Page 12 of Bride of Fire
He muttered a curse under his breath. Then he opened the shutter again and snarled at the lass, “See what ye’ve done, ye whelp? Off with ye now! Go!” He shooed her with a gesture.
She didn’t shoo. Instead, she planted her hands on her hips and shouted back at him in a decidedly unghostly voice.
“Me? You’re the horse’s arse bellowing out the window!”
Her insult added fuel to the fire of his ire. How dared she call him names? And in his own home?
“Och, that’s a bonnie thing!” he yelled. “Cursin’ in front of a bairn!”
“Is that what that wailing is?” she challenged, flipping the veil back to reveal her lovely, smirking face…and her infuriatingly breathtaking naked body. “I thought ’twas one of your soldiers, crying for his ma.”
It took a moment for the slight to sink in, so distracted was he by the lass’s unabashed beauty.
But when her words registered, accentuated by the heightened screaming of his son next door, such fury boiled up in him that he swore steam hissed from his ears.
He wasn’t worried about the bairn. Bethac would see to his needs.
But someone had to put that wicked-tongued lass in her place.
He slammed the shutters, snatched up his claymore, and headed for the door.
With any luck, she’d be gone by the time he got downstairs.
If she was foolish enough to stand her ground, she’d flee once she caught sight of Morgan Mor mac Giric charging toward her with his sword. There was a reason for the “Mor” title. Aside from the golden giant Colban, no one in the clan matched Morgan for height, might, and muscle.
One glimpse of him, and she’d scurry off like a frightened coney.
Chapter 7
“Shite,” Jenefer bit out as the Highlander slammed the shutters and disappeared from the window.
Now she’d done it. The brute was coming downstairs. Which would have been fine if she were closer to her longbow.
But she’d left it in the trees. After all, what ghost carried a bow and arrows? Now it would take her too long to fetch.
Damn her cousins! She never should have listened to them. She’d always said this should be a battle of arms, not of wits. The Highlander hadn’t been convinced for one moment that she was a ghost.
What she wouldn’t give to have her bow—nocked and primed—in her hands right now.
Of course, bow or not, she wasn’t about to run. Only cowards ran away from a fight. So she tossed off the veil, which would only get in the way. Then she blew into her icy hands and bounced up and down on her toes, hoping to warm up her blood enough to put up a good fight.
The babe upstairs was still carrying on. Its wails of woe sailed on the wind, almost as piercing as the cold. She wondered why its mother wasn’t seeing to it. Then again, knowing the barbaric Highlanders, they probably toughened up their babes by letting them cry.
Sooner than she expected—had the Highlanderflowndown the stairs?—the timber gates burst open. What emerged was the biggest warrior she’d ever seen.
The breath deserted her lungs. Her eyes went wide. Every instinct told her to flee.
But she swallowed down her fear and braced her knees for impact, even though the fists she made seemed suddenly puny in the face of the beast coming toward her.
He was a good fifty yards away. But his long strides were swallowing up the ground at a rapid pace.
In a flash, all the gruesome rumors she’d heard about Highlanders streamed through her brain.
They ate live mice.
They slept in the snow.
They fought wolves barehanded.
