The competitionso far hadn’t been very exciting. Archers had come and gone, their arrows hitting the targets and leaving holes behind. So far, there had been no clear winner. Still, Laird MacCulloch was expected to applaud and smile after each one, regardless of how poorly the performance was.
Ryder smothered a yawn behind his hand. Ewan, standing at attention beside Ryder’s chair, clucked his tongue disapprovingly.
“Daenae let the people see ye yawn, me Laird,” he murmured. “Ye are the Laird of Clan MacCulloch, and people look to ye.”
“They arenae lookin’ at me, Ewan,” Ryder answered, hooking his leg over the side of his chair. “They’re lookin’ at the archery competition.”
Ewan clucked again. “Sit up straight, me Laird. Daenae lounge.”
“Forgive me, Ewan, I was nae aware that ye were me maither.”
“I am just tellin’ ye that it will look a wee bit slovenly. Being a laird is half about presentation. Presentation and reputation. Ye ken that better than I do.”
Ryder sighed and unhooked his leg. It wasn’t a comfortable position in any case. Therewasno comfortable position on the MacCulloch throne, which seemed to be an apt metaphor.
The chair was ridiculously large. It was a throne, in fact, taken from the feasting hall and set out for Ryder to use. He hated it. Ridiculous, showy thing. And it was plain wood, which meant it was very uncomfortable.
He couldn’t get rid of the throne, of course. It wasLaird MacCulloch’sthrone and had cradled countless MacCulloch buttocks through the centuries. Sometimes Ryder felt that the chair was working to keep the laird, whoever he might be, alert, awake, and focused. One couldn’t nod off during an important council meeting if one’s chair felt like a torture method.
The competition was happening in front of Keep MacCulloch, of course, and Ewan had insisted on building a low platform for Ryder and his sisters so the crowd could see them. The archers performed in front of the platform. There was a long green field with targets set at the other end.
Each archer took their turn standing before the mark. They had three arrows for the three targets, and already the targets were riddled with tears and holes. The last archer hit the bullseyein the dead center. It was the best shot yet. There was another round of applause, and the fellow turned to look hopefully at Ryder.
Others looked at Ryder, too, members of the audience, hands poised to clap.
Ewan’s right, as usual,Ryder thought miserably.Iambein’ watched. There is nothin’ so restrainin’ as being a leader.
He nodded and smiled graciously, and the man’s face lit up. He was herded away, and the last archer would take his place in just a moment.
Pattering feet echoed on the platform, and Ryder turned with a smile as his youngest sister came scurrying over.
She had been set on a low stool beside her sister, Alaina, with the idea that they would form a nice familial tableau. It wasn’t working, of course.
“I’m bored, Ry!” Sophie exclaimed. “And I’m cold. Can we go inside?”
“Of course ye are bored, lassie,” Ryder chuckled. “Ye are seven. Everythin’ bored me when I was seven, too.”
He glanced up at Sophie’s nurse, the woman who also doubled as Alaina’s maid.
Flora, tall, thin, and blonde, was not looking at Ryder. She was looking over his head at Ewan, with a soft smile on her face.
“Stop makin’ cows’ eyes at yer husband, Flora,” Ryder commented wryly. “Ye can take Alaina and Sophie inside, if they want to go.”
“Aye, me Laird,” Flora answered, dropping a neat curtsey. She threw one last smile at Ewan before taking Sophie’s hand and drawing her away. Ryder glanced up and found Ewan staring after her, his eyes equally misty.
“God save us from romance,” Ryder snorted. Before he could say anything further, the archer, now taking their position, threw back their hood.Herhood, in fact. She had a torrent of hair, a vivid red mane flowing back over her back. Braids ran back from her temples and were tied at the back, which made a rather pathetic attempt to restrain her endless hair.
Ryder could only see her profile, of course, but he could see that she was beautiful. She shrugged back her cloak, letting it fall altogether, revealing a dull green wool gown wrapped around what appeared to be a firm, athletic body.
Ryder felt his throat tighten. He cleared it and rolled his shoulders. A sharp ache shot up his back as he shifted in his seat, helping him clear his mind.
Thank heavens for the uncomfortable MacCulloch throne.
“Ah, she came,” Ewan remarked, a smile in his voice. “A fiery one, she is. Megan Blackwood. Ye were right to choose her. I thought she was goin’ to kill me, ye ken.”
Ryder clenched his jaw, watching her every move. “There’s still time.”
Megan did not glance to the left or right. She nocked an arrow, pulling it back deftly. The arrow left the bow, thudding into the exact center of the bullseye. She didn’t wait for applause but moved straight on to the next target.
