Page 26 of To Win a Highlander’s Heart

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Orrick watched the pleasure drain from Isolde’s face at his words. Pain crept into her wide blue eyes and a shell of aloofness came about her once more. “I did not mean my words as an insult. Nay. You are a skilled warrior. Any army would be lucky to have you amongst their ranks.”

The woman was tough and very good with a sword. Much better than he could ever hope to be, even with her helpful suggestions. So why was it her brother had cast such a talented warrior aside? Was it his own pride that caused the rift between them even before the accident? He’d seen enough of battle to know that a man’s self-regard was often the difference between life and death.

But Orrick was not like most men. He’d grown up in the shadows of Alastair and Tormod. He had always been the third-best child, brother, and eventually warrior as the castle residents were only too willing to inform him. Unwittingly, he’d done the same thing to Isolde. He’d hurt her. He found no pleasure in the thought. And he refused to allow the new rift between them to continue. “I apologise if my words upset you. I should have realised you had to fight harder than anyone else to prove you are worthy. If you are willing, I would like to continue to train with you.”

“With me? A female?” A dark expression crossed her face, then vanished.

“Aye. I had thought I would be training you, but in that I was wrong. It is your skill and prowess that just might help me regain my will to fight once more.”

Her features lightened with a hint of pleasure. “Sometimes it is not skill that will see you through. It is the reason for which you are fighting. If the cause is just, then it is easy to pick up a sword. If not, then the task is that much harder.”

He stepped closer and his heart beat a little faster. Despite their workout, she smelled like the morning mist mixed with the scent of the sea and a hint of Scottish rose, the combination fresh and intoxicating. “Shall we train some more?”

“Have you not had enough battles for one day?”

He shook his head and smiled. “We’ll switch to shooting arrows at targets, instead of you forever landing me on my backside.”

A hint of a smile returned to her lips. At the sight, warmth flared inside him. “When well, I can always best you with my arrows,” she said with a challenge in her voice.

“Come, you’ve proven to me that your arm is ready for more physical exertion. I set up targets in the gardens outside the gates. There’s plenty of space to move the targets as far away as we’d like.”

Her smile slipped. “I doubt moving the targets will be necessary. Simply supporting the bow as I draw the bowstring will be enough of a challenge at first.”

They walked into the castle and headed to the armoury. The room on the ground floor near the barracks was filled with swords, targes, lances, pikes, bows, crossbows, long bows, pole and battle axes, daggers of all sizes, and pistols. If war ever came to Dunvegan, the MacLeods would be well armed.

“Where is my bow and quiver?” Isolde asked as she looked about the chamber.

Even he would have been hard-pressed to pick the single wooden weapon out of the collection if he hadn’t been the one to hang it on the stone wall. Orrick stepped up to the hook near the middle of the chamber and took her bow down, handing the weapon to Isolde. “Your bow is well made and nicely waxed. How did you manage to maintain it while you were in the wilderness?”

“’Tis not wax but tree sap that I used to keep it supple. I gathered what I could to maintain both the bow and the string,” she said, hitching her quiver over her shoulder.

Orrick armed himself with a bow and a quiver, and led the way outside, then over the drawbridge towards the garden. The morning mist had faded and overhead the sun fought to break through the clouds, leaving splashes of dappled light on the long stretch of grass on the southern side of the creek that fed Loch Dunvegan.

“I set out two targets.” He pointed at two piles of hay more than fifty feet away. “It should help us to have something to aim at.”

“First I must see if I can string my bow.” She set her quiver on the ground. It took three tries before she could finally bend the bow and slip the loop at the string’s end into the notch at the top.

“How is your arm?” Orrick asked, feeling compassion rise within him at the effort it had taken her to string her bow.

“There is only minimal pain.” Next she held the bow in her left hand, relaxing and extending her arm as though trying to reacquaint herself with the bow’s weight.

“You are doing well,” Orrick said.

“The hard part hasn’t even begun yet.” Her eyes were overbright as she drew one of her arrows. She carefully set the string onto the nock slit. Supporting the arrow with one finger on the string above it, two below, she pulled the string to touch her lips and chin. She had to shift her grip several times to balance the arrow correctly. And even so, Orrick could visibly see her arm trembling at the strain. Any movement whatsoever could affect the aim of an arrow.

When she released the arrow, Orrick could not hold back a sharp intake of breath as the arrow wobbled and careened several feet to the right. She let her bow arm fall to her side as her composure faltered.

“Let’s go again.” He tried to keep his voice light.

“To what purpose?” Beside him, she took a deep, shaking breath.

He stepped closer. “Were you able to fire an arrow accurately the first time you ever tried?”

“Nay.”

He saw uncertainty in her eyes, but he ignored it as he drew an arrow from her quiver. “Then why do you expect perfection now? Come. Let’s try again. This time, I’ll help you hold your arm steady.” He came around behind her and placed his hand on the bow below hers, lifting it towards the hay. He handed her the arrow.