Page 18 of Beguiled By the Highlander
“Here. See how this suits ye.” She handed him a wooden sword, a mocking smile on her face, and he gave a few practice thrusts. He’d far rather use a real weapon, so he could properly judge his skill, but there was no way on God’s earth he’d let her know that. She’d likely be only too pleased to exchange the wood for steel.
“It suits me well enough,” he told her, but the way she rolled her eyes told him plainly she knew exactly what he really thought.
When they left the armory, the sun had risen, and glimpses of pale blue sky could be seen between the gray clouds. He was gladof his surcoat as they made their way to the smaller courtyard where he’d seen Isolde and Patric the other day, for although the rain had stopped, the temperature had plummeted.
She turned to face him. The morning sunlight glinted on her hair, enhancing the fiery curls that escaped her plait and danced in the brisk wind that whirled about them.
“Are ye ready?” she enquired, and he scarcely had time to confirm before she attacked him.
Her swift assault sent him reeling, and just as swiftly, she backed off, giving him a moment to recalibrate, which didn’t exactly soothe his wounded pride at having been so woefully unprepared.
He blocked her next thrust, but she didn’t stumble when his momentum shoved her back. Instead, she danced out of reach, a wild gleam in her eyes, and damn if it wasn’t the most arousing thing he’d ever seen.
Brutally, he pulled his senses back into line. Isolde wasn’t playacting, and if his mind wandered, she would have him. Her next strike hit its target, and the air whooshed from his lungs.
God’s blood. In the edges of his mind, he’d assumed Patric had tempered his swordplay with Isolde. That he’d pandered to her whims, and ensured she appeared excellent to onlookers. But as he parried another well aimed thrust, he realized the folly of that assumption.
Isolde was not merely quick on her feet, nor able to give an admirable show of competence. She truly was good. Better than he’d anticipated. Far from allowing her latitude so she might presume they fought on a fair footing, he needed all his innate skill to keep up with her.
Whatever she lacked in brute strength, she made up for with agility. Admiration clawed through him, even while his pride recoiled at the notion of losing to a woman.
Strange. In the armory, he’d harbored the vague notion of yielding beneath her attack. But now, actively defending his position, it struck him as dishonorable.
Besides, he had the strongest suspicion that if she suspected, for even a moment, that he’d allowed her to best him, she’d never forgive him.
He surged forward, catching her off guard. She staggered back under the force of his attack, and he didn’t hesitate to take advantage.
He pressed the blunt tip of his sword to her throat. “Do ye yield?”
Chapter Six
Isolde panted, herheart racing from her exertions, as Njord’s wicked grin sent sparks of awareness skittering over her skin. His stormy eyes glinted with triumph, and she had to confess it was more than the swordplay that caused her erratic breath to catch in her throat.
“I yield.” Her voice rasped, but she couldn’t help that. Instead of easing its frantic hammer, her heartbeat echoed through her bones and filled her head. It should have been alarming, but instead it was intoxicating, and even the knowledge she had lost the challenge faded into insignificance beneath the heat in her stranger’s eyes.
With a flourish, he swept the sword aside and then bowed. It was utterly charming, as though he had stepped from the stories Roisin so loved when chivalry had ruled France.
“Yer skill is formidable. Sgur Castle is safe in yer hands.”
She shook her head and took his sword from him. “Believe it or not, I know my limitations. But it’s good to know I can at least protect myself and my sisters, should the need arise.”
“I trust the need will never arise.”
“Aye, but at least here, on Eigg, I’m prepared.”
He gave her a curious glance as they returned to the armory. Their challenge hadn’t gone unnoticed, and she knew within moments the tale of how she had been vanquished would be common knowledge across the Isle. Her handsome stranger had bested her, but she hadn’t disgraced herself.
And the next time they fought, she would use what she had learned about his skills this morn against him.
“What do ye mean, here on Eigg?” He held the door of the armory open for her as she returned the swords. “Ye can defend yerself anywhere, Isolde.”
An illicit ribbon of warmth flickered through her at how he spoke her name so informally. Her grandmother wouldn’t approve of such familiarity, but Amma wasn’t here.
He stood beside her as she locked the door from the key on her chatelaine. “I’m bound to this land, Njord.” She turned to look at him. He was so close, they were all but touching. How easy it would be to press her hand against his chest. She swallowed, her mouth uncommonly dry, and tried to harness her scrambled thoughts. “Tis the blood of my foremothers in the very earth beneath my feet that gives me my skill with the sword.”
He didn’t appear convinced. “Maybe ’tis the blood of yer foremothers in yer veins. But I cannot see how the land has anything to do with it.”
She sighed. There was no reason why he should understand, yet she wished he did. They turned from the armory, and instead of returning to the castle, they strolled across the courtyard.
