Page 86 of The Highlander Steals a Virgin
Finn’s grin widened. “Ah, there it is. That twitch. I’ve seen it before, cousin.”
“She’s just… aguest,” Rhys said, deadpan. Making sure to train his emotions where Amara was concerned. There was no reason for him to be possessive of her or anticipate her decision.
“Oh aye,Ikiss allmeguests.”
Rhys stalked forward, planting himself in the center of the ring. “If yer jaw ends up sorer than yer ribs, it’ll be from yer own doin’.”
Finn lifted his practice blade. “Ye’ll have to catch me first.”
They faced off in the center of the yard, staffs in hand.
The lads had gathered around the ring’s edge, eager for a spectacle. William leaned lazily against a post, arms folded, grinning like a man who had placed a hefty bet and was certain of his winnings.
The first pass was playful. Finn danced back from Rhys’s strikes, testing his footing, shoulders still a bit stiff but clearly improved. They circled each other like hounds, faint smiles on both faces, the watching recruits forming a quiet semicircle around the ring.
“You sure ye daenae want a cushion or a priest?” Rhys asked, circling slowly.
Finn spun the staff once and dropped into as low of a crouch that he could get into, given his injuries. “Save yer concern, cousin. And do try nae to open the rest of me stitches or Mabel will have yer arse.”
Rhys lunged first. A quick jab, testing.
Finn parried easily. “Still predictable.”
“And ye still talk too much.”
They fell into rhythm fast. Rhys struck high. Finn ducked and swept low. Their staffs cracked against each other like drumbeats, the air between them sharp with movement.
Rhys had to admit that for someone who had nearly died a week ago, Finn held his own.
They moved through the ring like they'd done a hundred times in their youth. Finn was quick and clever, always more agile than strong. Rhys had the power, the leverage, and more than a little stubbornness in his bones.
Their staffs locked together mid-swing, wood grinding wood.
Then Finn sidestepped out of the lock and lunged.
Finn grinned, panting slightly. His voice steeping lower. Quiet, but still biting. “So… when do ye plan to tell me how long exactly ye’ve been warmin’ the Murdoch girl’s bed?”
Rhys shoved him back with a grunt. “I havenae.”
“Och, come now, Rhys. Why lie tome?”
“Careful.”
Finn’s laugh was breathless and bright. “It’s nearly plain as day. Ye walk around like a man possessed. If I’d kent takin’ a hostage could soften yer face like that, I’d have gifted ye one years ago.”
Rhys swung harder. Finn blocked, barely, and the impact rattled his stance.
“She’s nae a hostage,” Rhys growled.
Finn’s brows shot up. “Nay? Then what exactly is she? A guest ye keep locked up and flushed pink?”
Rhys struck low, then turned the staff and caught Finn in the ribs.
The crowd let out a collective “oof.”
Finn stumbled but caught himself, smirking even through the grimace. “Touched a nerve, did I?”
With a pivot and a sharp jab of the foot, he swept Finn’s legs out from under him and caught his cousin’s collar mid-fall to soften the blow. Still, Finn landed on his back with a winded groan.
