I’ll meet ye in a few days at the games, son. I cannae wait to see how ye have grown.
Lachlan’s eyes scanned the letter again, rereading the familiar swirls of his father’s neat, quick handwriting. Though he had received the letter only yesterday, he had read it half a dozen times now, the folds in the paper already growing soft from so much handling.
His father, Seamus Stewart, was a tall, broad man of five and fifty years of age with whitening hair and an easy smile that rarely left his face. His eyes were the same as Lachlan’s, a bright, verdant green, and he had passed on to Lachlan his quick wit and ease of laughter as well.
But as alike as they were, Lachlan rarely saw his father. He had been sent to the Campbell keep as a lad of just twelve to train as a guard, and since then, he had spent but a few days a year with his father. Seamus always came to the annual clan games, and Lachlan traveled back to his clan lands if there was a family wedding or funeral, but the rest of the year, they communicated by letter.
It wasn’t an unusual arrangement to send a lad off to train so young. Half the guards Lachlan oversaw had been sent from surrounding areas by their own parents, who knew that life at the castle was a far better fate than farming or trade. Laird Campbell took care of those in his charge like family, ensuring they had food, shelter, and clothing no matter what. It was a good life to be part of his community.
But he had not been sent for a better life. The Stewarts and the Campbells had been seeking an alliance and sending Lachlan to work as a guard for Laird Campbell had ensured loyalty. And while at first, Lachlan had missed his family terribly, he had come to love Castle Morcoille. It was his home now, and when he competed in the annual games, he competed for the praise of the laird, more so than that of his father.
As Lachlan looked to the castle’s west, he saw the beginnings of preparations for the games, which were to be held in three days. Tents were going up, under which would lay banquet tables filled with all manner of delicacies and drink. The lawn was being readied for the caber toss, hammer throw, stone put, and sheaf toss, and new archery targets were being laid nearby, giving men of the castle their yearly chance to best Lachlan and fail spectacularly at it.
Lachlan smiled at the thought of all the coin and whisky he would win as a result of the losing bets from those who still, even now, doubted his archery skills, but his thoughts were interrupted by the sight of Rowan walking across the grounds, seemingly straight toward him.
This was odd for many reasons, chief of which was that he and Rowan did not generally interact intentionally. Or rather, Rowan never spoke with him intentionally. Lachlan, of course, had been seeing her two mornings a week for over a year and would have gladly taken on a hundred more morning guard shifts if it meant the chance for more opportunities to rest his eyes upon her bonny self.
“Lachlan,” Rowan said, and the sight of her in the midmorning sun struck Lachlan speechless. Her cheeks were rosy with exertion, and her hair was uncharacteristically out of its plait, falling over her shoulders and down her back. It was rare for him to have such a good look at her since their morning encounters were usually held at still dark, and he couldn’t help but be stirred anew at her beauty.
I wish it were dark now, Lachlan thought, for suddenly, Rowan was not the only one with pink cheeks. Lachlan tried to compose his face into a mask of coolness, but he worried he had failed when Rowan’s mouth quirked up at one side, her face transforming into a smirk he knew to mean she was inwardly laughing at his expense.
“Good day, Rowan,” Lachlan said, staring off just over her shoulder, allowing his mind and body a moment to cool from the sight of her.
“I’ve come to tell ye there is a slight change in the schedule for the games. We’re moving the archery contest to last. Can ye relay this to yer guards?” she asked.
Lachlan ought to have made some snide remark about the laird’s daughter concerning herself with the minutiae of planning the games, but instead, he blurted out, “What? Why?”
The archery contest had been the first event for as long as the games had been run, which was at least thirty years. The castle had been holding them since the first year Laird Campbell took over from his own father.
“It is nae for ye to question the decisions of me or me father, Lachlan. Simply do as I say and notify the guards so ye can make the necessary alterations to yer shifts,” she said haughtily, and then, before Lachlan could utter a response, she turned on her heel and strode off, her hair nearly slapping him in the face as she did so.
Lachlan ducked, and while he was crouched low to the ground, was fascinated to find that his vantage point allowed him to perfectly see the dirk that Rowan hid in the boot that, along with its mate, was beating a hasty retreat from him.
What need does a lass have for a blade on her own lands, he wondered. Especially with me as head guard. He would have been insulted that Rowan did not feel safe under his protection had his mind not immediately returned to the matter of the archery contest and its new and very inconvenient timing.
He had spent days working on the schedule for the guard shifts, trying to ensure that every guard had a chance to enjoy the annual games while maintaining the castle’s usual level of security. The shift that coincided with the archery contest had been particularly difficult to organize since Lachlan knew that all the men would want to participate, and this meant rotating the guards around the castle after each round of the contest.
He had also arranged the schedule so that he would be near his father much of the day, either actively participating in games or passing by the man on his way to and from a guard shift. Now, Lachlan would likely only see his father for an hour at most. And with no family weddings or funerals in sight, it would be another year before he had any more time in his presence. The thought sent a pang of sadness to his chest, a pang that was quickly replaced by anger targeted directly at Rowan.
Taking off at a run, he made his way back to the castle, using the kitchen door to ascend directly up the stairs that led to the floor where he and the other high-ranking members of the castle’s community slept.
Pushing his door open, he ignored the welcoming sight of his bed and its folded duvet and instead made directly for the writing desk pushed under the room’s only window. Grabbing a quill, ink, and paper, he settled himself in front of the dying embers of the previous night’s fire and began the tedious task of changing the schedule he had worked so hard on, cursing Rowan all the while.
He had no valid reason to believe the contest’s change was her fault, but a sneaking suspicion told him that somehow, she was the reason for his misery.
No doubt she would be delighted to think so, he grumbled to himself.