This only made the men press harder, then Kinsey would have to step in to demonstrate the might of true discouragement. Usually with her bow and arrow.
It wasn’t Clara’s fault, of course. She was a beauty, though she never believed it no matter how many men tripped over their hanging tongues as she passed. It was more than her wide, pale blue eyes and the full mouth they’d all inherited from their mum.
There was an innocence to Clara, a demeanor of genuine kindness. Mayhap that was why her good sister drew the worst men.
Kinsey wasn’t as oblivious when it came to men’s notice. She knew they watched her as much as they did her sister. But she didn’t blush at their flattery. She sliced them with the blade of her tongue and set them back a few paces.
The two Englishmen were still there, pointing at them now. One caught her notice and gave a cheeky wave with the tips of his plump fingers. Kinsey practically growled her irritation.
“Do ye think these will be enough?” Clara asked.
Kinsey grudgingly examined the twenty or so pointed nails in Clara’s cupped hand.
Kinsey nodded, though she had no idea how many were needed. Their eldest sister, Faye, had always been the one to attend the village on market days. Not only did she enjoy the task of shopping, but she also managed to procure the best deals. Except now, Faye was married, living in the Highlands with a bairn on the way. And there was nothing for it but to attend the market in her stead.
Clara paid for the nails and thanked the blacksmith, who gave a slow, besotted smile as he took the coins.
They had only a length of wool to purchase, and then they could leave. Kinsey’s shoulders didn’t relax though, not with those men nearby. She glanced about and realized she’d lost them. Mayhap that meant they’d given up and—
“You’re absolutely lovely.” One of the two Englishmen stepped from the surrounding crowd and approached Clara.
A flush of color blossomed over her cheeks, damn her.
“Thank you,” Clara replied with a shy duck of her head.
Kinsey didn’t bother to hide her huff of aggravation. Clara would eventually get them both killed.
“I bet you’re far sweeter than any honey I could buy here.” The man stepped closer, swaying a bit. His friend stood behind him, saying nothing as he offered them a smile that looked like it was going to slide off his homely face.
Clara shook her head, her smile wavering with uncertainty. “Nay, I—”
Kinsey stood before her. “She’s not interested.”
The man didn’t bother to hide his lust as his gaze slithered down Kinsey’s body. “And I bet you’ve got the right amount of spice to offset that sweet, eh, Red?”
She resisted the urge to cross her arms over her chest to shield herself from his foul stare. Not only would she not give him the satisfaction of knowing he unsettled her, but she also wanted to ensure she could draw her bow quickly.
“I’m also not interested.” She notched her chin a little higher. “We’d like ye to leave.”
“What if I want to stay?” He licked his lips.
She slung her bow off her back, drew an arrow and sent one into the dirt just before his feet where he stood several paces away. He stepped back, and a second arrow landed where his foot had been.
“The next one goes a little higher.” She nocked another arrow, aimed it at his groin and smiled. “Is that enough spice for ye?”
“Kinsey.” Clara’s voice held a note of warning.
Kinsey could already hear the admonishment. Though, with Clara, it was more a careful reminder than a chastising. “Remember what the constable said—the next time you bring out your bows, you’ll be fined.”
But Kinsey wouldn’t be fined. The constable made the threat often enough for her to know it held no weight. Then again, she’d only ever shot the ground. Would he continue to be as forgiving if she actually shot someone?
Eventually, she just might find out.
Today would not be that day, for the Englishman and his friend scowled and staggered away.
The cloth merchant was at the end of a line of booths, beside a cart touting jars of honey.
“Do ye need any assistance?” A voice asked from behind Kinsey.
From an Englishman to a Scotsman. If only the taverns would close on market days. Surely, the lack of alcohol would set some minds toward their proper function.
God, how she hated market days.
“Fine timing.” She glanced over her shoulder.
The man was lean and tall, his brown hair neatly styled to the side, his high cheekbones evident with the hint of a smile on his lips. He was the most handsome man Kinsey had ever laid eyes on. And he knew it.
What was worse, he was undoubtedly a nobleman. His clothes were too fine to be a reiver. Too fine to be even a merchant from the border.
Before she could open her mouth to offer a smart retort to send him off, Clara spoke up. “Nay, but thank ye for offering to help.”
Kinsey gave her sister a long-suffering look, which Clara met with a patient tilt of her head. How was it she never got riled?
“Then mayhap ye can help me,” the man said.
But Kinsey was already turning away, pulling Clara to the cloth merchant who would undoubtedly take far too much of their time.
“Can we get the wool next week?” Kinsey asked under her breath.
“I’m almost finished with the new dress I’m making for Mum.” Clara navigated the crowd of people as they walked. “I need only this last piece of wool for it to be complete.”
Her older sister slowed just before they reached the cart laden with bolts of colorful fabrics. “I know ye don’t like market days, and aye, the people can be…coarse, but Kinsey,
