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“I thought ye and he were more than friends,” Lachland’s deep voice fell over him like a bucket of ice water.
Turning to face him, Caelan ensured a flat expression. “I hoped, but no. He prefers the lasses. I hear ye do as well now.”
Lachland slid a look to where a pair of warriors stood. “I would prefer to fuck ye.” The darkened gaze moved to his mouth. “Have ye been with any one since me?”
At the bold words, Caelan cleared his throat. “I will see ye at the competition.” Walking away, he could feel Lachland watching him. He may as well have been touching Caelan’s skin by the way it affected him.
“Watch where ye go,” a warrior snapped when bumped into him. The man’s thick hand grabbing him by the arm. “For an archer ye seem unable to see clearly.”
It was Struan, the head archer there at Taernsby, whom he’d run into. “I was thinking,” Caelan explained.
Struan looked past him. “Ye and Lachland need to stay away from one another. Nothing good can come of it. Ye are aware?”
Heat rose from Caelan’s throat, and he was sure his face turned red. “I know.”
“Come,” Struan walked in the direction of the archery range and Caelan fell into step beside him.
“What do ye feel toward him?” The head archer asked.
Needing to confide in someone, Caelan spoke freely. “I am not sure. I hate him one moment and want to be with him the next. I wish I’d never met him.”
Struan stopped and gave him a quizzical look, then his expression softened. “Ye are in love.”
“That is the worst thing that could happen,” Caelan admitted.
“Aye for so many reasons. People do not understand that kind of love. Two men.” Struan spoke softly so no one could hear. “There can be ways to stay hidden, but I would not wish that on anyone. To hide yer entire life.”
Caelan let out a long breath. “Neither would I.” He looked into the man’s eyes. “What can I do?”
“Talk. Tis better than the ongoing animosity between ye.” Struan shrugged. “Anything more, I cannot advise.”
“Thank ye.”
Struan placed a hand on his shoulder. “Love does strange things to a person. However, there is nothing more powerful.”
Lachland looked on as the archers gathered to draw their lots. The sun was high in the sky, the breeze light, which was beneficial to the competitors.
One by one, they pulled a wooden token that had a number etched on it between one and four. Each group would compete and then the top archers would fight for first place. The laird brought bags of coins to be given as prizes for those who place first and second in each game, an enticing prize.
When Caelan and Brock drew their numbers, they banged chests in celebration and Lachland hated the pang of jealousy. It was obvious the two got along well. Did Caelan confess to Brock about his sexual preferences?
He studied the man. Brock was dark haired with a rugged face. He had a muscular build and easy-going personality.
Just then a horn sounded, calling for the competition to begin.
Despite his disappointment at being unable to compete, soon Lachland lost himself judging the archers. The men congratulated each other, then argued moments later about who should gain points.
All in all, the competition was close, most of Clan Ross’ archers being exceptional marksmen. Several times, he and Struan had to measure arrow placements with their fingernail because some were so close in aim.
“I am not competing,” Struan told him as they walked toward the targets. “It would not be fair.”
“The archers are hopeful to beat ye,” Lachland replied.
“I will shoot against the winner,” Struan said. “It will be entertaining.”
They arrived at the targets. “I spoke to Caelan earlier,” Struan began. “Ye need to talk to him. I grow tired of the ongoing animosity between ye.”
Lachland swallowed, a cold terror at being discovered filling him. “I can just stay away from the bastard.”
