Highlanders Collection. Ann Lethbridge

on the stools yet.

      ‘I tire of it,’ Elizabeth said with a sigh. ‘Though I like to play, it does not please me as much as it seems to you.’

      ‘Not even when you partner with James?’ she asked, watching her friend’s cheeks blush in reaction.

      Elizabeth began to reply, but stuttered over her words. However, they had reached the others and their attention was grabbed as they approached the table, for James delivered a challenge.

      ‘Murray challenges MacLerie!’ he called out loudly, his words echoing across the small clearing. ‘Who will defend the MacLerie name?’

      Ciara watched as the MacLeries huddled together, whispering and nudging, deciding on who would defend their honour in this game of skill. She remained quiet. This challenge was clearly meant to be among the men only. The MacLeries parted, declaring their champion as Tavis was pushed forwards. His willingness might be questionable, but his play revealed a determined plan to win.

      Stools were brought for Ciara and Elizabeth and the game went on for some time, each move a thoughtful, strategic one. The possibility of success passed back and forth between James defending the white queen and Tavis with the red and for some time even she could not tell who would be the victor. Then, as she watched Tavis concentrate on his possible moves, she noticed the slightest tightening of his lips.

      Chastising herself for staring at him did not help her take her gaze off him and she continued to watch him closely, matching that small facial expression with his moves until she understood what he was about—he was deliberately allowing James to win! If James moved the wrong piece or made himself vulnerable, Tavis countered with a move that undid it. When Tavis could have claimed several valuable pieces from James, he went for the pawns. Sitting back and taking a cup offered by a servant, she thought about why he would do such a thing.

      Visions of the first training fight flashed through her mind. James, inexperienced and clearly lesser in skills and ability, fighting the quintessential Highland warrior—a man trained since his youth to fight with weapons and with his bare hands. Yet, after disarming James, Tavis was taken down by a sloppy move by the younger man.

      Now watching the play before her, she noticed several mistakes and bad moves on Tavis’s part, ones that would seem to be aimed at allowing James to swoop in and claim victory. Tavis was subtle, though; Ciara doubted that none but those who’d mastered the game could tell.

      Tavis was throwing the game.

       Chapter Twelve

      Once she realised it, it was difficult not to laugh. Ciara fought against it or James’s victory would be for naught. The purpose of it, she did not ken, but Tavis must have a good one to manoeuvre in such a way. Winning for him was easy, losing unlikely. Throwing a match while hiding it from those who observed was more difficult.

      The control of the board switched back and forth several times before she could see the upcoming move that could defeat James. If Tavis took it, she was completely wrong about him losing on purpose. If he ignored it …

      His lips twitched again, ever so slightly, and if she had not been watching so closely, she would have missed it as most others looking on did. Then he made a defensive move, allowing the one that would win the game to pass by unused. James smiled then, assured of victory, and slid his piece across to claim the red queen.

      The Murrays watching shouted in glee at the outcome as James reached out his hand to Tavis. As Tavis took it, his gaze flickered over to hers and she saw the truth there. The frown that followed warned her off, but it would be more difficult than that to keep her from asking about his actions.

      And she would ask.

      Damn! Tavis thought as he walked from the game and towards the place in the camp where he would rest for the night. He’d bid everyone a good night’s rest and turned away, but her gaze burned his back. Coward that he seemed to be when it came to Ciara, he ignored it and refused to turn around. She would ask him too many questions and he did not wish to answer them.

      Or examine his reasoning too closely, either.

      For, as much as he wanted to—and oh, aye, he wanted to—pound James into the ground during their training or to destroy his puny attempts at the more complex strategies of chess, he could not. Any repercussions would be felt by one person.

      Ciara.

      Making an enemy or opponent out of her betrothed would leave her undefended once she was no longer under MacLerie protection. Which would be very soon. James seemed to have a level head, but he would not risk Ciara’s safety or future by antagonising the heir of the Murrays just because he could.

      Even more, Duncan’s words during their talks repeated in his head. Connor’s words warned him over and over again not to be the cause of problems between the MacLeries and the Murrays, and especially not between Ciara and James. Memories of Duncan’s methods of calm, dispassionate behaviour during negotiations were to be his model on this journey. And that was all well and good until it involved the lass.

      Had they known the truth when they issued such words to him, each at a different time before he left Lairig Dubh, that the feelings that lay buried deep in him that would be stirred by this journey? Had they seen this happening before he did?

      Tavis checked his horse and grabbed his water skins, intent on putting some space between him and her. He would fill them in the nearby stream. Walking would feel good after sitting so long at the table. It was a task that could be left to the servants, but he preferred to see to his own preparations and needs and not rely on others to provide and perform them. Halfway down the path that led to the water, the crackling of branches behind him warned of someone following him. He let out a deep breath. Turning around was not necessary, for he could identify his pursuer without looking.

      ‘You should be settling yourself for the night, Ciara.’

      He said it aloud, not waiting on a response. The footsteps behind him paused for a few seconds, but then moved rapidly, approaching him before he reached the stream’s edge.

      ‘I would speak to you,’ she said, out of breath from his quick pace.

      ‘Nay,’ he said, waving her off. ‘Seek your tent. We can speak in the morn.’

      It had not worked before and was not successful this time, either; the sound of her steps, crunching the leaves beneath her feet came closer and closer until he could feel the heat of her at his back. So he sidestepped and watched her stumble by him, too close to stop herself. Before she could fall, he reached out and grabbed her arm, righting her on her feet, then releasing his hold.

      ‘Go back now,’ he said. Crossing his arms over his chest, he nodded with his head back towards the camp. The torches outlining the small gathering of wagons and tents could be seen clearly in the crisp night air. He wondered how she’d got past the guards he’d posted earlier?

      ‘I would speak—’

      ‘Go back.’

      When she crossed her arms the same as he did, Tavis knew the battle was lost. Still, he had to try.

      ‘I pray you, return now,’ he said quietly, his voice sounding as breathless as hers did.

      ‘You lost on purpose,’ she accused, not moving one bit back along the path. ‘This night and when you fought.’

      ‘’tis of no importance, Ciara. Go back now.’

      Even repeating the words, whether plea or order, did no good at all, for she remained as though frozen in place. He rubbed his hands over his face and stared up at the moon above, trying to work out how to make her obey. Would speaking plainly send her back to her tent and away from tormenting him with her every word, every smile, every frown? Facing her, he nodded once more in the direction he prayed she would go.

      ‘To