hang a circular wooden board on the wall, and several men stood, pulling knives out as they formed a line. The men began to take turns throwing the knives, trying to hit the bull’s-eye that had been painted in the center.
“You bloody English canna throw to save your lives.” Brodie drank his ale, watching in amusement as more than one man threw his knife too limply or too widely. A few maids screeched and ducked behind the bar when a knife would bounce off the board entirely, careening overhead.
“Care to show off your skills?” Rafe challenged.
“Aye. I’d be happy for the distraction.” Brodie finished his drink in one deep swallow and pulled a slim blade that had been tucked inside his boot.
“With that tiny thing?” Rafe eyed the blade. Its handle was flat rather than rounded, to better fit against Brodie’s leg in his boot.
“Size doesna matter. ’Tis how you use it,” Brodie said.
“Not to the ladies it doesn’t.” Rafe snorted, and a few of the men around them chuckled with him.
Brodie took his place far away from the target. He gripped the knife by the blade and closed his eyes, which caused some people close to its path to take cover. He threw the blade hard and fast.
There was a thud and a carousing cheer.
“Bravo, well done—for a Scot,” Rafe joked.
Brodie arched a brow. “For a Scot? Think you can do better, Sassenach?”
“Well, certainly.” Rafe’s smile did not waver. “Everyone knows my brother is a master boxer, but while he learned to box, I learned . . . more practical things.” Rafe snapped his fingers at a comely barmaid and held up a gold coin. “Love, please stand by the target and hold up this card by your face.” He handed her a playing card he’d plucked from one of the tables nearby.
The girl, trembling, did as Rafe asked.
“Good, now don’t move.” Rafe winked at the girl as he pulled a dagger out of his coat. He grinned widely at the crowd and then became very still and quiet. His eyes hardened as he pulled his arm back, then with lightning speed threw the blade. It sang in the air for a mere second before it was embedded into the wood just beside the girl’s cheek, right in the center of the playing card.
The girl drew in a deep breath and then crumpled to the floor in a dead faint, though completely unharmed.
“All right, I’ll give you that,” Brodie conceded. But throwing the blade was not a parlor trick for him. It was something he had learned out of necessity. He had caught rabbits to feed tenant farmers who were staying on their lands when his father raised taxes. A man only learned blade work like that of necessity. It made him wonder what had driven Rafe to learn such a thing.
Appreciating Rafe’s skill with a blade, a few men near them ordered a round of drinks for everyone. Someone started playing a tune on a fiddle, and more than one maid began to dance for the onlookers, who cheered and clapped. Though Brodie could hold his ale well enough, he was perhaps a little too relaxed by the time he climbed the stairs and unlocked the door to the room he would share with Lydia.
What he saw startled him speechless.
9
Lydia was dancing.
Dancing in nothing but her pale chemise that clung to her skin as she moved provocatively. She curtsied to an invisible partner and then began to sweep a pointed foot across the floor as she gently waved her arms in a slow, prancing sort of dance. She was exquisite. Her hair came down in flaxen waves that gleamed in the candlelight. What he wouldn’t give to be dancing with her right now.
A breath caught in his throat; Brodie was spellbound. She reminded him of the old stories of the fairy folk back in Scotland. Lydia could have passed for a princess. He leaned against the door, watching her with an ache in his chest that he had never felt before. It wasn’t lust. It was . . . something else, as if her very dance symbolized something he’d always wanted but could not put a name to.
She spun on one foot, her arms above her head like a fine ballerina, and his heart continued to pound with boyish excitement. He wanted to catch her before she disappeared back to her royal realm, hold her close and breathe in that soft scent of wildflowers as he pressed his