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“I only stated the truth. It isn’t my fault James is a—” An explosion of snow hit the back of Fiona’s head. She shrieked, the sound jarring enough it caused a few of the horses to prance in their harnesses. Isleen turned at the same moment her sister did, and both saw Lord James grinning impudently.
Fiona charged forward, bending as she went to scoop up handfuls of snow, and Lord James took to his feet running, weaving in and out of the trees, laughing.
That was all the other children needed as an excuse to run into the trees, scooping up snow and hurling balls of it at one another. Girls and boys alike, even the duke’s two youngest daughters, went hurtling into the trees with laughter.
Teague came and stood next to Isleen, breathing hard and grinning. “I saw it all. Do you think Fiona knows how unwise it is to start a war with the English?”
Isleen shook her head. “I doubt it. But I’m certain she would appreciate her brother sending her reinforcements.”
Her brother touched the brim of his hat to her, then bent and scooped up snow. “I’ll lend her my support. What about you?”
“Me?” Isleen tilted her chin upward.
His eyes gleamed as he glanced behind her. “I doubt you have much of a choice, Issie.” Then he ran off, calling Fiona’s name as he went.
“Daft man,” she muttered. “Me, in a snowball fight. At my age.”
An icy missile hit her shoulder. Her jaw dropped and she spun on her heel, ready to give someone a severe tongue-lashing. What child haddared—?
Simon stood ten paces away, already packing together another snowball between his gloves. “Lord Farleigh,” she exclaimed. “Don’t you dare—”
But he threw the snowball, and she turned just in time to break it with her shoulder. Looking past him, she realized most of the other ladies were now scooping up snow and throwing balls, too. It seemed no one meant to stand on decorum today.
“You’ll regret that,” she shouted, tossing her muff aside as she picked up snow and charged.
Simon laughed and dodged her first volley, then aimed a snowball at Lady Josephine and caught her in the back of the neck. She shrieked, then spun and pointed at him. “Andrew! Get him!”
“He was my friend first,” Simon shouted at her, but Andrew was charging, no snow in hand. Simon laughed and dodged behind a tree. Isleen took the opportunity to form several balls of snow, packing them tight, and glowering. She filled her muff and cradled it to her, listening to the shouts and laughter echoing through the limbs of the trees.
Then she ran into the fray. Using her ammunition wisely, she pelted Sir Andrew and ducked behind a tree before he turned. Then knocked the hat off one of the boys near Fiona’s age. She kept running, giggling to herself over the ridiculous battle and her part in it.
She pelted anyone she thought she had a chance of hitting, including Lady Atella and her count, who had taken refuge behind a downed log until Isleen found them. She kept moving, which seemed to be key in avoiding being hit.
Her nose tingled with the cold, but she sniffled and kept onward, looking for Simon. She wove through the trees, dodging snowballs, and finally found Sir Andrew. He had Lord James thrown over his shoulder and allowed Fiona to take free aim at the boy. Isleen ducked behind a tree before any of them saw her, and then she froze.
While she had been searching for Simon, he had evidently been stalking her. Because he stood not six feet away, grinning and holding a large clump of snow overhead.
“Ask for mercy, Irishwoman,” he said, his blue eyes light and full of laughter.
She sucked in a breath, her heart pounding more from attraction than fear. The dratted man. He hadn’t any idea what he did to her.
But she gave her answer with her chin in the air. “Never!” But before he could charge, Isleen used an old tried and true tactic from her own schoolroom and nursery days. She charged, and with her full might ran straight into him, wrapping her arms about his waist and pushing them both over into the snow.
Immediately, she rolled away. He’d dropped his snow, of course, giving her the chance to scoop up an armful of her own, scramble to her feet, and drop it in his face.
Apparently, her counter-attack had shocked him enough that he did nothing except lay there and take the onslaught. He sputtered and wiped the snow from his face. “Isleen,” he growled. “You don’t fight fair.”
She kicked more snow at him, though it barely reached his face. “‘The rules of fair play do not apply in love and war,’” she quipped, quoting an English poet whose name she could not remember.
“Do they not?” he asked, folding his hands over his stomach, fingers laced, as he looked up at her. “And which is this, Isleen? Love or war?”
She took a step back. “I didn’t mean—you know that I didn’t mean anything by it.”
He chuckled and rolled to his stomach, then pushed himself out of the snow with a grunt. He brushed the snow off his coat and trousers, smiling at her as he did. “Didn’t you?”
She blinked at him. They’d flirted, of course. But nothing had been said outright. Nothing like this. And when he moved closer to her, one hand outstretched, she had to stamp down on the desire to turn and flee.
Instead, she found herself putting her hand in his, hugging her muff tightly to her with the other arm. “Not really,” she whispered. “It wouldn’t be ladylike.”
