to fear. This is your chance to shine.”
With the word “shine” Emma’s face brightened as she turned toward Ciar. Then she smiled as if the sun had broken through the clouds.
He patted Emma’s shoulder. “I’d truly love to hear you play.”
“Y-you would?” she whispered, sounding utterly hopeful.
“My word is gospel, remember?”
“Very well.” There was quite a bounce in the lass’s curtsey. “My apologies, Dunollie. I must practice on the keep’s harp at once.”
Albert rubbed against his leg as he bowed. “Not to worry. I was on my way to meet with Lochiel. I suppose I cannot put it off all day.”
Chapter Four
As they sat on the field’s sidelines the following day, Emma turned the leather-clad ball over in her hands while the game progressed just beyond. “I don’t believe I’ve ever held a shinty ball before. ’Tis lighter than I imagined.”
“The inside is hewn of cork,” said Betty right before she shouted, “Stop them! They’re on yer flank!”
“Are we losing?” Emma asked, leaning forward with the sound of the players’ grunts and thundering footsteps coming nearer.
Janet’s knitting needles clicked. The only person who knitted more than Emma was her sister-in-law. “No one has scored yet, dearest.” How could she knit at a time like this? Clan Grant had joined with Clan MacDougall and were facing the Camerons.
“Do you not care who wins?” Emma asked.
“I cannot possibly.” The needles stopped. “If I pick the visiting team, I’d incite my father’s ire for certain. And with Robert out there I simply cannot comprehend cheering for the home.”
“But you’re a Grant now. ’Twould be mutiny if you chose the Camerons.” Betty’s voice rose with her every word.
Nudging her maid, Emma squeezed the ball. It molded perfectly into her palm. “You appear to be rather fanatical about shinty.”
“Scotland’s only true game, it is.” Betty rapidly clapped. “Bash him over the head with your caman, Dunollie!”
“No!” The ball fell from Emma’s grasp. “Ciar MacDougall would never do a thing like that.”
Emma had attended enough shinty games at home to gain a general sense of the play. Only men were allowed on the field. They smacked a little ball around the grass with mallet-like sticks, and the only rule was there were no rules. Needless to say, it tended to be a bit rough. At Glenmoriston one of the men had suffered a broken ankle only two years past.
“Well, he gave the lout a good shove, all the same,” Betty replied.
Janet patted Emma’s arm. “Did you enjoy your stroll with Ciar yesterday?”
“Very much. And I think I may have taught him a thing or two about flowers.”
“How so?”
“He’s right behind you!” shouted Betty, not following the conversation at all.
Emma fished for the ball with her toes. “Of course he has an appreciation for blooms. He just hasn’t ever seen them as I have.”
“Then I wish you could take half of the folk in the Highlands on garden tours. ’Twould enrich them ever so.”
“Stop him!” Betty shrieked. “Now. The good Lord didna make ye a colossal brute for naught!”
Emma trapped the ball between her arches. “Och, Betty, I do believe you’re taking this match far too seriously.”
“Aye? ’Tis the laird of Dunollie who is leading this mob of ruffians.” Betty’s excitement grew infectious. “Score!”
“Well done, Robert,” cried Janet.
Bending forward, Emma collected the ball. “Robert scored?”
“Indeed he did,” said Betty. “But only after an assist from the MacDougall laird.”
“I think the two men work well together. After all, they’ve been friends since they were lads.”
Janet’s needles resumed their clicking. “Indeed.”
Betty gasped. “Oh, dear.”
Emma’s fingers tightened. “What happened?”
“We need the spare,” shouted Robert, sounding as if he was running.
“Some Cameron lad smacked the shinty ball halfway to the river,” said Betty.
Footsteps padded the grass, and a masculine scent approached. It was laced with the overtones of musk and wool. “Miss Emma,” said Ciar, making a swarm of butterflies take flight in her tummy. “I believe you’re the keeper of the standby.”
“I am, sir.” Her hand trembled as she held it up. “You are playing quite well.”
“Your brother scored the only goal.”
Rough fingers brushed hers as Dunollie took the ball, making a delightful gooseflesh trail up her arms. “Robert only scored because of your finesse.”
“It does take a team,” he said, his voice husky.
“Resume play!” bellowed a man.
Emma sighed. “Has someone gone to fetch the other ball?”
“A lad,” said Janet. “The same one with the dogs.”
The memory of a sloppy tongue licking her face made Emma warm inside. “I adored Albert. If only we didn’t have a long journey to