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Cameron studied the man at the end of the line. His build was unimpressive—slight, really, almost like that of a lass. The stranger’s hands looked smooth, his fingers long and thin, but he displayed amazing skill as he stood there flipping his dagger repeatedly. He twisted it over his wrist and then under it, clearly adept and comfortable with the weapon. The competitor wore a cloak with a hood pulled low. Cameron’s gaze trailed up to the warrior’s face, but all he could see was the tip of the stranger’s chin. Cameron would have thought that odd enough to confront the man, but Summer Walkers were known for disregarding convention, so he let it go and began his own exercises to warm up his throwing hand.
He took a long, slow breath in preparation to throw and moved his gaze across the crowd and down the long center of the twenty blazing circles of fire. The small target was fastened to a post at the end of the circles.
He gasped at the sight of Eolande suddenly standing in front of the target, her dark hair billowing around her shoulders, though the wind was not strong enough to cause such a thing. His gut clenched as he felt the coldness of her violet gaze land on him. The white léine she was wearing seemed to shimmer like jewels upon her as she raised a hand and motioned in his direction. Was she beckoning him? He glanced around at the others, but no one else seemed to notice her.
Cameron rubbed his eyes, unsure of his own mind. When he brought his hands away, all he saw was the fire and the shadows cast in the darkening sky. Relief washed over him, and he raised his hand just in time for Iain’s signal to throw the daggers.
The knives swished through the air, numerous thuds resounding in rapid succession, almost simultaneously meeting their marks. The men whooped in hopeful triumph, and Cameron’s blood rushed through his veins in his own expectation of victory. He took one step out of line toward the target with the surety that he was the winner, but as he moved, a dagger whistled through the air and hit the target hard, sending a vibration through the now-silent crowd. A collective gasp sounded from the spectators, and Cameron glanced at the man who had thrown his dagger well after everyone else—the Summer Walker.
His first inclination was to cry foul, but he kept his mouth shut. No rule had been made that all contestants had to throw their daggers at the same time. The only thing this man had done was make a clever choice to wait. Cameron clenched his teeth in anger, but it was at himself. All the competitors, save himself and the Summer Walker, rushed toward the target, and most of the crowd that had been watching did so as well.
Cameron looked from the stranger to the target. His gut told him he’d lost. His dagger had a black hilt, and from here, it looked like a dagger with a light-colored hilt was lodged in the center of the target. He turned to study the man once again. The Summer Walker stood perfectly still except for his slender hands, which were twined together as he tapped his thumbs in a frenzy. The man was nervous. But why?
“’Twas clever of ye to see the advantage of waiting to throw and taking it,” said the man—well, he was nearly a man—standing beside her.
Sorcha Stewart sucked in a sharp breath at the warrior’s admission. As she looked at the man who was studying her, it was hard to think upon her plan, upon anything other than him. He was tall and surprisingly thick with muscles for a man with such a young face. He looked to be a year, maybe two, ahead of her fifteen summers. His gaze was probing, like that of someone much older, and it was locked upon her. It felt as if his will alone could move her hood to reveal her face. She nervously tugged the material farther down, though she knew very well it was impossible for someone to move something without touching it.
The man—Cameron, she’d heard him called—tracked her movements, and she had to force herself not to fidget. His expression had become one of fixation, as if he was trying to figure something out—likely her—but there was a friendliness to his face that made her want to smile at him.
Down near the target, a cacophony of shouts exploded in the semi-silence. A deep, angry male voice sounded above the others.
She tensed as she glanced toward the target. She had to flee now before she was caught. She took a step to do so, but Cameron clasped her shoulder. It took only a breath to realize fighting him would be futile. She jerked away twice, and his grip tightened, unrelenting.
“Are ye nae going to speak to me?” he asked, his voice gravelly. His eyebrows, thick and golden like his hair, rose into a high arch.
She shook her head. She prided herself on her ability to judge people the minute she met them. It was a skill she’d acquired when quite young and living in a house where everyone had secrets. She considered herself quite adept at forming quick conclusions on the make of a man—or woman, for that matter. This warrior before her was clever and curious; it was in his searching, twinkling eyes. He’d hear her voice and know immediately that she was not a man, and then she’d be found out. And her father would learn she’d not stayed in the tent as he had told her to do, which would be a very bad thing. Father had ordered her twin brother, Finn, to stand guard at her tent, but Finn had left to chase a lass the minute Father had departed. So if it was discovered that she had departed the tent, Finn would pay dearly, and she didn’t want that.
Devil take her faults! If only Hugo had not bested her by cheating when they had thrown daggers yesterday, then she would not have felt the need to best him today in an honest competition. He was such a braggart, and she detested the way he tried to make her feel inferior and weak every time he and his father came to visit her father. He did it to Finn, as well, and she could never fight the urge to protect her brother. Yet, it did seem that lately he was resentful of and irritated by her need to watch out for him. She intended to tell Hugo what she had done later and happily watch his face drain of color. There was no worry Hugo would reveal her secret either, as he would rather have his eye stabbed out than let it be known that a lass—especially one three years younger than he was—had bested him.
“That man used tricks to win!” someone bellowed from near the target.
Sorcha flinched, and her heart jumped from her chest to her throat. Pinpricks raced across her skin as her stomach tightened. Now she was done for. If they dragged her down to the targets to quarrel about if she had won fairly, they may demand she pull back her hood, and then they would discover she was a girl and not a man at all. Of course, Hugo would be humiliated, but risking her father’s temper wasn’t worth the public shaming.
“Cameron!” called a deep male voice from the target. “Get yer arse down here now and bring the Summer Walker with ye. The man needs to defend his win.”
A fleeting spark of pride filled her, but it died quickly, smothered by worry.
“Ye heard my brother,” Cameron said. “It seems ye’ve won, and though it pains me to be outwitted I’ll take it like a man… unlike some others.” Releasing her, he glanced toward the crowd gathered in the distance. “Shall we?” he asked, his head still turned.
Her answer was to run.
She quickly turned and sprinted in the opposite direction of the laird and the other competitors. Behind her, Cameron’s footsteps thudded as he raced to ride up to her. Her breath rang in her ears, the puffs coming in a rhythm of one in, two out. He called to her, his voice seeming closer now. She dashed in front of a cart, and a woman yelped and threw a pitcher, which Sorcha ducked under just before it thumped to the ground.
She pushed her legs harder, her hood falling away, and her hair flew out to flap against her shoulders as she twisted through the crowd. She made for the thick rows of tents beyond the rocks. If she could reach them, she felt sure she could lose Cameron and make it back to her own tent before anyone was the wiser.
A group of children ran in front of her waving sticks and laughing, and she had to come to a shuddering stop to keep from trampling them.
“Part!” a high, melodic voice commanded. The children gasped as one and quickly obeyed, leaving an opening for Sorcha to run through.
She didn’t question it nor hesitate to flee. She glanced over her shoulder only to see how close Cameron was, and her jaw dropped as their eyes locked. Even from a distance, she could feel his gaze burrowing into her, memorizing the details of her face. Thanks be to God that Cameron had been stopped by the children and a woman with long, flowing black hair.
A relieved laugh escaped her, and she boldly raised her hand, waving farewell to the warrior she’d bested. But the woman beside him caught Sorcha’s notice. Her gaze probed Sorcha, causing unease to prickle across her skin. Though it was impossible to hear the woman say anything given the distance between them, Sorcha was certain that the woman was talking about her.
“Allow the lass to flee,” Eolande said.
“And why should I do that?” Cameron demanded, stepping to move around the seer and frowning when she shifted to stay in his way.
“’Tis not yer time to meet her.”
