The Ranger (Highland Guard #3)(24)

Sir Roger de Umfraville had been the third son of the old Earl of Angus’s younger brother. They’d met when Anna had accompanied her father to Stirling Castle a few years back for Parliament. She’d been immediately drawn to the quiet young scholar with the winsome smile and dry sense of humor.

Educated at Cambridge, Roger had been considered a great scholar and promising politician. He abhorred bloodshed. As a third son, he should have been safe from the war. But when his two elder brothers died—one at Falkirk and the other from a fever—Roger had felt it his duty to take up the sword. Anna had been heartbroken when he’d died after a seemingly insignificant wound he’d suffered at Methven festered.

Unlike her sisters, Mary had yet to settle on a husband. That her father hadn’t pressed, Anna suspected, was because he hoped for an important alliance—preferably English—from her beautiful sister. Once Bruce was subdued, her father would be able to find them all husbands.

Her chest squeezed. When the war was over.

“I thought Father was going to arrange a match with Sir Thomas or some nice, staid English baron for you when King Hood is brought to heel?” her sister said.

“Faith, Juliana, this has nothing to do with marriage! I barely even know the man,” Anna said truthfully. She was attracted to him—perversely intrigued by his indifference, even—but a Highland warrior wasn’t the husband for her. A life of quiet and peace, a father who would know his children, that was what she wanted.

But why did Thomas MacNab’s face suddenly seem ... womanly? Pretty Alan had called him. She bit her lip, suddenly agreeing.

She was tempted to tell them what it was really about, but her father wished for her to keep her tasks on his behalf between them. Probably so her mother wouldn’t find out.

Whether her sisters believed her explanation or just decided to give up teasing her because the challenge was about to start, she couldn’t be sure, but she was grateful when they turned to the field below. Their seat on the edge of a rocky hillside gave them a perfect vantage of the entire field below.

It had been Sir Arthur’s idea to have the entrants not simply toss the spears at a different range of targets but do so in armor from horseback at a full gallop.

In his terse, matter-of-fact tones, he’d quickly and efficiently helped organize the different challenges. She suspected it was partly in the effort to be finished with her as soon as possible. What she’d hoped would take all day had taken only a few hours. He’d also elicited plenty of help from other men-at-arms, probably to avoid being alone with her.

Sighing, she turned her attention back to the field. One by one, the men urged their mounts to a gallop down the path and threw their spears at the straw buttes secured to a post. If this were the real Highland Games, there would be both spear throwing and thrusting. For the latter, a longer spear was used and the rider would position the spear under his arm in the manner of a joust.

The challenge was harder than it looked, as evidenced by the number of spears that went wide or fell short of the target. But a few of the contestants were quite good, including her brother Alan. She cheered along with her sisters when his spear landed with precision in the center of the target. Only Alexander MacNaughton, the keeper of the royal Frechelan Castle on Loch Awe, had done as well.

Sir Arthur brought his steed around to the start, and Anna found herself inching forward on the rocks. As did the other contestants, he wore a steel helm, full mail, and a tabard emblazoned with his arms to match his shield. All of the Campbell arms had the gyronny of eight in or and sable—basically a pie of alternating black and gold triangles—but his was individualized by the bear in the middle, a reference no doubt to the Gaelic artos, from which his name was derived.

He held the spear in his left hand, the reins in his right, and started forward. Being left-handed, he would be at a disadvantage. Unlike the other contestants, he would have to throw across his body to the target.

Anna’s pulse spiked as he picked up speed. An avid rider herself, she noticed right away that he was an exceptional horseman. Strong and powerful, he moved with remarkable fluidity, as if he were one with his mount.

He neared the target.

Her breath caught high in her throat as, never hesitating, he heaved the weapon in one smooth motion toward the butte. It landed with a definitive thud a few inches below the center of the target. Her breath released in an excited cry as she joined the other cheers. It was an excellent shot. Not as good as her brother’s or MacNaughton’s, but it was still only the first round.

The field of competitors narrowed with each round. By the end of the third, however, the result was the same. Though Anna knew it was unwarranted, she felt a twinge of disappointment. For some reason, she’d expected him to win. It was silly—based on nothing but a feeling. He’d acquitted himself exceptionally well, coming in third behind MacNaughton and her brother.

Yet it was strange. He seemed to miss by precisely the same amount each time—a few inches off where her brother’s or MacNaughton’s had landed.

The men had taken off their helms and had handed off their mounts to the stable lads. Rather than stand around and accept the congratulations of the crowd, Sir Arthur looked as if he intended to follow his horse back to the stables.

Anna stood up quickly, wanting to rush down and catch him before he could escape. Perhaps she’d insist the top competitors join the high table on the dais for the evening meal tonight? That ought to make him angry enough for a few sentences at least.