Chapter 13

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Later that same evening, Catalina and Dunstan took a walk in the gardens after dinner.

“I heard all about this cockamamie archery competition ye and Ivar are supposed tae be havin’ tomorrow. Who came up with that stupid idea?” Dunstan asked as they made a circuit of the grounds in the unexpectedly balmy night air.

Catalina bristled. “I did, and ’tis nae stupid,” she replied defensively.

“Ye’ll end up locked in the MacLeod dungeons if ye carry on like this, insultin’ Ivar at every turn. Ye ken Ana’s in bits about it all.”

Catalina willfully brushed off his warning. “Ye ken what she’s like. Always so proper, always worryin’ what folks think of us. I’ve told her nae tae worry, that this competition is a chance fer me tae get close enough tae Ivar tae build bridges. How else can I dae that if he willnae talk tae me or accept me apologies?” she argued, having almost convinced herself that was her true intension.

“So, ye plan tae lose, is that it?” His laugh carried an edge of sarcasm. When she did not answer immediately, he nodded knowingly. “I thought nae,” he added. “Well, Ivar kens his way around a bow all right, so ye’ll have tae remember everythin’ I’ve ever taught ye if ye want tae beat him.”

“Am I so transparent?” she asked, dismayed he could read her so well.

“Tae me, like glass, lass.”

“Why am I getting the feelin’ ye want me tae beat him?” she asked, confused. “Shouldnae ye be railin’ at me, tellin’ me tae call it off like Ana?”

“If ye want tae mess about, I can hardly stop ye. I’m just worried fer her.” His voice had changed. Catalina detected deep sorrow in his words, and it worried her.

“What’s troubling’ ye, Dunstan? Tell me the truth. Ye’ve nae been yersel’ since we left home. Ye’re gloomy and sharp-tongued. Why, ye refused tae dance with me last night, but I saw ye dancin’ with Ana. Is it somethin’ I’ve done? Have I offended ye as well as Ivar?”

He shook his head, his expression morose. For a moment, he seemed to be on the verge of saying something, and she waited attentively. But then, at the last moment, he stopped himself and just shrugged.

“Nay, lass, ye’ve done naethin’, I promise,” he said, putting a brotherly arm around her shoulder. “I didnae feel like dancin’ at the party at first, but after a drop of good ale, I got intae the mood. That’s the only reason I didnae dance with ye then. I’m fine, really, so dinnae keep goin’ on at me.” He spoke with such an air of finality, she dared not question him further, and they soon completed their circuit of the gardens and returned to the castle.

“I’ll bid ye good night, then, Dunstan,” she told him in the vestibule. “I’d best go and rejoin Anastasia and the family fer a wee while before retiring.”

“Well, just try tae stay out of any more trouble, eh? I’m off tae have a dram with some of the lads. I’ll see ye fer the competition tomorrow.”

“All right,” she replied, brightening at the thought he would be there to see her triumph. “Sleep well.”

They parted, and she steeled herself to go and sit opposite Ivar again and try to ignore his frosty glares while he smiled and entertained her sister as smoothly as a gentleman from the royal court.

He hated to admit he had been watching the door for her return, and as soon as he saw her coming back to the table, he felt something ignite inside him. When she and Dunstan had left together, he had been disturbed to feel something hot and angry, akin to jealousy, rush through him. But he told himself that could most certainly not be it. Perhaps he was still bothered by her initial behavior towards him. Why her mockery of him mattered so much, he could not fathom. He only knew that it did. But tomorrow, with the archery contest, he was determined to put her in her place once and for all.

He noticed how she avoided his eyes as she sat down again and rejoined the conversation around the table. He tried to occupy himself with Anastasia but he couldn’t hear a word of what she was saying, and when Catalina appeared at her most unsuspecting, he said loudly, “So, this archery contest, what are the rules? What are we competing fer?”

“Och, that’s right. We didnae decide on that, did we?” Haldor remarked. He smiled inquiringly at Catalina. “What d’ye say, Catalina?”

Ivar looked over at her, giving her his coldest stare but secretly excited to hear her answer.

She thought for a few moments before finally meeting his eyes. Hers were full of challenge. “The best of three shots maybe, if that’s nae too demandin’ fer Ivar.” He bristled as the others laughed, except for Anastasia, who wore a look of uncertainty. Looking pleased with herself, Catalina directed a witchy smile at him that made his blood pulse hotly in his veins. The wee vixen!

“That suits me,” he declared. “I hope ye’re ready tae be beaten fair and square,” he could not resist adding.

“We’ll see, eh?” she said simply and looked away as though the matter was closed.

“That’s settled then. Och, it’ll be such fun!” Sofia put in, clapping her hands gleefully at the prospect of the morrow’s spectacle. The others seemed excited too, all except for his future wife. When he looked back at Anastasia, her normally smooth brow was creased with the same concern he had spotted earlier. It would have been so easy to put her mind to rest, to simply let go of his resentment towards her sister. But something inside him would not let him relent until he had taught her a lesson in humility.

The next day dawned bright and fair, and after a good luncheon, they all gathered on the castle green, where a target had been set up for the competition. Ivar had spent some time that morning oiling and testing his favorite bow, and now it was resting on a table which had been brought out for the occasion, next to what he presumed was Catalina’s. There was a rack of arrows to hand, plus a rather nervous-looking servant to do the running about. Haldor, Sofia, and Dahlia were sitting on chairs, while Arne dawdled nearby with Dunstan, watching the proceedings with a big grin on his face.

Ivar was hoping Catalina would be intimidated at the prospect of him beating her, but if she was, she showed no sign of it. Indeed, she seemed to be in high spirits, laughing and joking with the others. Now and then, he would catch her eye, and each time, Ivar would feel the tension crackling between them. He made sure to give her his most frightening smile, the one he used for his foes on the battlefield. But the infuriating little wench just tossed her hair and carried on laughing at Arne’s jokes.

Eventually, Haldor said, “Are the two contestants ready tae start?”

“I’m ready, me laird,” Catalina declared, her voice full of confidence as she

bounced up to him, looking impishly beautiful in her simply-cut, willow-green gown.

“Aye, I’m ready,” Ivar agreed, his fingers itching to shoot and best her.

“Then I declare this competition open!” Haldor announced. The others clapped and cheered. All save Anastasia and Dunstan that was. Ivar could not help observing how subdued the pair appeared. He put it down to their embarrassment at Catalina’s antics.

“Who shall shoot first?” Dahlia wanted to know.

“Ladies first, surely,” Arne chimed in.

“Very well.” Ivar stood aside to allow Catalina to take her shot. He was surprised when she demurred.

“Let Ivar go first. I’m nae quite ready,” she said, standing back to give him access to the target.

“Go on, then Ivar. Show us what ye’ve got,” Arne called over.

Ivar picked up his bow and a single arrow from the table, he approached the mark, loaded and took aim. He focused on the center, minutely adjusting his sight, and then he let fly.

He smiled to himself as the arrow hit the bullseye with a satisfying thud, eliciting laughter and cheers of approval from Sofia and his siblings, and polite applause from the guests.

“A good shot, Braither,” Arne congratulated him. “That’s a bullseye all right.”

“Of course,” Ivar said with a nod, mockingly, glancing at Catalina and expecting to see her cowed by his prowess. She was not.

“Aye,” she agreed, looking more animated than ever as she approached the table to collect her bow and arrow.

He did not take his eyes off her as she nocked the arrow into position, stood on the mark, and pulled back the string. For a few seconds, she stood poised, and Ivar found himself holding his breath and admiring her graceful stance, her perfect balance, her stillness as she held back the straining string. Then she let go, and the arrow flew toward the target and hit home with a loud thump embedding itself on the very edge of the bullseye, less than an inch away from his arrow.

“Oh, bad luck, Cat, but good shot!” Arne cried as the servant trotted off to retrieve the arrows ready for the next round. “Ye only missed by a wee whisker. Better luck next time, eh?”

“Aye, thank ye, Arne,” she replied with irritating cheerfulness for one who had just lost. She cast Ivar a narrow glance and said, “Well done, Ivar. Better hope ye can keep it up.”

“Dinnae doubt it,” he muttered before he took up his bow again. His second shot was as satisfactory as the first, hitting the bullseye dead on. He stood aside to let Catalina have her turn, though thinking it a waste of time.

Once again, Catalina stood poised, the string of her bow drawn back tautly. From the sidelines, Ivar’s eyes roved involuntarily over the outline of her pert breasts, narrow waist, and rounded hips. A sheen of light perspiration glistened on her forehead, which creased in concentration as she fixed her sights on the target.

An inexplicable heat stirred in his belly, mixing with the excitement he was already feeling at the certainty of beating her. Something made him glance over at Dunstan then, to see if he was looking at Catalina in the same way. After they had gone out together the night before, he could not allay his suspicion that there was something between the pair. Not that it mattered to him.

He was surprised to see that Dunstan was not paying any mind to the competition at all. He was looking intently at Anastasia, and she was looking back at him, with something like despair on her face. Ivar was intrigued but thought no more about it because, after Catalina’s second arrow missed his by a hair’s breadth, his final shot was coming up. This was it; victory was within his grasp. As he lined up his arrow, he could hardly wait to see the look of defeat on Catalina’s face at the end.

Once more, his arrow flew true to the exact center of the target. Enthusiastic approval erupted from most of the audience. Even his betrothed seemed to be paying attention this time. “Och, well done, another fine shot, Ivar,” she called out to him as she applauded, her smile encouraging.

Catalina was already behind him, her arrow held loosely along with her bow.

“Ye may as well give up now,” he murmured to her so no one else could hear. She glared at him, not bothering to pretend cheerfulness now she could see defeat rapidly approaching.

“’Tis just fer fun, Ivar,” she told him pertly. “There’s nae need tae be so competitive. I dinnae care at all if I lose.”

But he could clearly see from the faint lines of strain around her mouth that it mattered very much indeed. He gave her his scariest smile again and whispered,

“Ye’re as terrible at lyin’ as ye are at shootin’. But carry on foolin’ yeresel’ if it makes ye happy.”

He had the satisfaction of hearing her huff as she prepared for her final shot. Again, she again missed splitting his arrow by a hair’s breadth. When she turned, making a low utterance beneath her breath, he saw the look of disappointment on her face. To his confusion, guilt suddenly clouded his pleasure over his victory.

“Congratulations, Ivar, ye shot very well,” Anastasia said, coming up to him and resting her hand on his arm as she smiled at him. Dunstan came up behind her.

“Aye, well done, man,” he said, shaking Ivar’s hand. He was smiling too, but Ivar noticed it did not quite reach his eyes, the man seemed preoccupied.

The others gathered around, congratulating him, his brothers slapping him heartily on the back. Over their shoulders, he saw Catalina standing a little apart, watching on. Disappointment was etched across her features. Again, guilt nipped at him. Not quite knowing what he intended to do, he went over to her. She looked up when she saw him coming and summoned a small smile.

“Congratulations on being the better shot,” she said, holding out her hand. The gesture took him by surprise. He stared down at her proffered hand for a moment. “Well, are ye gonnae shake it or nae?” she burst out. “Ye’ve naethin’ tae fear. I’m nae such a bad looser that I’m gonnae punch ye.”

He found himself stifling a smile as he enfolded her hand in his, and they shook. Hers felt ridiculously small and delicate but quivering with life, as though he was holding a tiny, living wren in his hands.

“Well, the afternoon is still young. How about another contest?” she suddenly asked brightly.

“What’s the point?” He replied, feeling a little disappointed about it himself now.

“I suggest a test of finesse rather than power.”

“Whatever ye call, it, I’ll still beat ye,” he said doggedly.

“Let’s have just one more match, but this time, we could do something different.”

“Like what?”

“We’ll pin an apple tae the target and see who can split it down the middle intae two halves. What d’ye say?” The sun was dancing in her eyes, lighting up the green and gold within, and her mobile lips curved upwards into a challenging smile.

Ivar scoffed, confident of his success. “That’ll be easy. All right. Fetch the apples.”

Several apples were duly fetched, and one was fixed firmly to the bullseye.

“Whoever can split an apple intae two separate halves cleanly is the winner,” Haldor announced as the audience settled into its seats once more to watch.