Page 37 of Bride of Mist
“Bloody shite,” the lass breathed, wincing in pain. She struggled to stand, swatting her cloak out of the way.
“Are ye hurt?”
She spit leaves and dirt from her mouth. She was apparently more angered than injured.
“Ye fell out o’ the tree,” he realized.
She responded with a glare.
He had questions. “Did ye follow me all the way from the inn? Why? And how did ye get here so fast?” He gave her a quick perusal. “Are ye sure ye’re not injured?”
“I’m fine,” she bit out.
“What are ye doin’ here? Why didn’t ye stay where I left ye?”
She beat the dust from her cloak. “We have unfinished business.”
He blinked in disbelief. “Och, for the love o’… Ye don’t mean this, do ye?” He whipped her blade up smartly. “Does it mean so much to ye?” The lass seemed obsessed with reclaiming the thing. He shook his head, then ran his fingers back through his hair. “Don’t ye understand, lass? I was tryin’ to save ye from a life o’ desperation. Takin’ ye away from the outlaw life. Givin’ ye somethin’ productive to do besides robbin’ strangers.”
She stopped for a moment, studying him, as if she wondered whether to believe him.
Then her eyes went flat and gray. She flipped back the edge of her cloak to reveal another shining silver blade in her grip. It wasn’t as long or impressive as the one he was holding. More like a large knife than a sword. But it was just as sharp.
“Where the hell didthatcome from?”
She didn’t answer. Instead, she tossed her head and squared off against him, clearly spoiling for a fight.
“Ye don’t want to do that,” he warned.
“Aye, I do.”
He steeled his jaw. He wasn’t going to fight a lass. Not again.
“I don’t want to hurt ye, lass.”
But as he lowered his head to sheathe his sword, something flew past his ear like a swift silver bird. A thunk in the oak trunk behind him made him turn. A razor-sharp dart protruded from the rugged bark.
He reeled around to face her.
She was reaching inside her surcoat. “ButIwant to hurtyou.”
As she flung her arm forward, he dodged aside, drew steel, and knocked the second flying dart aside with a violent clang that sent it careening into the brush.
When he turned back, she was charging toward him with her large knife in one hand, a pointed dagger in the other, and murder in her eyes.
Marveling at her animosity—and her ability to conjure up weapons out of thin air—he faced the oncoming threat.
He didn’t want to fight her.
But he wasn’t willing to die.
He had the advantage of power and reach. Extending the blade, he kept her at a distance as she thrust and spun and slashed at him. If she had more of those lethal flying darts, she didn’t use them.
A wily foe, she slipped under his guard. Fought with her feet. Moved about like an imp with its tail on fire.
A few times, he could have ended the skirmish with one powerful blow. But that was what had happened at the tournament. And he meant what he said. He didn’t want to hurt her. He never wanted to hurt a woman again.
As long as he was cautious, he could wage a defensive battle until she tired herself out.
