Page 75 of The Laird’s Sinful Claim

Chaos erupted immediately.

Calum went first, grabbing the massive log with both hands. He hefted it upright, muscles straining, then launched it forward with a grunt of effort. The caber flipped end over end before landing with a thunderous crash.

"Twelve o'clock!" someone in the crowd called. "Perfect throw!"

"Lucky," Archibald muttered, stepping up next. His throw was powerful but less controlled—the caber landed at an angle, earning groans from the spectators.

"Ye're losin' yer touch, Archie!" Calum crowed.

"I'm just warmin' up!"

Lachlann went next, his throw wild and enthusiastic and completely lacking in technique. The caber wobbled mid-flight and landed at barely nine o'clock.

"Pathetic," Euan called. "Me grandmaither could throw better than that."

"Yer grandmaither's dead!"

"Aye, and she'd still beat ye!"

The crowd roared with laughter. Elinor found herself grinning, caught up in the infectious energy of it all.

Euan's throw was controlled, precise, landing at a respectable eleven-thirty. Then it was David's turn.

He approached the caber with the same focus he brought to everything, positioning his hands carefully, testing the weight. Elinor watched the muscles of his back shift beneath his shirt as he lifted the massive log.

She stared.

David launched the caber with perfect form, the log flipping cleanly through the air before landing at exactly twelve o'clock. The crowd erupted in cheers.

"Show-off," Calum grumbled, but he was grinning.

"Just because ye went first daesnae mean ye'll win," David replied. "We've got two more rounds."

They continued through the second and third rounds, each throw accompanied by increasingly outrageous insults and boasts. Calum tried to distract Archibald by asking about his mother's health mid-throw. Lachlann attempted some kind of spinning technique that nearly brained a spectator. Euan remained stoically focused, though his throws were consistently solid.

David, infuriatingly, was perfect every time.

"He's goin' tae win, isn't he?" Elinor asked Tristan.

"Probably. He usually daes." Tristan shook his head. "Bastard's good at everythin'."

By the final round, it was clear David had won. The other four men grudgingly acknowledged defeat, though not without demanding a rematch using different rules.

"We'll dae hammer throw next time," Calum declared. "I'm much better at hammer throw."

"Ye're terrible at hammer throw," Lachlann said.

"I'm marginally less terrible than I am at caber toss."

"That's nae the endorsement ye think it is."

Elinor was laughing at their bickering when she felt something shift in the air. A change in the energy of the crowd. People were looking toward the castle walls, pointing at something.

She turned, following their gaze, and saw⁠—

Everything happened at once.

An arrow struck the ground three feet from where she stood, its shaft still quivering with the force of impact.