Seven
William mentally berated himself as he helped the lad, who was trembling with fear, to his feet. Curse it all. He had one task: persuade Brothwell to trust him. Coming to the aid of the boy that Brothwell clearly was going to take great pleasure in torturing was not the way to gain the coldhearted man’s trust. But William’s Achilles’ heel had always been women and children in need. Presently, he was faced with both.
Ada might be supporting his enemy—or she might not, he did not know—but it was clear in every line of fear mapped on her face that she was petrified for the lad. And rightly so. The competition Brothwell had proposed was a dangerous one at best and a deadly one at worst.
Brothwell cleared his throat, interrupting William’s thoughts. “Are ye going to join the others, William?”
William looked around him; he was the only one still standing there. The other men had crossed to the far side of the courtyard, and Brothwell’s guard stood with them. “Pardon,” he said, resisting the urge to reach out and squeeze the lass’s shoulder again. Her eyes were bright with fear, but he could not keep showing such compassion if he wanted Brothwell to trust him.
“Brothwell, I beg of ye,” Ada pleaded, as William forced himself to walk away from her. “Dunnae allow each man a shot at Maximilian.”
When the lad whimpered, it took all of William’s self-control not to turn around and put a stop to this nonsense, no matter the consequences to himself. But that was the problem—the consequences of this mission failing would affect far more people than just him. It would affect his brother, the King, all the people of Scotland if the king should lose his throne.
“I’m feeling generous toward ye, Ada, since by the end of this tournament, ye will finally choose a husband, so if William splits the apple, then the other warriors will nae shoot at it, but if that happens, they’ll be sorely vexed, and I’ll have to offer some sort of consolation as a generous host.”
William was well aware that he was walking about as fast as a snail, but he needed to hear what was being said, and he did not like the direction the conversation was taking.
“What are ye proposing?” Ada asked, her voice tight with clear displeasure. The lass may support the Steward, but it was obvious she and her stepbrother did not particularly get along.
“A dance,” Brothwell said. “It seems only fair if William wins the opportunity to sit by ye at supper and the other men dunnae even have a chance.”
“Since when have ye cared about being fair to others?” Ada demanded.
“Careful, Ada,” Brothwell warned, his tone laced with both amusement and a sharp edge to it. “Ye will wound my heart.”
Ada snorted. “Ye’d have to possess a heart for me to wound it.”
“Ye think bastards dunnae possess hearts?” Brothwell asked.
The men gathered on the other side of the courtyard were giving William strange looks, so he forced himself to speed up, having to strain to hear the next words, which were little more than a whisper in his ear.
William turned, and disappointment touched him that he could no longer see Ada’s face. She had kneeled down in front of the boy, her back to the warriors. She brushed a lock of hair from the lad’s forehead and then cupped his cheek with her hand. Ada MacQuerrie appeared to be a woman of compassion.
Something softened in him as he looked at Ada’s profile, and he did not care for it at all. Still, it was one thing to keep a wall between himself and the woman he would wed, and it was entirely another to allow someone else to hurt her or an innocent. She and everyone she cared for were his to protect now, whether she knew it yet or not.
With that thought in mind, William withdrew his bow and arrow, which Brothwell was motioning him to do. Once the apple had been placed on the lad’s head, William inhaled a long, steadying breath, closed his eyes, and said a prayer for his aim to be true. When he opened his eyes, he focused on his intended target. He saw nothing but the glistening red of the fruit. He tasted sweetness. He could almost hear the terrified boy’s heartbeat. But the lad would not die today. Not if William could help it.
The string of the bow cut into his fingertips as he drew it back taut. His heart thudded in his ears, drowning out all else. He counted the beats as he waited for the slight breeze that had picked up to die down.
One.
Two.
Three.
He released the arrow, tracking it as it sliced through the growing shadows, met its target, and carved the apple in two. To his surprise, a suddenwhoopfilled the silence, and when he searched for the source, Ada was grinning at him. She possessed the most blindingly beautiful smile he’d ever seen. It was like seeing the sun for the first time. Warmth filled him and his chest lurched, his lips tugging into a return grin. And then suddenly, chaos exploded.
The two massive white hounds by Ada’s side took off at a gallop across the courtyard.
“Freya! Hella!” Ada bellowed, chasing after the hounds.
William watched in amused fascination as the hounds ignored her and thundered toward him and the other men, Ada running after them with her skirt flying and long hair fanning over her shoulders and off her face as she pursued the beasts.
“Halt! Halt!” she called, but the beasts would not be deterred.
As she approached, William realized that Ada feared for their safety, as did the other men if their uneasy exclamations were any indication. William darted his gaze from Ada to the hounds, who were now baring their teeth and barking. The men around him shuffled backward, some withdrawing swords, others bows.
“Dunnae harm them!” Ada called, but the men ignored her.
