Chapter Five

N ot only was Duncan Dhu Campbell standing next to her, vigorous and stunning, black-haired and blue-eyed, tall and strong. Not only was he the only archer to give her a challenge today. He was, quite frankly, alive.

But how could that be? No one had ever brought news of his survival.

She glanced at him, away, back again. He had matured into a beautiful man, wearing traditional Highland dress—a woolen tunic belted over trews, with a length of plaid draped across his torso, pinned on one shoulder and caught by a leather belt. His hair, nearly black with glints of dark bronze, was tousled nearly to his shoulders. He was unshaven with a scruff of dark bristles on his lean cheeks; his nose had an elegant curve; his dark-blue eyes were long-lidded; his mouth quirked, his gaze was keen.

Her knees went weak and her hands trembled. Duncan.

She needed to take the next shot. She tried to focus, to calm herself. Her thoughts were racing, scattered with shock.

Years ago, she had been ill and raw with heartbreak when she had learned that Duncan had been captured in a terrible battle. Later she was told that he had perished in captivity, she had been free of the betrothal and free of dreams and infatuation. Of love.

She had remained in the convent, sick and heartsick. Two years later, she had come home, and her father had begun arranging other betrothals. She had refused each one. All the while, her inner will and her stubbornness grew stronger. She resolved never to marry, and instead, threw herself into helping at Kincraig. She never wanted to risk her heart again. She could not forget Duncan Campbell, and she worried about the gyrfalcon's fate.

Now Duncan stood next to her, handsome, robust, charismatic, and mysterious. She did not know how to feel—though a sudden urge to throw herself at him nearly overtook her. He was alive. He looked more than hearty—he was compelling.

Clutching the bow, she shook. His arrow struck the target and he stepped back in silence as a boy ran to pluck the arrow from the target.

"Leave it!" Menteith shouted. "Let the second archer split the shaft!"

Split an arrow shaft? She had skill, but few archers had the precise aim and power to do that. Yet she could not lose her great-grandfather's brooch to Duncan Campbell or anyone else. She had to win and claim the prize. Then she must find a way to accuse Menteith. Here was the justiciar she needed, in the most surprising way possible.

Fate, or saints and angels, had somehow arranged all this. Menteith. The brooch. The justiciar. And dear God—Duncan. What she did next would determine if Lilias was found soon—or too late. And it might even determine her own future.

She swallowed, then took a shaky breath and raised the bow. Once more Menteith brazenly displayed her brooch, holding it aloft, then tossing it to the table as if it was nothing. To her, that pin was a legacy and a promise, trust and magic.

And evidence, she realized. Menteith's possession of it was proof he had a role in taking Lilias de Bruce.

She sighted down the shaft, closed her eyes, saw the fletched arrow in her mind. Opening her eyes, she released the bolt.

Her arrow grazed Campbell's, tearing the feathers. But the point bounced off the target at an angle and clattered to the ground.

"Winner! Sir Duncan Campbell, Justiciary of the North, is the archery champion!" Menteith bellowed. He waved the brooch high, silver glinting.

She had lost. Margaret lowered her head. The crowd applauded. Beside her, Duncan Campbell sighed as if exasperated.

"They are waiting, sir." She could not look at him. "Claim your prize."

"You did well." His voice was gruff as he shouldered his bow and quiver and walked away. She watched his broad-shouldered back, his confident stride, saw how he ignored the praise as he passed.

Menteith handed him the brooch and a small pouch of coins and the two men spoke. Margaret walked closer, hoping to hear.

"No matter to me," Menteith was saying. "I will be away in the north."

"I prefer you stay until the Stirlingshire sheriff finishes his inquiry."

"I have more pressing matters to attend to."

If Menteith left, Margaret might never find Lilias. She had to get word to Bruce and her brother. But she had to do something now. Menteith could not leave yet.

"Sir!" she called impulsively. Her thoughts were spinning, a plan forming even as she called out. "My lord Dunbarton! I wish to challenge the winner!"

Both Menteith and Campbell turned. "Challenge?" Menteith asked.

"A—bonus shot!" That was it. She came forward. "For the brooch."

"This thing?" Menteith asked. "But you lost."

"I need a pin for my cloak," she said, keeping her naturally husky voice low. "And I need coin more than Sir Justice does."

"No chance!" someone called. "No one can beat the justiciar at the archery!"

"I could shoot that brooch off the top of his head," she said boldly.

Laughter rose, but she hardly heard it. She felt desperate to delay Menteith, ready to say anything, do anything. You stole Bruce's daughter , she wanted to yell out.

Instead she had to be bold and earn the crowd's goodwill. It was clear that Campbell and the other sheriff wanted Menteith to stay in the area too. That would help.

"Give me a chance to win that brooch and earn some silver to buy my supper!" Hearing laughter in the crowd, she sensed they supported the lad over the justiciar.

Menteith cocked a brow. "Very well. One arrow each. Winner takes all. I would not mind seeing Campbell defeated." He gave a harsh laugh. "Then we are done."

She returned to the butts, Campbell with her. When she reached into the quiver for another arrow, she glanced at him. His steady, searing blue gaze threw her off.

"You first," she said, and stepped back. Instinctively she reached for the chain at her neck, but only set her hand to her upper chest for a moment. She dared not reveal the pink stone arrowhead caged in silver. No crofter's lad would wear such a thing. But the Rhymer's elf-bolt gave her courage, and thoughts of Thomas gave her courage too.

The elf-bolt will go wherever thee sends it , she remembered him saying once. Good. She would send it to hit that target and solve at least part of her dilemma.

Duncan Campbell set the arrow, stretched the string and took aim. Waited. Then he released the arrow. The banner fluttered and tore as he hit the very eye of the falcon.

She could not let him have the brooch. He could keep the coins. And she desperately needed Menteith to be delayed somehow. But she could not think about that now.

Lifting the bow, she sighted the target. The false falcon's wings rippled as if to fly away in the breeze. Duncan Campbell stood to the side, his sheer presence disrupting her focus so much that she could hardly think. Dear saints. She hoped he did not recognize her. She wanted to talk with him—she had so many questions—but not now.

Not yet. Lilias's safety was essential to her.

Menteith crossed the green to observe them closely. She ignored the man's glower and Duncan's silence as she raised the bow, tightened the string, sighted down the shaft. So much was at stake—hitting the eye, winning the brooch, delaying Menteith until she had a chance to alert Campbell to him. It all seemed impossible.

She breathed long and deep, seeking calm.

"Easy now," Campbell murmured softly. His voice was a balm. On the exhale, she let go the string.

The arrow shaft skated past the banner and the hay bale, curved askew toward the earth—and struck Menteith as he walked over the grass. With a scream, he fell.

Dear God, what went wrong? Stunned, she stared.

"What the devil," Duncan Campbell growled, and ran toward the sheriff.

Margaret stood frozen, stunned. The justiciar dropped to a knee beside Sir John, who cradled his leg, shrieking, and pointed at her.

"He shot me! Arrest that boy!"

Grabbing quiver and bow, Margaret whirled and ran toward the forest even as she heard shouts and the trample of boots behind her.

"Arrowshot! I am done for—the blood—I cannot walk—" Menteith groaned.

"Quiet! You will live," Duncan barked. "Someone fetch Father Ambrose," he called, having seen the priest earlier, aware he worked in the abbey's small infirmary. Duncan waited beside Menteith, who moaned and clutched his foot.

When Ambrose rushed toward them, Duncan stood, grateful. The priest would have the patience to deal with Sir John. Duncan did not.

"Let me see." Ambrose eased the man's boot off. "Oh dear, back o' the ankle. Not a good place to be arrowshot."

"There is no good place to be arrowshot!" Menteith snapped. "Campbell, why are you standing there? Get that boy! My men are chasing him while you dawdle!"

"Sir," Duncan said, turning. He saw immediately that Marcus Murray—Margaret Keith, he corrected—had vanished already. The lad who had fetched arrows earlier ran toward him, holding feathered shafts.

"Sir, these are yours and the lad's."

With quick thanks, he shoved them into his quiver, took up the bow—he might need it—and strode across the meadow toward the forest. Several knights in chainmail, swords drawn, ran toward the woodland as well, entering at various points to cover as much ground as they could.

He had to find Margaret before they did.

Hearing his name, he stopped as Murray and Lennox rushed toward him.

"Menteith is squealing like a pig, though just nicked in the leg," Lennox said.

"Let the priest tend him," Duncan said. "We must find that—lad before Menteith's men do, or there will be the devil to pay."

"He entered the forest there." Lennox pointed. "We can track him."

As they ran, Duncan saw the blond lad with the sling, and realized he had to be Margaret Keith's friend—and might know where she had fled.

"We need to follow that boy," Duncan said, leading his friends at an angle into the forest, hurrying before the lad could vanish in a maze of leaf and shadow.

Duncan gestured. "One of you go east, the other west. I will head straight on. Circle after half a mile, and we will soon cross paths. Look for the boy or—both lads."

"Aye!" Constantine angled eastward and Lennox headed west, where afternoon sun sent golden beams through the leaves. Duncan plunged ahead.

Soon he saw traces of someone passing by recently—crushed leaves, a footprint on pine needles, a snag of wool on a bush. Seeing reddish-gold threads of hair sparkling along a branch, he hurried on.

From various directions came shouts and the noise of men in armor crashing through the woodland. Determined, he pushed through a thicket of scrub and headed up a hill where saplings grew thick and straight.

Something dark fluttered on a bush—a black cap with lappets. He snatched it, stuffed it in his belt, then went higher. Bushes rustled as if something went through. Duncan took the slope in long strides, stepping over fallen logs, wondering if Margaret Keith would go to earth like a rabbit or climb like a squirrel.

On the ridge above, he glimpsed armor and cloaks as two knights moved between the trees. On the hillside, yellow gorse and dark juniper swayed. Duncan saw a boot and a brown tunic vanish. He took the hill in stealthy steps now, focused on finding her before she was spotted by Menteith's men.

Then he saw a pale hand, the curve of a bow, a wild mass of reddish curls whipping through tall bushes. Duncan cut to one side, slid into thick ferns and nudged between birch saplings.

Seeing a boot, he lunged, grabbing her ankle and dragging her toward him while she wriggled and twisted. "Come here," he growled.

Pulling her under one arm, he tossed her face down as she tried to wrench free, and hauled her deeper into a wild growth of bushes and ferns, dragging fragrant remnants of juniper along. Sinking low, he yanked her hard against him, her slim body all elbows and knees and shoving hands. He rolled until he lay across her, trapping her while she twisted beneath him like a wild thing.

"Let me go!"

"Be still, you wee rascal," he hissed, and clamped a hand over her mouth. She tried to bite him. He held her tighter, but when he saw fright in her eyes, he eased up.

"I will not hurt you. Be still," he whispered. "There are guards up there. Hush if you value your life."

She stopped. He rolled, then sat up and pulled her against his chest in the iron band of his arms. She whimpered in protest or in pain.

"Let me go," she gasped again.

"Listen to me," he said, low and fierce at her ear. "They will kill you if they find you. I will not. Hush. "

Voices sounded above, very close. She went still and lay against him, his cheek resting on the mass of her tangled hair, red as flames amid the green shadows that hid them. Under his arm, he could feel her heart pounding.

Several moments passed. Finally, there was silence all around. When he was sure the men were gone, he loosened his grip. "Sorry," he grumbled.

She bit his finger. He winced and swore, pulled her tightly against him again. She weighed little for all her strength, and she fought, twisting, pulling, scratching.

"Wildcat," he said. "If I let you go, you are surely dead, but not by my hand."

She went limp again. He wondered if he had squeezed the breath out of her. He released his hold a little more, but she twisted quick, so he tightened again.

"Quiet. And do not bite me." When she nodded, he relaxed his fingers cupping her jaw. He did not relax his steely embrace.

"Beast," she said, then bent her knee and kicked back, hitting him hard on the thigh—too high for comfort. He rolled to press her to earth, his weight on her back.

"Margaret Keith, you have gone feral, I swear," he breathed.

She froze. Then a sob tore free. "You! Hateful beast!"

"So you remember me. Sit up, wildcat." He lifted her upright to lean against him in a cavern of ferns and juniper, bordered by thorny bushes that he tried to avoid, but a prickly frond slapped her cheek.

"Ow," she said. "Thorns. Oww."

"Sorry. Wicked stuff, gorse." He shifted, pulling her to him, one arm braced over her chest, fingers tight on her arm. "We need to stay clear of the thorns, but we cannot move from here. I am sorry if you are hurt."

"Not the gorse. My shoulder. My knee. Let me up," she gasped. "Why do you hide with me? You would hand me over to them if they came by."

"I will not. They would kill you without hesitation. I, at least, would ask questions before I throttled you." He winced as another thorn scraped his hand.

Scuttling with her toward the softer haven of the ferns, he settled behind her, trapping her in his arms and folding a leg over her knee. "Sit still. Tilt your head. Let me see if I can get these." He scraped a thorn from her cheek, brushed the blood away with his thumb, then pulled a few prickly bits tangled in her hair.

"Thank you," she whispered.

"Now," he murmured, "tell me what the devil is going on."

"Did I kill him?" she asked softly.

"Sir John? He will be fine."

"Good. The arrow shaft must have been warped."

He grunted. "It was not. I saw it. Perfectly straight. It should have gone into the target—or into Menteith, where you sent it."

"I aimed at the target. Are you justiciar in the north?"

"Aye," he grunted.

"So you can arrest someone? Imprison them?"

"I may do so now if you do not tell me what this is about."

"You could arrest Menteith?"

"Or you. Sit still," he insisted as she twisted again. "Explain why you were dressed as a lad and then assaulted a local lord and a sheriff, none of which is in your favor. Be still, I say. Here. Put this on." He snatched the black cap and yanked it over her head. "That hair is bright as fire and will surely give us away."

She tugged it down, cramming her hair messily into the cap, but a few tendrils hung down. When she looked up at him, her eyes, in the ferny surroundings, were green glinting with amber. He stared.

God, she was beautiful, he thought, distracted. Even with blood on her cheek, tear tracks down her face, a scattering of freckles; moss-green eyes and straight dark brows lowered in a glower; and thorns and flowers in her hair, she was the fey creature he remembered.

"I did not assault him," she said.

"You damned well did, my lady. Why do you want me to arrest him?"

"He did something evil." She glanced through the bushes toward the hill. "Are they gone?"

"Wait." He paused a beat. "I think so. You stirred up quite a kerfuffle. Is your friend part of this scheme too? The lad in the foot race. I saw you with him."

"Just a friend. No scheme. Menteith did an evil deed and must be stopped."

"Some might agree with you, but we cannot punish the man without evidence of this evil deed. Have you stolen any livestock recently?"

"What? Of course not. You must listen to me."

"I can hardly wait. Go back to why you shot him."

"It was accidental."

"I saw your skill. You could have bested me and taken the prize."

"I want that prize. Do you have the brooch?"

"I left it with Menteith. It is hardly important. Tell me why you shot him. I saw you do it, so you cannot deny it."

"I did not mean to. I only wanted the brooch. Is he badly hurt?"

"He thinks so. But he is not going anywhere for a while."

"Good." She grimaced, trying to wrest herself free. "You can arrest him."

"Sit still," he whispered. Far off, he heard the crush of twigs underfoot. When the sound died, he loosened his hold a bit. "Why do you want me to arrest him?"

"He abducted a girl."

"What—" He shook his head, bewildered. "What proof do you have?"

"I know he did. There is my proof."

"Huh. Where is this girl?"

"If I knew, I would not be here."

"Ah." This was odd. He thought of the incident along the road, the young girl taken in the ambush, Menteith's men escorting her to her family. And Lennox was looking for a girl too. What connected them? "Abduction is a serious charge. Until I can determine what happened, I will keep you in custody."

She paused. "Prison?"

"Somewhere Menteith cannot reach you would be good."

"But—shh!" She tapped his arm. "Someone is coming!"

He stilled. Footsteps crushed closer. Duncan parted juniper and fern and peered out. "It is fine. He is not a Dunbarton man."

She looked, then tensed in his arms. "The sheriff of Stirling!"

"Con Murray!" Duncan called softly, shaking the bushes. "Over here!"

"What are you doing?" Margaret hissed.

Constantine turned, then climbed toward them as a second man appeared.

"Malcolm! This way," Murray said. Soon two pairs of booted feet stood near the bushes. Held in Duncan's arms, Margaret Keith tried to flee.

"Hold!" He had to let go so he could stand, and as he grabbed for her again, she took to her feet and started to bolt. He shot out a hand, caught her arm, and tugged her with him out of the bushes.

"And here is the archer lad," Lennox said.

"Come with us," Constantine beckoned as Margaret Keith ducked her head, black cap secure. Duncan stayed quiet, letting explanations wait.

"Shall we take him to Dunbarton Castle?" Constantine asked.

"Sir John will not treat the lad kindly if you go there," Lennox warned.

"True. I will take him up the loch to Brechlinn." Duncan pulled on Margaret's arm as she tried to yank free. When she winced in pain, he stopped.

Lennox went past them to retrieve the two bows and two quivers discarded beside the bushes and joined them as they turned to find their way through the forest.

"Go ahead, Con," Duncan said. "Find Menteith's men and tell them I have the archer in my custody. I will deal with him. Menteith does not need to trouble himself. Lennox," he said, "I know you have other business here, but if you have time to head north, come with us."

"Do you need a guard for your snarling pup? I can do that."

"Where are we going?" the pup asked, tugging against Duncan's grip.

"To find a boat." Duncan yanked her black cap lower. "Keep quiet."