Page 59 of The Duchess Games

Her son did not budge an inch.

The guests turned in their direction, expectant, curious. Their gazes sharpened when Cat stumbled back a step. Callum’s hand at the small of her back prevented a complete retreat. She toasted them with her cup because she was just slightly too tipsy to stop herself. Summer snickered. “Good girl,” Callum murmured.

Good Lord, the things this man did to her.

“Come, Tremaine,” the dowager ordered. “You must present the winner with the red ribbon.”

“Oh do, Your Grace,” Lady Imogen sighed. Several of the other ladies agreed, if more hungrily. If they could have eaten his title like cake, they would have.

Summer snickered. Callum pinched her.

Cat fell a little bit more in love with him.

Horrified, she switched to tea. No more whisky. Ever.

Callum stalked towards the glittering group, scowling. Curtsies and bows erupted all around him. A footman in an old-fashioned horsehair wig jogged towards the targets to tally the count. Callum strode out to meet him on his return, escaping the clutches of social chatter. He nodded at the footmen and then turned, calling out without fuss or fanfare. “The winner is Miss Viola.”

Viola’s cheeks went pink. She exchanged a glittering, competitive glance with Lady Ruby.

“Will we never be rid of these Sparrows?” someone muttered loudly.

Summer stood, seething.

Cat also stood. Actually, she leapt to her feet. But for very different reasons.

It was Percival who alerted her.

He raised his head suddenly, whuffing softly, then growling. She’d never heard him growl before. His attention was focused entirely on the far corner of the garden, where the hedges gave way to a bit of wild. He knocked over his saucer of pilfered milk, every muscle tense. Later, she would give him an entire jug of milk and two kidney pies for his alertness.

He was the reason Callum did not drop to the grass, spurting blood from a hole in his chest.

She saw the rustle, the parting of leaves to reveal a pale glimpse of a face, a longbow.

“Callum!” Cat was running before she’d fully formed a plan. “Down!”

The expression of the others changed slowly, as if time altered. Surprise, disgust at her shouting, shock. She felt as if she was running through treacle.

She could not reach Callum quickly enough.

Not that she was able to fend off an arrow even if she could. It whistled and bit through the air.

Callum dropped.

Cat froze, choking. The blood in her very veins stopped. Everything stopped.

And the arrow slammed into the ground, inches from Callum’s side.

He was safe.

Someone screamed. Lady Imogen fainted. Callum was already on his feet, striding towards the edge of the gardens, footmen coming from all directions, Blackpool at his side. His pale blue eyes speared her. “Get back,” he ordered. “Percival, with me.”

Percival loped towards him, nose twitching, eager to track.

“Who could do such a thing?” someone gasp.

“A child perhaps?” someone suggested. “I’m sure it was an accident.”

Cat was equally sure it was not.