Page 29 of A Tartan Love (The Earls of Cairnfell #1)

Kingswell House

Aberdeenshire, Scotland

T wo hours later, the guests convened on a long stretch of grass behind the house.

Isla found herself walking beside the other young ladies, all of whom bounced with excitement over the impending shooting competition.

Miss Crowley was in particular alt. “Look! My hands tremble from exhilaration, and the gentlemen have yet to begin.”

Isla stood to one side as the former soldiers sat on stools, assessing and preparing their weapons and shot.

In addition to the three officers, both Gray and Lord Milmouth intended to try their hands at shooting targets.

Sir John Forsyth had begged off participating, claiming a dodgy shoulder, but still appeared eager to watch the contest.

Lord Milmouth was directing servants to set up the shooting range .

Gray watched everything with equanimity, hands clasped behind his back as he spoke with Sir John.

A footman stood behind the gentlemen, a rifle for the duke leaning against his shoulder.

Heaven forfend that Isla’s brother dirty his person with the mechanics of preparing a weapon. That was a job for servants.

She longed to roll her eyes.

The three officers had changed into their uniforms. Isla had never seen the uniform of the 95th Rifles. She was unsure what she had expected, but the somber green of their attire was not it. The entire uniform was green—from trousers to coat to trim to the top of their tall, conical hats.

Didn’t British soldiers typically wear red-and-white uniforms? They were called “redcoats” for a reason, after all.

Miss Forsyth had the same question, which Captain Ross happily answered.

“Aye, ye do have the right of it, Miss Forsyth. Generally, army soldiers do wear red.” He sighted down his rifle.

“But we Rifles creep in advance of the main body of troops and disable enemy officers before engaging in the field. The green of our uniforms helps us blend into the forest and shrubs, aiding our stealth.”

Oh.

That sounded . . .

Isla swallowed.

Disable ? Surely, he meant eliminate . And aiding our stealth seemed a more pleasant way of saying, ensuring we were difficult to see and kill .

Her eyes strayed to Captain Balfour. The uniform was close-cut, accentuating the ridiculous breadth of his shoulders and the strength of his arms. He lifted his rifle to his eye, sighting down the barrel with practiced ease.

As if he had done so a thousand times or more. Which . . . he probably had.

She hated this—witnessing the actions that had changed her Tavish into Captain Balfour. She hated knowing the suffering and terror and slaughter—the repetitive actions, again and again—that formed him into this aloof, stern soldier.

Most importantly, she hated that he had chosen this. He chose to leave her and enlist in the army. He chose to join the Rifles. He chose to become this . . . this calculating warrior .

Isla looked away to the surrounding trees before Gray caught her staring.

Like its grand counterparts south of the border, the landscape of Kingswell House was an elegant combination of natural beauty and deliberately curated wilderness.

The lawn stretched into the distance, a long rectangular strip.

To the left, a row of pine trees rimmed the grass.

To the right, the lawn ran into a lake of deliberate design.

The water’s even bank and charming center island—complete with a miniature gothic-arched folly—proclaimed the whole to be man-made.

The architect, likely some protégé of Inigo Jones, had even constructed a lovely wooden bridge to connect the bank with the island.

The bridge arched high over the water, its picturesque wooden railing covered in clinging moss.

But despite borrowing elements from estates farther south, no one would mistake this for English scenery.

The mountains quickly rose to the west, looming over the small glen.

Instead of oaks or beech, Scots pines with prickly needles and wide-spreading branches towered overhead.

If England’s hills and valleys murmured a polite “How do you do?”, Scotland’s glens and granite cliffs brandished a dirk and barked, “ Och , what ye be doin’ on ma land? !”

The countryside here would never be a genteel, well-mannered thing.

The officers stood up, rifles in hand, their preparations complete.

Lord Milmouth finished directing a pair of grooms to set up a wooden target a good one hundred and fifty yards down the lawn.

A square piece of paper with an inked circle drawn in the middle fluttered on the target.

Nearby, spare sheets of foolscap rested on a small table, a rock on top to prevent them from blowing away.

Miss Crowley and Miss Anne Forsyth clapped in eagerness.

“I am utterly breathless with anticipation,” Miss Crowley said, hands clasped to her ample bosom. Isla was beginning to think the motion deliberate. What better way to direct a gentleman’s attention to said bosom?

Captain Balfour sent the girl a fleeting smile that set her to blushing. Isla gritted her teeth.

Ridiculous.

Lord Milmouth waved from down the field that all was ready and began walking toward them, feet striding wide as he paced the lawn. He stopped before reaching the gentlemen .

“Fifty paces,” his lordship called and directed a groom to place a marker.

His lordship repeated the process, coming closer to them. “One hundred paces.”

A groom placed a marker.

Lord Milmouth paced out three more markers—one hundred and fifty, two hundred, and two hundred and fifty paces.

“Do we need more than this?” his lordship asked as he rejoined their group.

Colonel Archer shrugged. “Let us see how we get on. I know Balfour is frighteningly accurate, even at three hundred paces.”

Three hundred yards? Isla thought. Though she didn’t wish to doubt Captain Balfour’s abilities, most of her sided with Gray. How was such a feat even possible?

“Grayburn.” Colonel Archer nodded to Isla’s brother. “We shall give you the first go.”

“Thank you.” For his part, Gray shrugged out of his greatcoat and tight-fitting tailcoat, handing them to the waiting footman who, in turn, then handed him the prepared rifle.

“Ladies, you would be advised to back up and give the gentlemen space. We should hate for any accidents to occur. The bridge shall give you a decent vantage point and is about halfway along our shooting gallery.” Lord Milmouth pointed to the arched bridge over the lake and the steps leading to it.

“Also, I brought this to assist you in verifying our aim.” He handed a spyglass to Isla. The metal barrel felt cold in her hand.

With gasps of excitement, Miss Crowley and Miss Anne Forsyth all but ran to the bridge. Isla and Miss Forsyth followed in a more decorous fashion.

By the time Isla gained the bridge, the men had walked up to the closest mark—fifty paces. Squinting, Isla noted that the sheet of paper tacked to the target had the number fifty written across the top in black letters.

Ah.

So they were to use a different target sheet for each range, likely comparing the accuracy between distances .

Gray lifted the gun to his shoulder and took time to line up the shot before pressing the trigger. The gun bucked in his hands, a sharp crack ringing out.

Isla lifted the spyglass to her eye, bringing the target into close focus. A hole punctured the foolscap just outside the black center. A groom darted forward and wrote on the target with a pencil—a letter G, it appeared—indicating where Gray’s shot had landed.

Isla handed the spyglass to Miss Forsyth, indicating the ladies should cycle through turns just as the gentlemen did.

Lord Milmouth was next. His shot landed on the edge of the black circle.

Captain Ross shot, his bullet piercing the target dead center.

Everyone clapped, and even Gray lifted an impressed eyebrow.

The grooms marked the location and then placed a tuft of cotton in the hole, stopping it up.

“Oh! The cotton will show the men if the next shooter hits the center, as well,” Miss Anne Forsyth said.

As if hearing her words as a challenge, Colonel Archer took aim and fired. His shot knocked the cotton plug out of the hole, enlarging it and shaking the foolscap. Once again, grooms marked the shooter and stuffed the center of the target with another bit of cotton.

Then Captain Balfour stepped up.

“Do you think he truly is as excellent a shot as Colonel Archer supposes?” Miss Crowley asked, leaning forward, gaze expectant and eager. She handed the spyglass back to Isla.

“We shall see,” Miss Forsyth said.

Unlike the other gentlemen who had taken several seconds to line up and calculate their shots, Captain Balfour lifted the rifle to his shoulder, sighted, and fired in one fluid motion, as if the rifle were nothing more than an extension of his arm.

Crack!

It seemed impossible that such insouciance could result in accuracy, and yet . . .

The bit of cotton covering the hole in the center of the target evaporated, the paper not so much as fluttering.

“Oh, gracious!” Miss Crowley exclaimed .

Isla peered through the spyglass. Captain Balfour’s bullet had indeed only struck the cotton plug, passing cleanly through the hole left by his comrades’ bullets.

Such precision was . . . impressive.

Isla lowered the spyglass, passing it to the other ladies. Her heart hammered like thundering hooves in her chest while her mind scrambled to reconcile the boy she had loved with this . . . this . . . competent, focused soldier.

The men reloaded and backed up to the marker for one hundred paces.

The scene repeated itself. Gray’s shot went a little wider, as did Lord Milmouth’s. The three officers shot dead center again.

At one hundred and fifty yards, the differences between the military officers and the others became more pronounced. Gray’s shot barely hit the target and pasted a scowl on his face. Lord Milmouth missed altogether.