Once again, Laird Stewart stood quiet and resolute as the Paps of Jura, their rippling grey peaks far off in the distance. He seemed just as unwilling to provide answers. ‘You need not worry about why she would accept you. She will be marrying Laird Garrick MacLean. Whatever agreement she made with you has no bearing. I am her father, and she will do as I command. She will not wed you. I forbid it.’
Rory smirked. The more agitated Laird Stewart became, the calmer Rory felt. The man was grasping for a way to undo their engagement, which meant Mrs Fraser had spoken with him. He was taking it seriously by being so threatened and determined to undermine their plans. She had pushed forward with their arrangement despite her father’s objections. A bit of joy calmed his roiling stomach. ‘I was under the impression you had allowed her a choice in who to marry. Was that untrue?’
‘Just words,’ he answered. ‘Like many women, she does not know what is best for her. She chose poorly in accepting your proposal. I will correct her mistake.’
Rory paused before squaring his shoulders, raising himself to his full height, which surpassed the laird’s own. ‘Sinceshehas already acceptedme, there is nothing to be done or to be corrected. She is a woman of age and her own mind. I wish to marry her as she does me.’
Laird Stewart set an icy glare upon Rory once more. ‘Do not underestimate me, McKenna. A half-day remains of the tournament, which leaves me more than enough time to cast you from Glenhaven, undo what she has done, and confirm such a union with a more suitable and hearty man.’ He scanned Rory’s form and laughed. ‘One who looks like they might live through the winter.’ He walked past Rory, clipping his shoulder hard with his own.
Rory clenched his jaw, absorbing the outward show of disrespect and challenge, and knowing full well from the glances from the men downfield that they had seen it and perhaps even heard part of their exchange. When his gaze caught Mrs Fraser’s own though, he held it and nodded. It would take more than a threat from Laird Stewart to deter him from her and their plan. For the first time in quite a while, he had something and someone to fight for. While her father might believe her incapable and uncertain of her own mind, Rory knew it was the furthest thing from the truth.
Just as he knew she deserved to have someone be her champion.
So instead of shirking away at the challenge Laird Stewart had thrust upon him, Rory charged headlong into it. The hammer throw, the final event of the Tournament of Champions, was scheduled to begin. He hadn’t planned to take part, but now he would. He might not win, but he’d show the laird he wasn’t as near death as the old man hoped.
He also wanted to show Mrs Fraser that he would fight for her, for them, for the future they both wished to have, despite how temporary it might be. He strode down the hill towards the circle of men preparing for the event. Rory had changed into his kilt after he’d spoken with Mrs Fraser at the loch, as was expected on the last day, and now he was grateful he’d followed suit. While it had been some time since he’d taken part in the hammer throw, he knew he would prefer the freedom his kilt would allow versus the restriction of his trews when he bent to throw.
Mrs Fraser watched his approach and smiled in greeting. ‘Are you to join the games this morn, my laird?’
‘Aye,’ he answered. ‘I had hoped to win the favour of a lass I have had my eye on.’ He winked at her, and she blushed before whispering a reply.
‘You may have forgotten, but you have already won my favour, for we are still engaged, are we not?’ She bit her lip and a ripple of doubt creased her brow.
‘Aye, we are, Mrs Fraser...’ He dropped his voice. ‘For now. Your father seems determined to find you a new match.’
She sighed. ‘I’m sorry.’ She worried her hands. ‘He and my brother are of their own minds and disagree with my choice.’
‘I hope to show them that I am worthy of you.’
‘You have nothing to prove to me.’
‘Perhaps it is for myself.’
‘Even so.’ She paused and pulled a green ribbon from her hair. She closed the space between them. He felt the heat of her body and the sweet smell of lavender from her dark hair as it rippled in the breeze.
‘For luck, my laird.’ She wove the ribbon neatly through the silver broach that held his plaid in place at his shoulder, and his chest tightened as if he were but a lad about to earn his first kiss. He had never wanted to be a champion more than this moment, so that he could prove his worth to her, to everyone, and to show her that he was a man capable of protecting her, even if it was from the memories of her past. He longed to give her the hope that she had just given him.
Shebelievedin him, a dying man. That he could indeed perform well and impress against a sea of lairds. It had been a long time since anyone had placed their faith and belief in him, and he hoped beyond measure he didn’t disappoint her.
He swallowed hard as she smiled at him and stepped away. The horn sounded and the men competing approached the burly man who had run each event. Laird Stewart and the other spectators watched from the side far from the throws, in case one went astray and out of the marked area. Rory scanned his competition. He appeared to be one of the oldest men competing, despite being only three and twenty, and cursed under his breath. The hammer throw was usually a younger man’s challenge, but what Rory didn’t have in age, he could make up for in strategy.
Most likely, he was one of the few men here who had ever thrown. He was one of the last to throw, and he’d use that to his advantage. Unlike the Braemer, or stone-throw, the hammer-throw required balance. Making four revolutions with the large hammer and releasing it so it travelled as straight as possible to gain distance was no small feat.
The first three men had fair throws and polite claps affirmed they were no threat to Rory. The young MacIntosh laird, the youngest of the men here, took his stance. While his turns seemed promising, he failed to release his hammer at the right time, and it went crashing into the trees. An awkward silence followed. Finally, weak clapping commenced and a brief pause was called as a handful of the servants out tending to the guests were gathered and sent into the woods in search of the Stewart hammer.
After it was located and wiped down, the competition resumed. Laird Stewart’s son, Ewan, was next. He performed admirably, and his throw earned him top position. The following three men had throws falling just short of Ewan’s and then Garrick MacLean walked up to the mark. The sandy-haired man was formidable. Rory could see it in the set of his posture and his eyes. If there was a competitor to beat, it was him. The man completed his turns, released his hammer and a yell. The hammer sailed past even Ewan’s mark and skidded into the grass.
Wild cheers erupted from the crowd, and Laird Stewart shouted his support.
Bollocks.
Rory ground his teeth, but clapped Garrick on the shoulder to congratulate him when he stepped away from the throw line. It they hadn’t been pinned against one another in pursuit of Mrs Fraser, they might have even been friends. But now they were competitors, which made them enemies. Rory stepped up to the line and stabbed the toe of his boot into the dirt to gain some added traction. He met Moira’s gaze. She smiled at him, and he pressed a hand to the smooth ribbon woven into his broach. Whatever pain he might feel tomorrow would be worth her favour today. He returned her smile, settled into a low posture and turned.
After making four revolutions, he set the hammer free, releasing his own groan of effort. His eyes followed the iron maiden in its flight, and he willed it to carry on.For Moira.His heart pounded in his chest from the exertion and the desire for it to land, just a thumb’s width ahead of Garrick. He didn’t need to win by much, but he needed to win.
The hammer landed hard and skidded into the dirt. It stopped right before Garrick’s bright green marker of plaid. Rory shook his head and cursed under his breath. Being second would bring him little this day. But he lifted his head and walked over to congratulate the winner.
‘Well done, MacLean,’ Rory offered, extending his hand.
