I’m a man o’ my word.”

  He lifted the bow, preparing to shoot. As he did, he intentionally hooked his first finger across the top to hold the shaft in place. It was a mistake common to beginners.

  Jenefer’s brow creased. She unfolded her arms. “Wait. Are you…?”

  “Aye?”

  “You aren’t going to leave your left finger like that, are you?” she asked in disbelief.

  He shrugged.

  A tiny, troubled scowl flashed between her brows. “The feathers will catch. You’ll be lucky if the shaft leaves the bow.”

  He smirked. “How else am I to hold the arrow in place?”

  The dilemma in her expression was palpable. Should she help him? Or let him fail?

  “Fine,” she said tightly. “You’ve got three chances, after all, aye?”

  He squinted hard at the target.

  “You know you should keep both eyes…” she began.

  “What’s that?”

  “Nothing. Never mind.”

  He slowly drew back the string, hugging his elbow close to his side.

  “Lift…lift your…” she sputtered.

  Between gritted teeth, he said, “Are ye goin’ to keep interruptin’ me or let me shoot?”

  She let out an exasperated breath. “Go on.”

  As soon as she glanced away, shaking her head in pity, he opened his eyes, moved his finger, lifted his elbow, and released the arrow.

  It landed with a thunk beside her shaft, in the middle of the target.

  “What?” Jenefer exclaimed. The shock on her face was priceless. “How did you…?”

  He gave her a one-sided smile. “Just lucky, I guess. Your turn.”

  She was still staring at him, baffled, when he backed away to let her shoot.

  This time, he saw she wasn’t taking any chances. Rather than risking a clever shot, she lined up carefully in front of the target, taking time to smooth the fletching on her arrow before setting it into the bow and resting it lightly on top of her left fist.

  It was pure pleasure to see her shoot. Very quickly, he found himself watching her with more than mild interest.

  There was something enticing about her flawless form as she lifted the longbow in one steady arm.

  Something provocative about her slowly pulling the string back until it creaked and the way her fingers curled softly against her cheek.

  Something intoxicating about the intensity with which she stared at the straw target.

  By the time she let the arrow fly, he was too distracted, watching her, to see where her shot had landed.

  And when she turned to him with a triumphant grin, he no longer cared. Her brilliant smile and her sparkling eyes took his breath away.

  “Another bull’s-eye!” William crowed. “Och, this is goin’ to be a good contest.”

  William’s cheer jarred him back to reality. He glanced down the field. Three arrows now crowded the center circle of the target.

&nb
sp; Jenefer stepped back with a magnanimous gesture of invitation. “Morgan?”

  On her lips, his name sounded like a purr. Pleasant. Sensual. Arousing.

  But he couldn’t let her unnerve him.

  Damn her feminine temptations. He had to win.

  Jenefer had been so sure she’d leave Morgan in the dust. Feiyan was right. She’d always been able to outshoot her father’s men.

  And once she’d seen Morgan’s dreadful form—his hooked finger, his squinting aim, his dropped elbow—she’d almost pitied him. With such terrible technique and a bow that was the wrong size for him, he’d be fortunate to hit the target at all.

  His first shot might have been luck. But she wasn’t certain enough of that to let down her guard. This time she’d watch him carefully.

  Sure enough, this time he didn’t hook his finger. Or squint. Or clamp his elbow against his side.

  But he did talk the entire time. Which was equally disturbing.

  “So how long have ye been an archer, lassie?” he asked, cocking his head away from the bowstring to eye up the target.

  Shouldn’t he be focusing on his task? Didn’t he need to concentrate? Hold his breath? Steady his aim?

  “Ever since I can remember,” she replied.

  He sniffed, adjusting his stance. “Indeed? And who taught ye?”

  “My ma.”

  “Your ma?” he said in surprise. He lowered the bow and shook his head in amusement. “Aye, o’ course she did. Warrior maid, aye?”

  Raising the bow again, he pulled back the bowstring until his knuckles rested against his cheek.

  “And did she teach ye to fight with a sword?” he asked, eyeing up the target.

  “Aye.”

  “And a dagger?”

  “Aye.”

  “What about your fists?”

  Now she was getting exasperated. “Lucifer’s ballocks. Do you intend to shoot, or are you going to chatter at me all afternoon?”

  To her utter annoyance, he chuckled. “Ye know, that temper o’ yours,” he said, unexpectedly releasing the arrow mid-sentence, “is your fatal flaw.”

  She scowled. Had he actually managed to wedge his arrow between two of the others? While he was carrying on a conversation?