Chapter 50

It might have been a lucky shot. But Morgan didn’t think so.

To say he was impressed by Jenefer’s skill was an understatement. His jaw dropped. He blinked in disbelief. And when he met her self-satisfied gaze, he was forced to see her with new eyes.

Bethac hadn’t exaggerated. Jenefer was as skilled as Flidhais. She was better than any of his men. Her shooting was smooth. Effortless. And deadly accurate.

Defeating her would be more of a challenge than he’d expected.

But he wasn’t exactly a novice himself.

Bethac cheered from the window.

He gave her a withering glare. “Whose side are ye on, old woman?”

Her eyes twinkled, but she refused to reply.

Jenefer made an exaggerated sweep of her arm. “Your turn.”

He nodded and flexed the light bow a few times. The weapon wasn’t nearly as powerful as his own. If he drew it too forcefully, the ash would crack. But shooting at this distance didn’t require power, only aim.

He plucked an arrow from the earth. From the corner of his eye, he saw Jenefer watching him.

Her longbow rested casually against her shoulder. Her arms were crossed in swaggering self-assurance. But it was her complacent yawn that pushed him over the edge and made him decide to provoke her.

“Ye know, the claymore is my weapon o’ choice,” he admitted. “I’m no archer.”

She crinkled her eyes at him. “Do you wish to forfeit the match then?”

“Nay, nay,” he said, nocking the arrow. “I agreed to your challenge, and I’m a man o’ my word.”

He lifted the bow, preparing to shoot. As he did, he intentionally hooked his first finger across the top to hold the shaft in place. It was a mistake common to beginners.

Jenefer’s brow creased. She unfolded her arms. “Wait. Are you…?”

“Aye?”

“You aren’t going to leave your left finger like that, are you?” she asked in disbelief.

He shrugged.

A tiny, troubled scowl flashed between her brows. “The feathers will catch. You’ll be lucky if the shaft leaves the bow.”

He smirked. “How else am I to hold the arrow in place?”

The dilemma in her expression was palpable. Should she help him? Or let him fail?

“Fine,” she said tightly. “You’ve got three chances, after all, aye?”

He squinted hard at the target.

“You know you should keep both eyes…” she began.

“What’s that?”

“Nothing. Never mind.”

He slowly drew back the string, hugging his elbow close to his side.

“Lift…lift your…” she sputtered.

Between gritted teeth, he said, “Are ye goin’ to keep interruptin’ me or let me shoot?”

She let out an exasperated breath. “Go on.”

As soon as she glanced away, shaking her head in pity, he opened his eyes, moved his finger, lifted his elbow, and released the arrow.

It landed with a thunk beside her shaft, in the middle of the target.

“What?” Jenefer exclaimed. The shock on her face was priceless. “How did you…?”

He gave her a one-sided smile. “Just lucky, I guess. Your turn.”

She was still staring at him, baffled, when he backed away to let her shoot.

This time, he saw she wasn’t taking any chances. Rather than risking a clever shot, she lined up carefully in front of the target, taking time to smooth the fletching on her arrow before setting it into the bow and resting it lightly on top of her left fist.

It was pure pleasure to see her shoot. Very quickly, he found himself watching her with more than mild interest.

There was something enticing about her flawless form as she lifted the longbow in one steady arm.

Something provocative about her slowly pulling the string back until it creaked and the way her fingers curled softly against her cheek.

Something intoxicating about the intensity with which she stared at the straw target.

By the time she let the arrow fly, he was too distracted, watching her, to see where her shot had landed.

And when she turned to him with a triumphant grin, he no longer cared. Her brilliant smile and her sparkling eyes took his breath away.

“Another bull’s-eye!” William crowed. “Och, this is goin’ to be a good contest.”

William’s cheer jarred him back to reality. He glanced down the field. Three arrows now crowded the center circle of the target.

Jenefer stepped back with a magnanimous gesture of invitation. “Morgan?”

On her lips, his name sounded like a purr. Pleasant. Sensual. Arousing.

But he couldn’t let her unnerve him.

Damn her feminine temptations. He had to win.

Jenefer had been so sure she’d leave Morgan in the dust. Feiyan was right. She’d always been able to outshoot her father’s men.

And once she’d seen Morgan’s dreadful form—his hooked finger, his squinting aim, his dropped elbow—she’d almost pitied him. With such terrible technique and a bow that was the wrong size for him, he’d be fortunate to hit the target at all.

His first shot might have been luck. But she wasn’t certain enough of that to let down her guard. This time she’d watch him carefully.

Sure enough, this time he didn’t hook his finger. Or squint. Or clamp his elbow against his side.

But he did talk the entire time. Which was equally disturbing.

“So how long have ye been an archer, lassie?” he asked, cocking his head away from the bowstring to eye up the target.

Shouldn’t he be focusing on his task? Didn’t he need to concentrate? Hold his breath? Steady his aim?

“Ever since I can remember,” she replied.

He sniffed, adjusting his stance. “Indeed? And who taught ye?”

“My ma.”

“Your ma?” he said in surprise. He lowered the bow and shook his head in amusement. “Aye, o’ course she did. Warrior maid, aye?”

Raising the bow again, he pulled back the bowstring until his knuckles rested against his cheek.

“And did she teach ye to fight with a sword?” he asked, eyeing up the target.

“Aye.”

“And a dagger?”

“Aye.”

“What about your fists?”

Now she was getting exasperated. “Lucifer’s ballocks. Do you intend to shoot, or are you going to chatter at me all afternoon?”

To her utter annoyance, he chuckled. “Ye know, that temper o’ yours,” he said, unexpectedly releasing the arrow mid-sentence, “is your fatal flaw.”

She scowled. Had he actually managed to wedge his arrow between two of the others? While he was carrying on a conversation?

William cheered.

“Bloody hell,” she said.

How had he done it? How had he managed to shoot in the midst of rattling on about her temper?

Her temper? Her hackles rose. There was nothing that incited her to anger faster than someone mentioning her temper.

He gave her a taunting grin. “Your last shot, I believe?”

She shot him a scathing glare and wrenched an arrow out of her quiver with a vengeance. Fatal flaw? She didn’t think so. Her fatal flaw was believing him when he said he was no archer.

She lined up sideways to the target.

“Watch carefully, William,” Morgan said in a loud whisper. “Ye see how she lines up sideways to the target?”

She ignored him. She knew what he was doing. He was trying to distract her. She wasn’t about to let him have the satisfaction.

She set her arrow atop the hand gripping the bow, twisting the shaft until the cock feather faced upward.

“See how she twists the shaft,” he murmured, “until the cock feather faces upward.”

She felt her blood start to simmer. But she was determined to pay him no heed. Drawing back the bowstring, she took aim.

“And here she holds her breath and… Ye do hold your breath, aye? Do ye take a breath before ye draw or after ye’ve got the target in your sights?”

What the devil was he yammering on about? Drawing a breath? Holding her breath? How was she supposed to know? She’d never thought about it before. And now that he’d planted the notion in her brain, suddenly she felt like she couldn’t breathe. Worse, her arm was beginning to shake from holding the string taut.

Before the bow could wobble out of her control, she took her best shot. The arrow landed in the second ring.

“Shite!” she cried, turning on him. “Look what you made me do.”

“Me? What did I do?”

“You know very well,” she snarled. “Drawing your breath… Holding your breath…”

“I was only tryin’ to help the lad,” he claimed, “showin’ him how a master archer does it.” There was a mischievous twinkle in his eyes that belied his innocence.

“Cheating is what you were doing.” She turned to William. “See, lad, the depths to which an inferior archer will sink to win?”

“And how easy ’tis to use a foe’s weakness against them?” Morgan said to the lad. “A fatal flaw, that temper o’ hers.”

Her blood was boiling now. But saying any of the foul things that came to mind would only prove his point about her temper.

Instead, she took a deep breath, blowing out all her tension as she’d seen Feiyan do. While he was flexing the longbow, she considered what his fatal flaw might be.

For most men, it was lust.

Now that she’d tried her hand at seduction and succeeded, she was sure she could summon up enough womanly wiles to throw him off his game.

She snagged one of his arrows from the ground and sidled up to offer it to him.

Drawing his attention with her smoldering gaze, she murmured just loud enough for him to hear, “Make sure the cock feather is upright before you release it.”

His nostrils flared briefly, but then he gave her a soft chuckle. “I always do.”

She sauntered away then, swaying her hips in what she hoped was a provocative fashion until she was standing out of the line of fire, but well in his line of sight. She leaned back against the castle wall and used her finger to coyly tease the neckline of her kirtle, something she’d seen a milkmaid do once.

Unfortunately, the smile he gave her wasn’t full of lust. It was sad and wistful. And in the end, her scheme only created unanticipated consequences.

From this angle, she could see every gesture he made. Every muscle he tensed. Every movement of his eyes. Every expression in his face. And it was painfully obvious to her now that he was no novice.

Before he shot, he examined the arrow itself, sighting down the length of it to make sure it was straight. Then he ran the fletching lightly across his lips to smooth the feathers.

She gulped. She’d never noticed before what an enticing gesture that was, almost like a kiss. She remembered the feel of those lips on hers.

When he fitted his arrow this time, it settled evenly on top of his fist without the awkward interference of his hooked finger.

He raised the bow and drew back the string in one smooth, practiced gesture.

Beneath his taut sleeves, she could glimpse his formidable, well-muscled arms. She was instantly reminded of the way those arms felt around her. Powerful. And protective.

Because the bow was light, he was able to hold the arc steady for a long while as he challenged the target with his gaze.

She’d seen that challenge in his eyes before. There was a penetrating force of will in his gray-green-golden gaze that would make any but the strongest adversary tremble.

His fingers, curved against his swarthy jaw, held the string with the perfect grip. Firm yet flexible.

Her breath caught as she realized the way he gripped the arrow reminded her of the way he held her when they’d made love. Tightly enough to maintain control, loosely enough to set her free at the right moment. A surge of desire rose up in her as the memory of her own passionate release assailed her.

Then her thoughts were abruptly interrupted by a bewildered cry drifting down from the bedchamber window. “Morgan?”

His wife.