Highland Outlaw (Campbell Trilogy #2)(58)

She cast a surreptitious glance at him, but he'd already turned away, conceding defeat.

Whether it was just the contest or her, she didn't know.

Patrick hadn't missed a shot like that in years. But skill like his did not go unnoticed, and the last thing he needed was for Robert Campbell to start asking questions.

He'd sworn not to let himself be goaded by Campbell today, but he'd been unable to ignore the outright challenge. If Campbell wanted to let a contest determine the better man for Lizzie, so be it—he would damn well find out.

Patrick had wanted to win so badly, he could taste it. He'd allowed the thought of the satisfaction he would feel to wash over him—but only for a minute.

It had been one of the hardest things he'd ever done, but he'd forced himself to stand down. To do otherwise would invite too many questions.

But losing did not sit well. Pride warred with discretion. It was one thing to lose and another to do so purposefully. He told himself that it was only a simple challenge, that Lizzie had nothing to do with it, but he couldn't escape the feeling that he'd let her down. That in conceding the contest, he'd conceded much more.

That Robert Campbell was the better man.

Every instinct cried out to prove otherwise.

He dared not look at her. Weathering the wounded look in her eyes following his cold withdrawal last night was hard enough; disappointment would cut him to the quick.

He didn't know what the hell was wrong with him. He should have made love to her and had it be done. In allowing it to become personal, he'd lost focus on his goal. His moment of nobility had served only to give her the opportunity to reject him, making today's events even more difficult to swallow.

But he would have done just that if Campbell hadn't chosen that moment to bring up the one subject Patrick could not ignore.

The group had started to disperse after the anticlimactic end to the contest, but Robert, buoyed by his victory, had taken Lizzie by the arm and drawn her to the edge of the loch. Patrick was in no mood to hear the other man's subtle wooing and started to walk away, but one word stopped him in his tracks.

“Edinample is situated much on a loch like this.”

Patrick's blood ran cold. Edinample. The castle built on the ashes of his family's old keep. His entire body drew tight with rage. Rage that boiled inside him with nowhere to go. He could feel it consume him. Hot and furious, it pounded in his head and roared in his ears.

Robert's voice carried toward him, every word fanning the flames. “I would like to take you there one day. My father only finished building the castle a few years ago, and it's quite beautiful. Though it could use a lady's touch.”

Patrick snapped. The image of Lizzie making a home with Robert Campbell on Patrick's lands—the place where his parents had been murdered—was too much to withstand.

If Campbell wanted a damn contest, by Hades, he would have one.

Possessed by a recklessness more characteristic of his brother and rage born of resentment so deep that it seemed to penetrate his bones, Patrick pulled out his bow and walked back over to the line etched in the dirt.

“Campbell.” His voice rang out like a thunderclap, drawing all eyes to him.

The other man turned, a puzzled expression on his face.

Patrick's mouth drew back in a feral smile. “You did say three shots, didn't you?”

Campbell's brows drew together. He eyed Patrick warily, as if it were a trick question—which it was. “Aye.”

“Good.” Patrick slid two arrows from his quiver. “I'll be taking my third after all.” Carefully, he threaded both arrows on the string, aimed, and let them fly—two in one shot.

He heard the collective gasp, followed by a stunned silence.

“Jesu!” said one of the men, his voice tinged with awe.

God, it felt good. Too damn good.

The Laird of Dun rushed back toward the tree, the others trailing after him. Only Patrick, Lizzie, and his guardsmen stayed behind. His men didn't need to look—they knew what he'd done. And from the satisfied gleams in their eyes, he knew they were pleased with the result, no matter the increased risk to their safety. A MacGregor besting a Campbell was always a reason to celebrate.

Lizzie, however, was staring at him with a strange look on her face. Not surprised, but questioning—as if she were trying to put something together. He met her stare unflinchingly, part of him wanting her to know the truth. He was tired of deception. Tired of hiding, of being forced to live the life of an outlaw.

Would she understand? If it was only him to consider, he might be willing to take the chance. But his men's lives were in her hands as well.

The crowd had reached the tree. Loud cheers went up when they saw what he had done. Both arrows had pierced the piece of ribbon and landed on either side of his first.

He'd won.

But at what cost?

Chapter 12

Patrick was about to find out.

Robert Campbell strode toward him, one of Patrick's arrows in his hand. From the rigid set of his shoulders Patrick knew he was furious, but the assessing glint in his gaze bothered him far more. The other man stopped before him, studying his face for a long time before saying anything.

“A definitive win,” he conceded. Gracious, Patrick noted, even in defeat. Glenorchy's son was proving to be a difficult man to despise. Hell, the only mark against him that Patrick could find was that he was Glenorchy's son. A problem for a MacGregor, but not for a lass seeking a powerful alliance. “Next time I will have more care in choosing my words.” He tapped the arrow in the flat of his hand a few times, the dull thud an ominous tolling. “Quite remarkable. I've only seen something like it once before.”