"Show me again," she said.
It wasn't a request, and he didn't take it as one, instead following her order. Something about her was so commanding that he thought that if she said it in the right tone, she could lead armies to battle. He was bolder with his guidance this time, and she was more yielding to his touch, allowing him to position her perfectly for the next shot.
This one hit so close to the center that they both groaned when they realized the near miss. They tried again, and again, and then, eventually, the arrow hit home. Murdoch cheered, and Morag grinned widely. She spun around to face him, and for a moment Murdoch thought she might hug him. But as soon as their eyes met, her expression turned cold once more, and she looked away as quickly as she could.
"You're a fool," she said. "Do ye ken that? It's a foolish man who takes time out tae train his enemy."
"Ye're nae me enemy, remember? We're on the same side," Murdoch told her.
Her eyes flashed in annoyance at his teasing, and it brought a red tinge to her cheeks that was unaccountably appealing. He wanted to raise his fingers and brush the skin of her cheek to feel its warmth, or whether it really felt as soft as a petal as it seemed.
"Yedoken what sideye'reon, dinnae ye?"
She snorted. "We'll see how many smart remarks ye can make when me arrow is through yer neck."
"Please. It will take several years and several more miracles before ye're able tae land a hit upon me. Some people are better suited for sharp words than weapons, Miss Caindach, and it seems like ye are one of them," Murdoch replied.
The verbal parry had been intended as a lighthearted barb to continue their banter. Despite that, it seemed to hit more painfully and accurately than any arrow, and Morag paled, her body stiffening as she took a step back from him. Her eyeswidened, and she looked remarkably wounded for just a second before rage flooded back over her features.
"Ye've nae idea what ye're talkin' about," she hissed. "Dinnae yedareever underestimate me."
"Morag—"
But she stormed past him toward the secret entrance and disappeared back into the Keep, never once looking back.
Christopher stood there in the middle of the courtyard, surprised and not only a little bothered by what had just happened. He was not here to make friends, and in fact he had gleefully antagonized Morag when they first met, but for her to leave so upset because of something he said felt… wrong. After all, he hadn't even intended to be hurtful. For some reason he could not understand, he wished that she had stayed.
He walked over and picked up the bow that Morag had abandoned on the ground, picking it up and aiming at the target. If he had still been Christopher, he would have told her about how he used to get frustrated watching Elsie excel while he fell behind, and how it had taken years before he felt competent. He might have described the time that he and Arran had an archery competition as children that ended when an arrow accidentally got lodged in Arran's favorite wooden training shield.
He might have even told her how patient Aila was whenever he failed, or how encouraging Lachlan was in guiding him to the weapons that suited him best. If he was still Christopher, he'd race after Morag and apologize, explaining himself and making sure that she wasn't upset.
But he'd left Christopher behind, and Murdoch could not care about the feelings of a woman who had nothing to offer. And so he simply released the string and watched as the arrow flew through the air, landing directly in the center of the target.
Straight for the kill.
"Elsie's younger than me.How come she does it so well? She's better with the horses, better with the bow—what's the point?" fifteen-year-old Christopher asked, stamping his foot on the ground with frustration. "I'm supposed tae be better."
"Ye're both better at different things, Chrissy. Dinnae be daft. I'm only barely competent with a bow meself, why are ye lettin' it worry ye?" Arran asked.
He was only a few months older than Christopher at most, but ever since they first met—even when he was ill—Christopher had looked up to Arran as an older brother. Though he loved Lachlan and Aila and knew that he could always go to them for advice, there was something special about the bond he had with Arran.
Christopher shrugged. "It's just annoyin'. Ye're the heir, and she's the prodigy daughter. I dinnae ken where I fit. I dinnae ken how I'm ever gonnae make the kind of contribution tae this family that I want tae."
Arran shook his head. "Do ye think Elsie could have done what ye did for that horse of yers, Beatha? Nay. Elsie can tame the wildest of steeds, but ye're the one who can pull life from darkness. Elsie can fire an arrow into the centre of a target with her eyes closed, but ye can heft a polearm against any oncomin' enemy if ye need. We each have our own roles, Christopher, and ye shouldnae let yerself forget it."
"But what am I?" Christopher asked, sinking into his chair.
"Ye're a Kincaid. Just like Elsie. Just like me. Just like wee Cassie." Arran put a hand on Christopher's shoulder. "The past is the past, brother. Never forget it. And always remember who ye are."
In the present,Murdoch lay on his back in a bed in Campbell Castle, staring up at the ceiling, those words from Arran all the way in the past echoing in his head. A woman's voice intertwined with them, another gentle soothing tone from his distant past who had once told him the very same thing.
Remember who you are.
Fenella Campbell, his mother, had said it even as she'd granted her son a new name and a new life. Arran Kincaid had said it as he tried to assure his brother that there was a place for him. And now, in fewer words, Alistair and Ian Campbell were saying it over and over again, trying to get their lost family back at last.
But how could Murdoch remember who he was when he'd never really known in the first place? Inexplicably, Morag Caindach's prideful face swam into his mind.Shesaw through him. She was not fooled by Murdoch, not even in the slightest, and even though her constant scorn wasn't exactly pleasant, it was strangely relieving.
What would she see if he showed himself fully? If he wore no mask at all, what would Morag see? Would she still allow him to touch her waist and change her stance, or would she fire an arrow directly into his heart? And, if Murdoch looked in the mirror… what would he see there? Part of him despaired that he might never know.
