Chapter Eleven

Gwen carefully stretched and took stock of her surroundings. Beautifully stitched canopy, soft bedding, and the smell of something roasting mixed with peat moss; she knew immediately where she was. She rarely had any issue remembering where she was when she awoke in a new place; perhaps it was due to all her travels, or maybe it was just part of her DNA. But, after many sleepovers with Ellie—who forgot where she was when she woke up in her own flat, much less if she woke up in a strange location—Gwen was grateful for the small blessing.

She briefly wondered if her friend still had that problem when she was with Colin. For the past couple of months, Ellie had seemed calmer and more even-keeled than ever, though she couldn’t quite overcome her clumsy tendencies. Ellie had always been a quiet, steadfast, sweet person, but with Colin by her side, she was a brighter, more vibrant version of herself.

Gwen thought that might be what love looked like.

Her stomach clenched. If Reilly did have real feelings for her, and not just a passing fancy, what would that mean? Aside from the fact that she didn’t understand why he would want to make a life with her, after all he told her the other night. He all but admitted he had already found his soul mate, for crying out loud. And Gwen thought soul mates were a one-and-done deal. And because he found his soul mate, could he even love another person? She didn’t really know. Maybe that’s why he held everyone at arm’s length.

But not her. Never her, except for in those early days when she foolishly threw herself at him over and over. When she did so, he’d shut down swiftly, but not absolutely. He easily could’ve written her off as a silly young woman with too many romantic notions in her head, but instead, he fostered their closeness. He made it a point to talk with her often. He spoke with her about everything, and by his own admission, he didn’t often speak so openly with any of his cousins, with whom he was as close as brothers. The ins and outs of his days, his frustration with a family member, the thousand small victories when he was woodworking—he came to her with all of it.

Why her?

Perhaps Reilly had lost his chance with his soul mate. Perhaps she hadn’t claimed him back. If that was the case, Gwen wondered, would she be willing to live a life with Reilly anyway, knowing that he loved another woman more fully than Gwen loved him?

Her questions weren’t going to answer themselves, and though she wasn’t quite ready to confront Reilly with them, she could feel her courage building. She’d get there, eventually.

It just wasn’t going to be today.

She was also keenly aware that while Reilly readily showed her one side of himself, there was another, more uncivilized side. The last time they’d been in the Middle Ages, she remained at the castle while Colin, Reilly, and a slew of others headed off on a rescue mission. He’d come back covered in large, damp, dark, reddish-brown spots. His sword was caked with dirt and grime, and his forehead was smeared with dried blood. He’d assured her that none of the spots on his clothing were his blood, and he’d redirected her attention to her friend, who had needed her very badly at the time.

Gwen never let herself think of what Reilly actually did whilst he was about the business of saving Ellie. But now, she’d seen for herself what he was capable of; he’d slain a man. One minute, the guy was having a chat, and the next, he was lifeless on the ground.

She felt the bile rise up again, but she forced it to stay down and swiftly tucked the memory into a box in the deepest recesses of her mind. She locked it in the same area labeled Venezuela, then decided she needed some fortification.

Swinging her legs over the side of the surprisingly comfortable mattress, Gwen’s feet found the lamb’s wool floor covering. She dug her toes in, relishing the softness, and glanced around her. Mary’s bed was empty and fully made. All of the walls were chalk-white, and the ceiling above her canopied bed was the thatch of the roof. She’d read once that the bed hangings were originally to catch any vermin that would fall from the thatch, preventing a nasty wakeup in the middle of the night.

She strongly hoped that her bed hangings were for decorative purposes only.

The room itself wasn’t quite cold, but a draft from the thatch drifted down to her. She hurried toward the clothing at the other end of the house and saw with relief that a gown of forest green had already been laid out. She quickly changed, grateful the laces were in the front, and realized with a start that the dress had been tailored to fit her.

Baffled, she slipped her shoes on and cautiously made her way down the staircase and into the kitchen, where a delicious warmth and smell emitted from the large hearth. Mary stood, stirring something in a large kettle, and greeted her with a sunny smile.

“Gwendolyn, good morning! Reilly will be back in a moment. He’s gathering my eggs, the good lad. He always insists on doing the chores when he’s home.”

“He’s a good man,” Gwen replied, accepting a steaming cup from her. She looked into it. Oatmeal? Maybe. She didn’t care; she was hungry. But first…“Um, where’s the gardrobe?”

“Oh, we don’t have one. We’ve chamber pots in the rooms and Finn—that’s Reilly’s da, God rest his soul—built a little house a ways away. Reilly calls it an outhouse. That lad and his future words.” She chuckled, and her dark eyes twinkled. “Anyway, it’s out the back, to the right. You’ll see it. I’ll keep your porridge warm.”

Gwen thanked her and gratefully handed her back the cup. She went in search of the outhouse, and, after taking care of her needs, she headed back toward the house, only to almost run fully into Reilly’s chest.

“Good morning, Gwendolyn. Sleep alright?”

She immediately noticed the lines around his eyes were tight; a sure sign that his guard was up. While Gwen could usually read him like an open book, when he shuttered himself, even she couldn’t penetrate his self-made fortress.

“I did, thanks. Any ideas where the dress came from?”

He smiled. “Aye. My mother altered it last night for you.”

Gwen sighed with jealousy. “I wish I could sew like that. She got my size almost exactly right!”

“She’s a master seamstress. She’s one of the tapestry weavers for the laird, and she sells some of her work. It’s what supports her out here. The nearest house is almost two kilometers away.” He handed her a basket with some eggs, then picked up two buckets filled with milk.

“So just her and your sister live out here?”

“Well, it turns out my sister married a few weeks ago.”

“You sound a little put out by that,” Gwen noted. “Did you want to attend her wedding?”

He shook his head. “Nay, I’m not upset by that. But the Fates have changed things. I’ve visited my sister in her future, and in that visit, she…” He looked heavenward. “She never married.”

“Whoa,” Gwen breathed. “They can change the past?”

“I didn’t think so. But it seems they can.”

“Can they change the future, too?”

Reilly frowned. “I’ve no idea.” He shook himself a little and looked ahead to the house. “But now it’s just my mam. I’m going to have speech with her about moving closer to the castle for protection. It was dangerous for the two of them to be out here, but it’s even more dangerous for a woman living alone.”

They reentered the kitchen together, and Reilly put the milk on the floor by the hearth while Gwen placed the basket on the center island. They brought the bowls of porridge to the table and sat down to eat together.

“What do you want to do today, lass?”

The question from Reilly had Gwen raising her eyebrow. “This is your show, Ry. I’ve no idea what’s available.”

“The final harvest finished just this past moon,” Mary offered. “The village games start today.”

Gwen’s eyes lit up. “Village games? What does that mean?”

Reilly answered. “They’re a celebration. In your time, it’s called Mabon. It’s the autumnal equinox, and here, it’s an important point in the year when we have one more night by the light of a full moon to finish the harvest. Once that happens, a week of celebration and games are held by the clan in the village center.”

“Aye, the games are a sight. It’s a time when the men show their strength, and the laird chooses new guardsmen to bring to his castle,” Mary added.

“What kind of games do they play?”

Reilly pushed his empty trencher away from him and sat back slowly. “Games of strength and warrior skill, mostly.”

“Like the Highland Games?” she asked excitedly. “I saw those one year in New York. It was crazy, these guys were lobbing telephone poles!”

Mary look intrigued. “Pray tell, what are telephone poles?”

“Never you mind,” Reilly muttered. To Gwen, he replied, “’Tis much different than those games. There are sword fighting competitions, wrestling, archery, and strength tests. Arm wrestling, if you can believe it. Endurance challenges, too. But the highlights are the songs and poetry.”

“Really?” Gwen asked skeptically.

“Aye,” Mary confirmed. “The celebration reconnects us to our ancestors, and we do that through our storytellers.”

“While the prize for the strength contestants is to become part of the garrison, the prize for storytellers is the equivalent of one year’s salary and an invitation to the castle to entertain important visitors,” Reilly informed her. “’Tis a great honor, bestowed to only one.”

“Oh, let’s definitely go to this.” She rubbed her hands together. “Can women enter any of the contests?”

“Aye, though we’re not allowed to join the castle garrison if we win,” Mary replied, gathering their trenchers. “Do you care to try your hand at something, lass?”

Gwen shrugged. “I wouldn’t say no if there was something that interested me.”

Mary beamed at her, then carried the dishes to the hearth. At Reilly’s pointed look, Gwen shrugged, bemused. “What? I wouldn’t.”

“You would say nay if I said not to, aye?” he prompted.

She grimaced. “Right. Or if you said not to.”

“Good answer,” he murmured, so only she could hear. “The rules, Gwen. ’Tis for your safety.”

“Then we shall go,” Mary declared, bustling back over to them. “Your dress is too fine for the games. You’ll need something else.”

Gwen waited as Mary pondered, then reflexively smiled when Mary’s face brightened. “Ah, yes! The cobalt dress.”

“Blue?” Gwen replied dubiously. She fingered a lock of her hair. “I think it’ll clash with my hair.”

Mary frowned. “Clash? Do you mean mismatch?” At Gwen’s nod, Mary tsked. “Think of a fire. The hottest part of the flames is blue, and the cooler parts tend to be a blend of colors, including the exact shade of your hair. They all work together in nature; why wouldn’t they work on you?”

“Listen to her,” Reilly advised. “She’s not a master seamstress without merit.”

“I’ll wear whatever you want me to wear,” Gwen replied, unsure. “It’ll just be new for me, that’s all.”

A few moments later, Mary had the dress downstairs and was holding it against Gwen, as Gwen studied herself in the smooth mirror on the wall.

“I had no idea I could wear this color,” she breathed. “I always thought it’d make my hair look more orange.”

“Nay, not at all.” Mary smoothed her hand over Gwen’s long tresses and placed them over her shoulder against the material. “’Tisn’t it a wondrous thing when we give a second chance to something we thought was a lost cause?”

It took everything Gwen had not to scan the room for Reilly; instead, she merely inclined her head. “Yes,” she agreed quietly. “It certainly is.”

• • •

Gwen watched in wide-eyed wonder as ten men grunted, sweated, and fought to tug a massive rope. A small ribbon marked the center, and it flapped in the wind as each team tried to move it over their line, which was drawn in the grass using the tip of someone’s sword. The rope was thicker than both Reilly’s wrists, and all Gwen could think was how those warriors must be getting the worst kind of rope burn.

“What do they get if they win, again?”

Reilly winced as one of the men slipped and fell. The contestant recovered quickly, though, and his team was able to hold steady. “Bragging rights, for certain. And a silver coin each.”

“Who pays the winners? The laird?” Gwen wondered.

“Aye. He is generous,” Mary replied, with obvious delight at the game playing out. Another man on the same team slipped, and this time, the other team was able to yank the ribbon over their line. Cheers, swears, and a fistfight broke out almost immediately.

“Let’s see what we’ve got over here,” Reilly said, herding the women away from the spectacle. “Today’s events happen all day long; each team or competitor continue until there is but a single winner. From what others are saying, today we have the rope tug, the anvil throw, swordplay, and trick sword fighting.”

“Ooh, trick sword fighting! What’s that?” she asked, intrigued.

Reilly looked above the crowd, his eyes searching. “It’s where a magician comes in and waves his magic wand over the swords. Then they up and fight themselves.”

“Oh, listen not to him,” Mary chided. “He jests. Trick sword fighting is for the children; it’s done with wooden swords instead of steel. Because the balance is different, it makes sword play a bit less…”

“Exciting?” Reilly chimed in.

“Dangerous,” Mary finished. “I’ll remind you it’s for the younger lads to try their hand at swordplay.”

“Oh, that sounds cute!” Gwen exclaimed. “I think it’ll be fun. Let’s check it out!”

Reilly capitulated easily, probably because his mother and Gwen were insistent. Gwen noticed the way the other members of the clan greeted Reilly and were slightly deferential to Mary. She seemed to have a deep respect from the clan; Gwen wondered how much of that was due to her tapestry work, and how much was due to her son.

Reilly stayed close to them both, shielding them from the press of the crowd when it became too intense. Everywhere she looked, Gwen saw villagers, dressed in their daily garb, cheering on their loved ones.

They watched the boys, who seemed to be around seven or eight years old, parry with the wooden swords. The winner of the day, it was promised, would have his very own sword made of steel; with such reward, the boys fought hard. Reilly, Gwen, and Mary didn’t stay to see whom the final winner was, but there were a few definitive front runners.

“Did you ever participate in these?” Gwen asked Reilly as he bought her a pasty from one of the food stalls.

“Aye.”

Mary puffed up with pride. “He not only took part, he won every game he entered! ’Twas a wondrous sight to behold. When he was but six, he won his own steel sword. When he was eight, he threw a lead ball further than any of the grown men! And the anvil toss—”

“What’s that?” Gwen interrupted, fascinated.

“Mam,” Reilly tried to put an end to her maternal bragging, but she hushed him with a wave of her hand.

“The anvil toss is just over there. See those beams set up, with the beam across them?”

Gwen stood on her tiptoes and looked in the direction Mary was pointing. Two tall poles stood with a bar across them, about a third of the way up, looking almost like a giant H in the middle of the events field.

“I see it!”

“My Reilly,” Mary boasted, “stood at just ten years old and put the other competitors to shame! You see, lass, you must stand with your back to the beams. Then, you reach down, lift an anvil weighing your own weight, and toss it up and over your head. If it clears the beam, it’s a successful throw.” She beamed. “Reilly was the only one to clear it!”

“Is there anything you can’t do?” Gwen smirked at his discomfort.

He noticed the smirk and smirked right back at her. “At these games? Probably not.”

“He’s not the best with a bow and arrow.”

“Mam!” Reilly exclaimed with a good-natured laugh. He turned to Gwen, his eyes twinkling. “Don’t listen to her. Though I’ll admit, I’m much better with swords and jousting.”

“So there is something I could beat you at,” she teased.

He raised a brow. “Think you?”

She folded her arms and raised her own eyebrows (both of them, as she couldn’t do just the one, no matter how hard she tried). “I do.”

“Lass, I said he wasn’t the best with a bow and arrow,” Mary said worriedly. “He won that game as well.”

“You said earlier that women participate in these games?” Gwen looked at Mary for confirmation, and at her nod, Gwen grinned. “Perfect.”

Suddenly, someone shouted, “Mary!”

The three of them swiveled their heads toward the man calling out her name, and Mary flushed. “’Tis the laird.”

“Go on, we shall wait for you here,” Reilly encouraged her. Mary quickly headed over to the man, who looked more than a little fierce.

“He’s scary,” she remarked.

Reilly guffawed. “Darragh? Nay, he’s a lamb. At least when it comes to my mother.”

Gwen’s eyes grew round and she looked up at Reilly. “Do you mean that he likes her?”

“He’s proposed to her no less than twice a year for the last five years.”

Gwen’s mouth dropped open. “Why has she refused him?”

“She claimed she and Sorcha had everything they needed.” His brow furrowed. “But now, with Sorcha married…mayhap she’s a bit lonely?”

“Perhaps she’ll agree, if for nothing more than companionship,” Gwen agreed. She frowned. “Wait a second. If she agrees, does that change the past you know?”

“Damn those Fates.”

Gwen’s heart constricted at his bleak expression. She needed to distract him. Thinking fast, she turned fully to him with a cheeky grin. “So, since you’re basically the reigning Mr. Medieval—”

He flexed his bicep. “Medieval is so restrictive. Throw the word Modern in there, too. It’ll be more fully representative.”

“Oh, you’re so arrogant,” she scoffed, laughing. “Back home you’re so far from earning that title, it’s laughable.”

“Is it now?” he asked, his eyes glittering dangerously. He took a step toward her, and she restrained the smile pulling at her lips. “Who could possibly take that title, if not me?”

“Well, your competition includes Chris Hemsworth—”

“That Australian actor who played the god in your superhero movie?” he exclaimed. “His accent was terrible.”

“No way, it was sexy. And he’s a god,” she added, just to get under his skin.

“I’ll have him as my competition then. So far, I win.”

“You also are up against Hugh Jackman. I mean, hello, male perfection. He’s also been married for what, twenty years? That’s dedication and loyalty. He’s adopted children, does loads of charity work, looks amazing without a shirt…”

“You seem to enjoy the Aussies,” Ry replied darkly.

“Aye,” she mocked in his accent, “though I be likin’ yer Irish lads Colin Farrell and Liam Neeson as well.”

He growled at her, and she squealed as he grabbed for her. She avoided him once, but he caught her with his second attempt and hauled her against him. “Makin’ craic av me accent, aye?”

His breath fanned over her, and her heartbeat picked up. His body heat seared through her gown, sensitizing her flesh. His hard body, honed by so much more than a gym, combined with the indefinable scent that was intrinsically Reilly threw Gwen’s hormones into overdrive.

With her intense and unexpected reaction to his nearness, Gwen’s traitorous knees did what they’d never before done. They gave out on her.

Reilly caught her before she fell fully, and he lifted her, clasping her against his chest, so that they were almost eye-to-eye.

Oh, why did he have to smell so good? It should’ve been impossible, because they were in medieval Ireland, and the other people didn’t smell nearly so nice, and he had bathed that morning outside in the freezing creek…where could he possibly have gotten a bar of soap that didn’t smell like the one she used? And was it her imagination, or had the yellow flecks in his eyes turned a deep golden color? His gaze was hooded, but when her eyes met his, the connection between them surged to life. A spark, almost tangible, crackled the small amount of air between their faces. Her insides pooled, and her entire body softened, as though it didn’t care what her mind told it, as it wanted Reilly.

She wanted Reilly.

He released her slowly, sliding her down his body. His nostrils flared slightly, and his eyes focused on her lips. She didn’t step back when her feet reached the ground; if anything, she pressed herself further into him. The world shrank to just the two of them; nothing existed but the moment. She forgot to breathe, forgot to blink…she forgot everything, except Reilly O’Malley, and the golden flecks of his irises, and his strong arms encircling her waist, holding her where she most wanted to be.

Her breasts felt heavy, and her arms ached to slide up his and twine themselves around his neck. Her fingers flexed on his forearms, and she just barely stopped herself.

“Gwendolyn.” His voice, merely a whisper, was laced with something that echoed her own thoughts.

She watched him, mesmerized, unsure what was going to come out of his mouth. Silent, crushing hope flared in her heart, while her mind called it ten times the fool.

“Sir Reilly!”

Gwen blinked then, shaking herself out of spell, embarrassment flooding her. Oh God oh God oh God. No. I can’t go through this again. The rejection. It was a sure thing. And hadn’t she promised herself she wasn’t going to feel this way anymore? Nope, nope, triple nope. She was moving on with her life.

Yet no matter how many times she had that thought, her unruly heart wouldn’t pay the words any heed.

Reilly smoothly extricated himself from her and turned to face Mary, who was hurrying toward them from behind the laird as they pushed through the crowd to get to them. The laird spoke in rapid-fire Gaelic, slapping Reilly on the back multiple times as he spoke. Reilly nodded a few times, then responded and gestured to Gwen.

“Oh, forgive me, lass. I’m no’ one to accept the English, but as you’re with Sir Reilly, that’s to be overlooked, of course. I’ll speak in your tongue so as to not upset your beau.” The laird patted her hand, and she tried to smile at him, though she was sure her face looked more like a contorted mess of uncertainty than delight.

Apparently done with her, the laird turned his attention back to Reilly. “I’ve been asking yer mam to marry me for years. Claims she’s useless as she doesna want any more bairns. But I’ve got me three sons, so what do I need more bairns for? Nothing, I tell her. So now that Sorcha is settled, she’s agreed to be me wife, with yer blessing.”

Reilly looked at his mother seriously. “I’ll need speech with you first, Mam.”

Mary nodded meekly, and Gwen’s BS radar went on full alert. Mary didn’t strike her as someone who would be meek about anything, much less about her decision to marry.

“Do excuse us, my laird.” Reilly nearly dragged Mary away, and Gwen followed, unwilling to be left with the English-hating laird, no matter how nice Mary claimed him to be.

“This is what you want?” Reilly demanded.

Mary lifted her chin a notch. “Well, he’s been asking long enough. Makes me think he’s serious.”

Gwen couldn’t help the giggle that escaped.

“Oh, you find this humorous?” Reilly snapped, though there wasn’t any heat to his words.

Gwen ignored him. “Mary, do you love him?”

Mary looked over at Darragh, who was unabashedly watching them. “Perhaps.”

“He’ll provide great security,” Reilly conceded. “You’ll move into the castle, so there’s that. And your position would be greatly elevated. Lady of the clan; you’re well-suited to it.” He lapsed into a slew of Gaelic, and Mary simply continued to nod thoughtfully.

“Will you be safe if you don’t marry him?” Gwen asked, concerned.

“Well, aye, of course,” Mary replied, a bit taken aback at the vehemence in Gwen’s tone.

She pressed, “Ok, so perhaps you love him. That’s the only thing to consider, right? Because if you don’t…well, just be sure.”

Mary blinked. “At this point in my life, lass, love isn’t the most important thing—”

“Don’t marry him if you don’t love him,” Gwen interrupted desperately, grasping the woman’s hands. “Don’t settle if you don’t have to. You’re worthy of love. Great love. We all are, right? I mean, too many women have to marry someone just to find that peace you’ve already found. Don’t throw that away for greener grass!”

Mary stared at her, and Gwen watched as understanding dawned on her face. “Aye, lass, I ken your words. I ken.”

Gwen nodded, her eyes filling with tears, though she didn’t understand why. Or maybe she did.

She didn’t know anymore.

Mary looked at Reilly, though she still held Gwen’s hands. “Aye, Reilly. This is what I want.” She looked back at Gwen. “I had my happiness with my first husband. When he died, a piece of me died, too. But Reilly’s da, he knew what he was about. He told me to wait until my heart healed, for heal it would. And so I sat, in my little cottage, waiting.” She patted Gwen’s cheek. “I’ve waited long enough. I vowed I wouldn’t settle for something less than everything.” She leaned in and whispered, “Don’t wait as long as I did, Gwendolyn. But don’t make anyone make you settle, either.”

Gwen nodded, a slight movement that barely registered for anyone watching.

“Then of course you have my blessing. My lady,” he added with a grin. Mary headed back over to the laird, leaving them alone again.

“Greener grass?”

Gwen stared at Mary’s retreating form, her mind a million miles away. “She’s a wise woman, your mother.”

“Aye.”

• • •

Reilly still wasn’t sure how he ended up with a bow in his hand. Gwen stood a few feet away from him, also holding a bow, and she seemed not ill-at-ease with it.

Curious.

“Why did I agree to this?” he asked again, drawing an arrow from the quiver on his back. He inspected it, decided it was straight, and nocked it.

“You didn’t,” she informed him, smoothing her fingers over the string of her bow. She nodded, satisfied, then glanced at him. “I merely wanted to see you try your hand at archery, after your mother exposed it as the one thing you might not be amazing at.”

“There are but few things I’m ‘not amazing at.’ But there’s no need for me to put on a show about them,” he grumbled.

“Oh, relax. No one is even paying attention to us.”

That, at least, was true. Archery wasn’t set to begin until after the noontime meal, and the archery site stood empty. At Gwen’s insistence, Reilly reluctantly procured arrows and bows for them both.

He got the impression that Gwen thought herself to be a good archer. He didn’t care to trump her, but he truly was an expert-level archer himself. Part of his training with the Fates, they’d ensured he could get out of a tight spot with any weapon. While it wasn’t his favorite weaponry, he wasn’t opposed to its uses, especially when one’s foe was too far away for swords.

“My arrows look straight, and my bow is tight,” Gwen announced. “I think they’ll be fine. You ready to give this a go?”

She looked like a warrior princess, her hair escaping its plaits, the wind blowing her cobalt blue dress around her as though it was encouraging her.

He sighed. “If you’d like, you can simply shoot them all.”

“Afraid I’ll make you look bad?” she asked sympathetically.

He straightened. “Hardly. I don’t care to disabuse you of the notion that you’re any good at this.” When she openly laughed at him, he narrowed his eyes. “Lass, I’ve never even heard you speak of arrows before. What makes you think you’re better at them than me?”

She smiled mysteriously. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

He leaned forward. “What’s your confidence level?”

“Exceptionally high,” she replied without inflection.

“A bet, then. Winner takes all.”

“All what?”

“We shall allow the winner to decide,” he demurred. “We each shoot three arrows into the target. The one with the closest bullseyes wins.”

“Done. But I’ll have to think on what you’ll be giving me when I win.”

His eyes glittered dangerously. “Oh, lass, you’ve no idea what you’re baiting when you boast about things you can’t possibly do.”

She smiled sweetly at him. “Do your worst, O’Malley. Do you need a practice shot before we start?”

He snorted. “Nay, but perhaps that’s your way of letting me know that you do. So, ladies first. Take your practice shot.”

She shrugged, then took up her stance. She nocked her arrow, set up her bow and string, and aimed. She drew the bow back—rather well, he thought with some surprise—and let the arrow fly. It hit a few inches off the bullseye.

“Step aside, and watch how ’tis done,” he said with exaggerated patience.

She barely contained her grin, but he ignored her. He did the same as she did, and landed his arrow significantly closer to the center.

“Last chance to back out,” he warned as they retrieved the arrows.

She pursed her lips. “Reilly, shut your trap. I agreed to this, as did you. Any ideas what you’ll demand if you win?”

“Ah, that’s the way of it,” he replied approvingly. “I also know I’ll win.”

She rolled her eyes and took up her stance again. But this time, Reilly noticed she was a bit more focused. Her head was up, and her shoulders were relaxed. With supreme confidence, she set herself up, then, with precision archers the world over would weep for, she let the arrow fly…into the center of the bullseye.

He stared in shock.

“Would you be a dear and grab that for me?” she asked, trying—no, purposefully failing—to keep the smugness out of her tone. “I’d hate to split that perfectly good arrow with my next shot.”

“You’ve never split an arrow,” Reilly protested.

“Well, no,” she admitted. Then she gave a sly smile. “Rather, the arrow slides in next to it, ruining the wood and sometimes splicing the feather. I hate doing that, too.”

“I don’t believe you,” he declared.

She shrugged. “Okay. But if those guys over there demand someone replace these two arrows, that’s on you.”

“Deal.”

She selected another arrow, and, with frightening accuracy, slid it home next to the other one.

“What the devil…?”

She brushed an imaginary piece of lint off her shoulder, then ruined the effect by grinning at him. “United States Archery Association’s Outdoor Archer of the Year, five years in a row. Youngest ever to hold the title, back in high school and college.”

He gaped at her. “You never mentioned a word of it to me!”

“Guess it never came up.” Smoothly, she shot her third arrow, aiming it slightly to the left of the first two, then gave him an exaggerated bow. “Your turn, Mr. Medieval.”

He clenched his jaw. Carefully, he took his stance, relaxed his shoulders, and picked his chin up slightly. He released his arrow…bullseye. He just barely resisted the urge to pump his fist.

“Excellent shot,” she said approvingly. “Shall I remove the arrow?”

“If you wouldn’t mind,” he replied through gritted teeth. He was going to win if it killed him.

Not because he wanted to beat her, though of course he did. But if he won, his “all” would be to finish what they started earlier. His lips, on hers, where they were meant to be.

He needed to kiss her, and he needed her to want to kiss him back as much as he needed air.

Carefully, he shot his next arrow, and it, too, landed in the bullseye, though it was almost on the line. He wondered…

“If you’re thinking of a tiebreaker in which you distract me, think again,” she called out.

He glowered at her. “Reading minds, are we?”

“Didn’t need to. It was written all over your face.”

He grunted in response, wishing he’d never agreed to this nonsense. But agree he did, so he yanked another arrow out of his quiver.

Gwen, for her part, didn’t try to distract him. She merely watched silently, waiting for him to make the next shot.

He held his stance, the arrow nocked, and an idea came to him. He caught her eye. “What’s your prize, if you win?”

She tapped her chin thoughtfully. “I’m still thinking on it. What’s yours?”

He waggled his eyebrows. “If I hit the center, I’ll show you.”

“If you hit the center, it means we’re tied.”

He huffed out a laugh. “Oh, nay, lass. You roundly beat me when you ruined two arrows. I’ll still show you what I would’ve won.”

She shrugged. “As long as I don’t have to hold a sign reading I’m a loser, okay.”

“I’d never make you wear a sign,” he retorted. He lined up his arrow, pulled back the string, and released.

The arrow hit home, and for possibly the first time in his life, he felt that this was something that wasn’t driven by anything but his own skill. No Fates behind it, no unseen force determining the outcome.

A feeling of elation went through him at the thought.

“Nice shot!” she exclaimed. She retrieved the arrow and brought it over to him. “I figured you’d be good, but—”

He cut her off by sinking his hands into her hair and slanting his lips over hers.

• • •

Reilly was kissing her.

And it wasn’t a mere brushing of lips or tasting of tongues, Gwen dimly noted. It was a branding kiss, searing her soul, fusing her to him like nothing else could.

As soon as the shock of his mouth on hers faded, Gwen surrendered to the kiss. She dropped the arrows in her hand and slid her fingers into his hair, her fingertips exquisitely sensitive to the softness. She dragged her nails against his scalp, pulling him closer, pressing her body flush against his. He slid his arms around her waist and easily lifted her, never breaking their kiss. He fitted his mouth more securely against her lips, lazily swirling his tongue with hers. A fire ignited low in her belly, and she growled, half-desperately. He bit her lip, then sucked it gently, and she lost all semblance of control.

She opened more fully, pouring every ounce of pent-up passion into her response. Years of longing, lifetimes of understanding. This was why she came to Ireland.

He eased back from her, his eyes dark with desire, and Gwen couldn’t contain the tremble that wracked her at his gaze.

“Wow,” she whispered.

His breathing ragged, he placed his forehead against hers. “Feel free to slap me at any time.”

“Why would I do that?”

He closed his eyes. “Many reasons, but the biggest one is perhaps because I probably deserve it.”

“You probably do,” she agreed. Then, gathering her courage, she quietly added, “It’s probably time we spoke about what happened at Bri’s castle.”

He searched her eyes with his for a moment. She felt his chest expand against hers with each breath he took; he held her securely, her arms still looped around his neck. A moment passed, and he inclined his head. “Perhaps it is.”

She swallowed hard, then pressed her lips against his once more.

His eyes showed his surprise, but without hesitation, he obliged willingly, smiling against her mouth.

She closed her eyes and allowed the happiness of the moment to overshadow her fear.