She eyed him, anger rising in her chest. “Dinnae think I can win?”
Her words seemed to take him aback and surprise filtered through his handsome countenance.
“Nay, I think ye will show them all wot our clan is made of. I have nary a doubt that ye will be a victor.”
His praise warmed Iris to her core, and for the first time, she wanted to embrace her brother. They were not a sappy lot of Scots. Their lives had seen very little softness, which was fine with Iris. She didn’t understand where her sisters got their soft side from, but she much preferred the grunt of approval from their father instead of some embrace.
“Aye,” she sniffed, fighting back the swell of emotion. “It means a lot coming from ye.”
“Why?” he teased, his voice softer than normal. “Because I’m the better fighter?”
Iris rolled her eyes at him and punched him lightly in the shoulder. “Ye are such a sod.”
Ian winked. “Be careful out there, will ye? I dinnae wish tae train another warrior tae take yer place.”
“Is that all ye can think aboot?” she teased, knowing that he was doing the same thing with her. “Training another bloody Scot?”
“Aye. I cannae show favoritism, Sister.”
Iris laughed as Ian strolled off, a catchy tune from his lips about some buxom wench he had met at a tavern. Though she wouldn’t admit much to her brothers, knowing she had Ian’s approval gave her the additional fight she needed.
Turning back toward her clan’s camp, she straightened her shoulders. Now all she had to do was wait for the call for participants.
After a while, a lone horn sound filled the air, cutting through the sudden noise that had filled the large pasture. Iris stepped out of the tent she had been working in to find the platform occupied by the host laird, surrounded by his warriors.
“Welcome!” he called out, raising his hands to quiet the crowd. “I am here to announce that we will be taking the name of the victor from each clan! Come make yer mark on the ledger.”
“Go on,” her father said, nodding to her. “Ye wanted tae be our victor. ’Tis time for ye tae live up tae yer own words, Daughter.”
Iris felt the flutter of excitement in her stomach as she gave him a single nod and stepped forward, falling in line with the rest of the men clamoring to make their way toward the man near the wooden platform.
It seemed that she wasn’t the only one excited by the prospect, the murmur of voices and laughter as the other Scots waited their turn. She only saw one other lass in the line, one from the all-lass clan that she had observed earlier.
A worthy opponent indeed.
Little by little, the line moved until Iris found herself standing before the Scot, the leather-bound ledger balanced in his hands.
“Name?”
“Iris,” she stated, seeing his head pop up in surprise. “Iris Wallace.”
His mouth turned into a half grin as he eyed her. “Wot is this? Some sort of trickery?”
Iris narrowed her gaze. “Wot are ye talking aboot?”
He gestured with his feather in her direction. “But ye’re a lass! Surely ye arenae going tae represent the Wallace clan!”
There was laughter at her back but Iris ignored it, drawing to her full height.
“Aye, I am.”
She wanted to pull out her sword and show the Scot how she could wield it, but she was, as he had stated, representing her entire clan.
There would be a target on their back and hers if she caused such a stir on the first day.
Or perhaps it would be exactly what she needed.
“Is that a problem?”
