Montague sighed. “Rothchild will be unbearable with this win.”
A victorious grin stretched Rothchild’s face. He glanced back over his left shoulder … and missed the swinging hammer fist that struck his jaw from the right. He staggered, off-balance, and a young man wearing the Dunkeld tartan flew past him to cross the finish line.
Montague rubbed his hands together. “These games are delightful. You really should hold them every summer.”
Winnifred blew out her cheeks. Entertaining this much every year would kill them. If it hadn’t been for Sin’s investigation, she might have holed up in her room this past week pleading illness. Although seeing Sin in a kilt every year would be a fair recompense.
She rounded her shoulders. She truly made a poor marchioness. But she clapped along with everyone else as the winner was handed a small casket of whisky and a new dirk as his reward.
The games progressed, each one less violent than the race but showcasing the men’s brawn to better effect. Sin came in second for the stone put, losing only to the village blacksmith. He sat out what looked like a seated tug-of-war to Winnifred but which Deirdre said was calledMaide-leisg. Aside from Sin, none of the other noblemen had the brawn to compete with men who worked with their hands all day long.
The log for the caber toss was carried to the center of the field by two men. Lord Abercairn called out. “Forfeiting this game, as well, Dunkeld? Starting to feel the ache in your bones that age brings?”
The exposed skin on her husband’s shoulders pulled taut, and he turned to his fellow peer. His eyebrow twitched, but otherwise he appeared calm. “I thought to leave the fun to the other men.” He slapped one of his tenants on the back.
Abercairn barked in laughter. “Oh, don’t let womanly fears get in the way of a spirited competition. But mayhap ye’ve been in England for so long the virility has been sapped out of ye.”
Winnifred couldn’t hear what her husband said, but she saw his response. His spine slowly straightened, his shoulders hardened to boulders, and the look he shot Abercairn …. Only in the most technical sense could it be considered a smile. Many teeth were exposed and his lips were twisted up, but friendliness had no part in it. A delicious shiver rolled over her skin at the ferociousness in his expression.
Abercairn didn’t have the same pleasant response. He took a hasty step back, away from the threat. But his purpose was accomplished.
Sin joined the line of men waiting to participate.
“Oh good.” Lady Abercairn clapped her gloved hands together. “All the lairds are going to join in the last game. Even your father,” she said to Lady Margaret.
“Yes ….” A worried frown crossed the young woman’s face.
Winnifred pushed Banquo off of her lap. Ignoring the pins and needles in her legs, she scooted to the edge of the blanket and peered forward. The first man, their stablemaster if she wasn’t mistaken, stepped forward. A group of men helped him position the log against his shoulder and neck. With a nod from the competitor, the other men stepped back and the stablemaster crouched, sliding his hands down the wood until he could dig his fingers underneath the base. He screwed his face in concentration then stood, cupping the caber in his hands.
He swayed, the massive log weaving in the air. The other competitors roared with laughter as they hopped out of its path. But before it could fall, the man took two running steps and heaved the pole the tendons on his neck bulging with the effort. The other end of the caber hit the ground and the whole thing crashed into stillness.
A disappointed groan swept over the spectators.
“What was he supposed to do with it?” Winnifred asked Deirdre.
“Toss it head over tail so the end he was holding falls pointing away from him. If the field were a clock, the caber should be landing at the twelve ‘o clock position.”
Winnifred blinked. “That tree trunk must be at least twenty feet long.”
“Close to,” Deirdre agreed.
“Depending on the density of the wood, it could weigh two hundred pounds or more!”
“Aye, so not too bad.” Deirdre smiled.
“Not so bad ….” Winnifred shook her head.
The next man stepped forward, a look of grim determination on his face.
Winnifred glanced at Lady Margaret, wincing. Her father had to be in his fifties and although still had a fine figure, had nowhere near the muscle mass of the younger men.
Lady Abercairn adjusted the brim of her bonnet. “If it were easy, anyone could do it. Even the English.”
The caber crashed before Lord Brandon could even stand upright. He kicked the dirt in disgust and moved on for the next man to give it a try.
Man after man squatted and heaved, faces growing red, faint Gaelic words that could only be curses drifting up the hill to the spectators.
Lord Abercairn made a decent throw. The caber didn’t revolve fully but fell at about a three o’clock position to the earl. Rothchild’s throw was next, and there was much debate about whether his caber was nearer to the 2:30 position than Abercairn’s or not. The consensus fell to Rothchild’s toss being superior, and the crowd groaned good-naturedly at the Sassenach’s victory. Until a good Scottish farmer beat him by tossing his log at a solid two o’clock position.
