Page 30 of A Tartan Love (The Earls of Cairnfell #1)

Captain Ross and Colonel Archer landed shots within the blackened-out center of the foolscap.

Captain Balfour was the only one to hit the target dead center. Again.

The men walked toward the two-hundred-yard marker, passing the bridge where the ladies stood.

Predictably, Miss Crowley raced down the stairs to speak with them. Isla and the others followed at a more sedate pace.

As they approached, the gentlemen were ribbing Captain Balfour good-naturedly over his bad manners in always besting them.

Gray stomped alongside them, forehead frowning.

Isla found the irritation of his pricked ducal pride rather comical.

Her brother was so used to being the lord of anything and everything he touched.

To be bested so thoroughly by someone else—a Balfour, no less!

the horror!—must be trying his patience.

Isla suppressed a smile.

“Give someone else a chance for once, Balfour!” Captain Ross was saying.

“I can’t help it if your shots are inconsistent, Ross,” Captain Balfour retorted. “Perhaps ye should practice more and laze about less.”

He glanced to the side as Isla approached .

“Your shooting has been remarkable,” Miss Crowley gushed.

“Why, thank you.” Colonel Archer gave a theatrical bow, setting everyone to laughing. His head lifted, and he fixed Isla with a warm smile. “What think you, Lady Isla? Have we wooed you with our shooting prowess?”

He was openly flirting with her, but then, his romantic intentions were hardly a secret. However, it would have been easier to bear without the hot press of Captain Balfour’s gaze.

“Indeed, you have.” Isla blushed, ordering her eyes not to flicker in Captain Balfour’s direction. “To be honest, Colonel, I was unaware my own brother was such an excellent shot. Grayburn has been hiding his talents.”

Isla wasn’t sure if she said the words as a compliment or to further needle her brother. Regardless, Gray gave her a ducal nod of thanks.

“Yes, I wager it is the purview of brothers to learn skills without their sisters’ knowledge.” Colonel Archer grasped Lord Milmouth’s shoulder. “My father taught me to shoot well away from our womanfolk’s hearing.”

“Aye,” Captain Ross added. “’Tis how Balfour and I learned to shoot, too.”

“Truly?” Miss Crowley turned to Captain Balfour, her expression eager.

Honestly.

Isla barely suppressed a sigh.

Captain Balfour nodded. “My elder brother, Lord Cairnfell, is a wee bit of a crack shot himself. He and I would attempt to outshoot one another as lads. It’s why I was asked to join the 95th regiment so quickly. I already had years of experience shooting at targets.”

The sparse flash of information landed with a whip-like thwack across Isla’s psyche.

Callum? Her Tavish had learned to shoot because of Callum? And more to the point, Tavish had been a crack shot back then . . . even as she married him. Why hadn’t he ever mentioned it?

It seemed like a fairly critical bit of information for a wife to know about her own husband.

Not something she learned seven years on: Oh, by the way, darling, I am actually one of the most celebrated sharpshooters in His Majesty’s army.

My marksmanship is talked about in hushed tones and circulated through admirers as if I am a demigod.

A terrible sort of tremor swept through her.

Here she was, upset that her Tavish had died in every real sense; but instead, she was quickly realizing that she had perhaps never known him. That even the boy she had loved had been a figment of her imagination. Or, at the very least, an incomplete picture.

The longer she was here—observing him around people and friends, in settings they had never experienced together—the more she realized how narrow her vision of him had been. How much of himself he had kept from her.

Was he thinking the same—that he had only known the smallest part of her?

Of a surety, her years at Malton Hill had changed her, just as the military had changed Captain Balfour. They had both lived nearly a full tenth of a lifetime without the other.

No wonder he felt like a stranger.

“Come along then.” Colonel Archer rallied the gentlemen. “Let us bring this to a close and permit Balfour to impress us all.”

Captain Balfour chuckled and walked on.

Gray scowled.

Colonel Archer noticed.

“Cheer up, Grayburn.” He clapped Gray on the back as they strolled up the field, words carrying back to Isla.

“You are not the first man to assume Balfour’s self-deprecating manner means he doesn’t know his way around a rifle.

Your families may not be particularly friendly, but even you must admit Balfour is a damn fine shot. ”

Isla couldn’t hear her brother’s reply, but she supposed it was some variation of the clichéd, “Over my dead body.”

The ladies turned back to the bridge, hurrying up the stairs.

Shooting from the two-hundred-yard point went as Colonel Archer predicted.

Both Gray and Lord Milmouth missed the target entirely.

Colonel Archer landed his bullet inside the black, to much jubilation from the ladies .

Captain Ross hit the edge of the black.

Captain Balfour did his signature lift-aim-fire and . . .

. . . hit the target dead center.

They moved to the final marker, two hundred and fifty yards.

The last scenario played out similarly—Gray and Lord Milmouth missed the target. Colonel Archer and Captain Ross both landed shots outside the black circle.

Only Captain Balfour remained steady. Lift, aim, fire—and a hole bloomed dead center.

Both Colonel Archer and Captain Ross whooped with joy.

Even the younger ladies bounced and cheered as the wooden bridge trembled.

The men walked back toward the targets, Gray limping slightly—the only sign of his feelings over being summarily beaten by a Balfour.

Unsurprisingly, the younger ladies swarmed after the gentlemen. The grooms rushed forward with the shot paper targets, and the gentlemen and ladies gathered round to examine them.

Isla followed more slowly, trying to gather her feelings into some coherent whole.

On the one hand, admiration and astonishment stuffed her thoughts to stupefaction.

On the other hand, she felt vastly . . .

betrayed. Or was it lost? Because even seven years ago, she hadn’t known the full breadth of Tavish Balfour.

It didn’t help that she could hear Miss Crowley mooning over Captain Balfour’s shots even from a distance. They could probably hear her in the next county.

“I’m telling you, it is not a fluke,” Colonel Archer was saying as Isla stopped behind the group. “Balfour always shoots like this. Years! I have endured years of being bested in this manner. An honest gentleman knows when to raise the white flag of surrender and simply admit his admiration.”

Gray folded his arms, lips pressed tightly. He was trying to remain aloof and unaffected—a good sport and all that. But the clench of his fist betrayed him.

For his part, Captain Balfour pointedly ignored Gray. Too pointedly.

Colonel Archer, bless his pure soul, did not catch on to the undercurrents .

“Balfour, are you up for one more challenge?” he asked.

“Of course.” Captain Balfour rested the barrel of his rifle on his shoulder.

With a wink for the ladies, Colonel Archer pulled a playing card from his jacket pocket.

Miss Crowley gasped. “You’re not going to hold it as a target, are you, Colonel?”

“Nae,” Captain Balfour spoke up. “He won’t.”

“I won’t?” Colonel Archer lifted an eyebrow.

“Nae. If I must shoot playing cards, place them on the posts.” He waved to the targets. “No need to tempt Fate today.”

“Afraid you’ll miss, Balfour? Harm your friend?” Gray said, his tone biting.

Captain Balfour shrugged. “Not particularly. But given the distance I intend to shoot from, the slightest change in the wind could mean the difference between life and death.” He leveled a cool gaze on Gray.

“And a competent soldier doesn’t permit ego to obscure the value of another soul.

Accidents happen. And I don’t want one of my good friends to be the victim. ”

Silence for a moment.

“Well spoken, Balfour,” Lord Milmouth said. “I know your cool thinking saved Edward’s life many times over. You will forever have our admiration and thanks.”

Captain Balfour tilted his head toward his lordship before looking at Colonel Archer.

“Place three cards on the post at random and stand back from the target.” Captain Balfour’s eyes flicked to Isla before sliding to the rest of the women. “You ladies should likely go resume your perch. No accidents, remember?”

And with that, he turned his back and began walking toward the shooting lines. Miss Crowley shivered and then skipped several steps to catch up with him, walking at his side, chattering loudly.

Isla followed the rest of the ladies down the lawn and up the steps of the bridge, Miss Crowley reluctantly leaving Captain Balfour’s side.

Isla turned to watch Captain Balfour continue walking away from the target. He paused at the two hundred and fifty marker, assessed the wind with a finger in the air, and then continued to walk away from the target with deliberate steps.

Even standing on tiptoe, Isla struggled to see him.

She walked backward up the steep bridge, trying to keep Captain Balfour in view.

The ladies followed her. The sloping arch of the bridge, along with the accumulation of moss, made the wood planks somewhat slippery.

But a firm hand on the railing grounded Isla.

Captain Balfour paced another fifty yards.

Isla knew because she counted them.

Three hundred yards from the target.

Isla was a little more than half that distance, and the three playing cards tacked to the target’s surface appeared as small white dots. How could Captain Balfour even see the playing cards from three hundred yards, much less hit one of them?

The men stood back from the target, but still close enough to have a clear view of where the bullets might land.

Unlike with his previous shots, Captain Balfour took a moment to center himself. He looked to the targets, lifted his rifle, and fired.

He was so far distant that Isla saw the bright yellow flash of the bullet exiting the rifle before the crack of the retort reached her ears.

The card to the left exploded.

Isla had scarcely drawn a breath. She whirled back to Captain Balfour to find him reloading his rifle with shocking speed.

The ladies erupted into euphoric applause, clapping and voices carrying.

Captain Balfour knelt, one knee in the grass.

Lift. Aim. Fire.

The playing card to the right disintegrated.

Miss Crowley squealed in delight, jumping up and down, grabbing Isla’s elbow from behind. Isla tightened her grip on the handrail.

The level of Captain Balfour’s skill simply boggled her mind.

Not a fluke.

Not an instance of luck.

No. Tavish Balfour displayed an almost mythical ability.

Why had he never told her?!

Methodically, Captain Balfour reloaded .

He moved from kneeling to sitting on the ground, propping the barrel of the rifle on his toes with the butt of the rifle against his shoulder.

He aimed.

Crack!

The third card disappeared.

Colonel Archer whooped, tossing his hat in the air. The three other ladies cheered, raising their arms and calling their zeal.

Captain Balfour leapt to standing, waved to them, and began walking back toward the targets. The gentlemen were gathered together, bending to pick pieces of the playing cards out of the grass.

“He is truly the most remarkable—” Miss Crowley pushed past Isla in a rush to greet Captain Balfour.

But in the girl’s haste, her feet slipped on the mossy planks, pitching her sideways. Her shoulder caught Isla in the chest.

Isla stumbled back, careening into the wooden railing with force.

The handrail pressed against the small of her back for the space of a heartbeat.

Then, with a loud snap, the wood gave way.

Isla teetered on the edge for one terrified second, arms wind-milling, frantic for purchase.

But then gravity asserted itself, pulling her down to the water below.

Isla barely managed to scream before splashing into the cold depths of the lake.