Page 4 of Tempted By a Highland Beast
Gregor clearly found the man’s blasé attitude maddening. “Mind yer own business, stranger,” he spat. “We are on the hunt for a runaway lass.” He gestured vaguely towards the loch, then around the clearing, clearly uncertain if she had vanished into the water or the woods.
“Ah.” The man nodded and tilted his head. “A runaway, did ye say?” A clear challenge sparked in his glacial blue eyes, an invitation to dismiss or underestimate him if they dared.
Hamish, standing on his horse beside Gregor, shifted tensely. His hand tightened on his sword hilt. “This is none of yer business, ye savage. Be gone before ye find yersel’ in trouble.”
Sharp eyes roamed over the moor, pausing just long enough to rake over her hiding place with unsettling precision. Then the man turned, met her gaze from across the distance, and, bold as anything, winked. A slow, deliberate thing, full of confidence. Rowena’s breath caught. Heat flared beneath her skin and she ducked her head, mortified that he’d caught her watching. By the time she dared look again, he’d already shifted his attention back to her uncle’s men.
“Savage? Now ye’ve hurt me feelings,” he said, pressing a hand over his heart. “And I’m nae the one chasing after a poor lass, am I?” His tone suddenly lost its amused edge. His eyes darkened further, almost black now, though she hadn’t thought it possible. They seemed to absorb the light, stripped of all warmth, all flicker of life.
“As ye can see, there is nay runaway here. Now be on yer way before I make ye.”
“How dare ye speak tae us that way!”
“I see ye’d like me tae repeat meself.” His tone was level as he spoke. “I am nae in the habit of daein’ so, but I am in good spirits and shall make an exception fer ye this morning. Isaid, nay, runaway lass passed through here. ‘Tis only me and the water. Be. Gone.”
“Ye’re lying!” Gregor snarled, his hand moving to his sword hilt. “This is the only path after the forest breaks. She must have come this way.”
The man’s voice remained steady, almost bored. “I have told ye what I saw. Naethin’ more.”
“Aye, and I say ye’re protecting her.” Hamish’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “Tell us where she’s hiding, and we might leave ye breathing.”
“Might?” The man’s tone now carried a subtle edge. “How thoughtful of ye.”
Gregor’s face darkened at the mockery. “Mock me again, and I’ll carve that smirk from yer face. Last chance—where is she?”
“I suppose we have naethin’ more tae discuss, then.” He gestured for them to draw closer. The man’s stance shiftedalmost imperceptibly. “Come ahead, if ye think ye can manage it.”
Rowena stared, scarcely daring to breathe.
Is the man daft? Standin’ alone and unarmed, challengin’ warriors as though he fears naethin’?
He had no sword, no shield. Nothing but boldness and a strange command about him.
Did he mean tae face them bare-handed? Is he truly so certain he’d prevail?
And yet, for all the madness of it, there was something in the steady way he held himself, that made it impossible not to look away.
Rowena’s breath seized when Gregor drew his blade with a vicious hiss of steel and jabbed it forward. The threatening thrust was aimed directly at the warrior’s chest. But instead of landing on him, the blade struck the apple in his hand with a sickening thwack.
The fruit fell and rolled down the slight incline towards the loch, disappearing with an impossibly loud splash.
It was the only instance that Rowena, watching from her hiding spot, noticed a flicker of annoyance in the man, as though the actwas an insult, a waste of his time. The small reaction was more terrifying than any outburst.
Her savior moved like he was one with his sword. The boredom that had formerly tinged his movements vanished, suddenly replaced by a cold focus that alarmed her as much as it thrilled her.
Gregor lunged further, his blade arcing downward in a heavy strike that would have cleaved a lesser man’s skull. But the stranger wasn’t there—he’d shifted left with fluid grace, letting Gregor’s momentum carry him past. In one seamless motion, he caught Gregor’s wrist with his free hand and twisted sharply. The crack of bone was audible even from Rowena’s hiding place. Gregor’s sword fell from nerveless fingers as he screamed.
Before he could recover, the stranger drove his knee into the man’s ribs with savage precision, making Gregor double over, gasping. Then he took the fallen blade and with a quick, surgical thrust it into Gregor’s shoulder, pinning him to the ground.
Saints preserve me, is that precision even human? He hasnae hesitated, nae once. Each blow has landed with cruel exactness, and yet his movements are almost… elegant.
Gregor roared, a guttural sound of pain and shock that sent birds flying out of the trees. Rowena watched him clutch his bleeding shoulder as he writhed on the forest floor.
Serves ye right, ye bastard.
“What kind of devil are ye?” Hamish cried, raising his sword with shaking hands. But fear had made him clumsy, predictable.
The stranger read Hamish’s attack before it began—saw the telltale shift of weight, the slight draw back of his shoulder. He stepped inside Hamish’s guard as the blade swung down, trapping it against his body. He just had the time to remove the blade from Gregor, and with deadly efficiency he moved and found a gap between Hamish’s ribs. Hamish’s eyes widened in shock before he crumpled, unconscious from pain and blood loss.
