Patrick's face gave no hint of the reflexive surge of angry pride that he felt by the other man's blatant attempt to flex his muscles and intimidate him. It would take one move to wipe the smug smile off his face, but instead Patrick nodded. “Aye. I was told you could use some extra sword arms. Was I misinformed?”
They stared at each other for a long pause. Though he knew he should do what he could to appease the Campbell guardsman, Patrick could not force himself to stand down. It wasn't in his nature. They might have been stripped of their land, their homes, and their wealth, but the MacGre-gors were descended from kings—he bowed to no man. Pride was all they had left.
“Nay,” Finlay admitted. “You were informed correctly.”
Robbie moved in to defuse the situation. “We were just about to move the target back a few paces.”
Grateful for the reprieve, Patrick said, “Maybe you better think about moving it forward.”
The men laughed, and Robbie made a disgusted face.
“Perhaps your captain will show us what he can do with a bow?” Finlay said. There was no mistaking the challenge in his voice.
What Patrick could do was stick the arrow right between Finlay's beady eyes from one hundred paces away. Mac-Gregors were the best bowmen in the Highlands, and Patrick was second in skill only to his cousin. But skill such as his would be noticed—and remarked upon. He didn't want to do anything to draw attention to himself.
A sudden silence fell over the men, but it was not for the reason Patrick thought.
“He'll do no such thing!”
He spun around at the familiar voice, surprised to see Lizzie fast approaching from behind.
He quirked a brow in question. As if she knew what he—and every other man—was thinking, she quickly explained her presence in the middle of the men's practice. “I saw you over here and”—her cheeks flushed prettily—“I wondered that you were out of bed. The healer said you would need a few more days to recover.”
“Thank you for your concern, my lady, but Fionnghuala”—the old biddy—“is being overly cautious. I'm recovered well enough to resume my duties.”
She bit her lip, looking as though she wanted to argue, and were it not for the crowd of men listening, she likely would have done so. He found it amusing that this wisp of a lass would tread where few others had.
“Very well, if you are sure—”
“I am.”
Their eyes met for an instant before she suddenly dropped her gaze. For the first time, he noticed her clothing. She was wearing simple clothes—a rough woolen kir-tle and plain linen sark. They suited her. Without the farthingale, he could see her trim waist and the slim curve of her hips. She was a tiny thing, and the stiff lace and layer upon layer of skirts drowned her natural willowy figure. A large basket was draped over her arm, and he noted the tips of her sturdy leather boots peeking out from below her skirts.
“Are you going somewhere, my lady?”
“I thought I'd collect some of the wildflowers that grow on the top of the brae.”
He frowned, looking in the direction of the hill she'd pointed to. “You shouldn't go outside the castle gate without an escort.” Particularly when his brother was likely lurking nearby, waiting to meet with him.
“It's no farther than a few hundred feet—”
“I will go with her,” Finlay volunteered.
“That won't be necessary,” she interjected, perhaps a little too quickly. “You are needed here with the men. But if you can spare Patrick for a short while, there is something I would like to discuss with him.”
Patrick caught the flash of animosity directed his way before Finlay covered it with a sycophantic smile. “Of course, my lady. Though with his injury I'm not sure how much use he'll be to you. Maybe we should send another man along just to be safe.”
Patrick's reaction was instantaneous. He stepped forward. The muscles corded in his arms and shoulders as one hand clenched in a fist as if he had it around the other man's thick neck. Finlay didn't know how close he was to finding himself flat on his back. Patrick had more strength in one arm then most men did in two. Weakened or not, if Patrick let loose, the square, heavyset guardsman would stand no chance in a contest between them.
Blood pounded through his veins. It was one thing to ignore a subtle challenge and quite another to ignore an outright slur of his warrior's abilities. Nor was he one to duck from a fight.
Sensing the dangerous undercurrent running between the two men, Elizabeth stepped between them, putting a staying hand on his chest. It proved surprisingly effective, the gentle touch more powerful than the edge of aclaid-beamhmór.
“I'm sure that won't be necessary, Finlay. Anyone who has seen Patrick fight would never doubt his abilities. You forget, he defendedallof us admirably while injured. Should the need arise, he should be able to handle a bow well enough.” She looked to Robbie for assistance. “Isn't that so?”
“Aye. Here, Captain,” Robbie said, handing Patrick his bow. “Take mine. It appears I have little use for it anyway,” he added with mock derisiveness.
The men laughed, welcoming the release of tension. Elizabeth took the opportunity to lead him away before Finlay could find more reasons to object or slurs to cast.
