eyes glittered over her, frankly assessing, sweeping sensually down from her curiously coloured hair to the rounded toes of her leather boots. A slow-burning coil of delight ignited in her stomach, but she quashed it away smartly.
‘Oh, what a surprise!’ she taunted him, trying to appear confident, although reedlike fear quaked her voice. ‘I suppose I should expect nothing less from the likes of you! Have you come to finish what your soldiers started?!’
Benois glared at her in disbelief, then threw back his head and roared with laughter. ‘You think I’m interested in bedding the likes of you? A common wench from the fields with barely an ounce of padding on her? You couldn’t be more wrong!’ He surveyed her coolly, tucking the arrow she had filched back into his belt. ‘I was merely thinking that, if I let you go, the first thing you’ll do is run out there and tell them who I am!’
‘Oh!’ Tavia’s face reddened slightly as she smarted from his insult. Taking a deep breath, she tried to recover her equilibrium. ‘Nay, you’re wrong. I’ll just carry on as if nothing has happened.’ She nibbled on a nail.
‘You expect me to believe that?’ he countered wryly.
‘You have to.’ Tavia took one pace closer to him. ‘You see, I have to take part in that contest.’
‘Why?’ he demanded, his attention snared by the rounded slenderness of her hips emphasised by the narrow fit of her braies. How could he ever have mistaken this maid for a lad?
‘Because I need to become a crossbow man for the King’s army,’ she replied, exasperated. ‘And if you don’t let me go now, I’ll miss my chance!’
Amusement bubbled in his chest at the severity of her expression, and he sighed deeply, narrowing his eyes to scrutinise her slim frame. Did the maid really think she could get away with something like this? That she could best a man in a contest? ‘Then I suppose I’ll have to trust you,’ he said. ‘But you’ll have to promise that you won’t give the game away.’
Tavia was already nodding. ‘I swear.’
‘You’d better put this back on, then.’ He reached around to pull her hood back over her head, his fingers grazing her cheek with a touch of fire. ‘It might increase your fortune.’ He didn’t sound hopeful.
‘I don’t need fortune,’ she shot back. ‘I rely on my skill.’
He raised one dark brown eyebrow at her boast. ‘I’m glad you hold yourself in such high esteem,’ he murmured. Hands on her shoulders, he pushed her gently out of the stables. She blinked in the daylight.
‘And remember, if you break your promise,’ he whispered softly in her ear, his breath caressing her skin, ‘you’ll have me to deal with. And believe me, it would not be a pleasant experience.’
Hands still shaking from her encounter with that barbarian, Tavia took her place once more in the queue shuffling slowly forward over the damp, slippery cobbles. She deliberately kept her head lowered, staring resolutely at the toes of her leather boots, unwilling to give Benois le Vallieres, should he still be watching her, any reason that she would give him away. She prayed ardently that the Scottish guards would have enough intelligence to stop him at the gate, and question him as to his identity, but, with a sinking heart, she knew Benois le Vallieres would outwit them.
When her turn came, she strode up to the rope line, slinging her crossbow forwards from the back of her shoulders, and pulling an arrow from the leather satchel at her waist. Placing one arrow carefully in the central groove of the bow, she raised the sights to the target, trying to keep her breathing slow and steady. Releasing the catch underneath with a slow squeeze of her fingers, the arrow flew straight and true, hitting the red circle painted in the centre of the target. The crowd cheered; there had not been many that morning who had managed to shoot so well.
Tavia glanced up at the dais, searching for some sign of approval from the royal observers, and saw the young King clapping, smiling at her. Lord Ferchar, the regent, rose to his feet, motioning for her to go and stand with the other men who had come through this first contest. As she nodded at him, she realised with a jolt that he meant for her to come and join him on the dais. Fetching her arrow and climbing the few wooden steps on to the platform, she hoped that Benois le Vallieres was not watching. He might think that she was about to break her promise to him.
‘You shoot well, young man.’ Ferchar, his grey hair grizzled and straggling, came forwards, as Tavia bowed low to the royal party.
‘Thank you, my lord,’ Tavia said hesitantly, unsure whether she was allowed to speak or whether she had to wait until someone asked her a direct question.
Ferchar curled his lips into a tight smile, and continued. ‘Unfortunately, what has escaped most people’s notice has not escaped mine.’ A sharp gust of wind sent the colourful flags that decorated the dais flapping erratically. Tavia wrapped her arms about her as an icy coldness engulfed her body.
‘Oh?’ Her voice emerged as a croak.
‘The fact that you’re a maid,’ replied Ferchar, reaching up with gnarled fingers to flip her hood back. King Malcolm gasped audibly, half-rising from his wooden chair, all thoughts of watching the contest forgotten.
‘Look! Ferchar, she looks just like…’ The end of Malcolm’s sentence trailed into insignificance as he appraised Tavia’s slender proportions.
‘I know,’ Ferchar replied.
Tavia remained silent. She hadn’t the faintest idea what they were talking about.
‘It’s your hair,’ Ferchar continued. ‘Well, there are other things as well, but it’s mainly your hair.’
‘I can cut it off,’ she gabbled in response. ‘I’ll blend in with the soldiers; they won’t even suspect that I’m a maid.’ She couldn’t let her mother die!
‘Why would you want to do that?’ Ferchar rapped out. ‘Nay, you mistake me, girl. There’s something I’d like to ask you. A favour, if you will.’
Tavia nodded, wanting him to continue. Malcolm, his round face jovial, smiled encouragingly at her, although it was obvious that he had no more idea than she about what Lord Ferchar would say next.
‘As a maid, you could never be in the King’s army, you know that.’
Tavia shuffled uncomfortably.
‘But there is something you could do for us.’ Ferchar raked his arrogant gaze over the threadbare state of her clothes. ‘And we would pay you handsomely, more than a humble bowman.’
‘Tell me,’ she whispered, a flicker of hope springing to her breast. Maybe it wasn’t such a bad thing that she had been discovered after all.
‘First of all, who was that man who carried you off?’ Ferchar glanced down into the bailey, as if trying to catch sight of him. ‘Was he your husband?’
‘Aye,’ she lied easily. ‘He didn’t want me to go ahead with the contest.’
Ferchar laughed, the smile not quite reaching his eyes. ‘Quite right. A man should assert his marital rights. But if he hadn’t caused such a diversion I might not have noticed you.’
She clasped her hands
