Highland Escape - Cathy MacRae Page 0,43

shoulder, she faltered at the intensity of his stare.

Duncan closed the distance between them and took one of her hands in his. He rubbed the skin of her palm with his thumb, sending a shiver chasing through her whole body. She grabbed his hand with both of hers, twisting it outward into her favorite wristlock. He dropped to his knees immediately, his face contorting with pain.

“Saint Filan’s teeth! Ye are trained in unarmed combat, too?”

Her mischievous grin grew wicked at his acknowledgment. She released his wrist and stepped back. “Of course. Are not you?”

Rubbing his arm as he rose to his feet, Duncan looked at her with awe. “Anna, I am a head taller than ye, and outweigh ye by at least four stone. How are ye able to bring me to my knees with such ease?”

Climbing on her horse, she answered, “Unarmed combat tomorrow if you wish, Sir Duncan.” Her teasing tone rang clear. Training with Duncan was much more enjoyable than training with her brother, Edrick. For one thing, she didn’t want to kill him all the time.

Though they were plenty competitive with each other, Anna found herself protective of him, as much as Duncan seemed protective of her. She certainly sustained fewer bruises and scars than when she trained with Edrick, though her sparring with Duncan proved as fierce. And there was an odd feeling whenever they drew close, which intensified upon contact. She’d known nothing like it before and didn’t know what to do about the sensation. It seemed foolish to mention such a thing to Nessa or anyone else. However, each time they touched, she longed for more.

Spring gave grudging way to summer. Anna met Duncan at the stables early, as they did every morn. His face was rueful.

“Anna, I apologize for missing our sparring, but I need to meet with the smith.”

She shrugged. “No bother. I planned on spending time with Fiona after our training.”

She watched until he left her sight, then glanced about for a way to fill her time. She ventured outside the stable, slipping her weapons into place, leaving her armor in the keep.

Gazing at the beautiful day, Anna decided to walk. ’Twould do her good. Sore from yesterday’s workout, she needed to stretch her legs. After a painful start, Duncan had finally been able to throw her a number of times. He proved slow to learn the subtleties of off-balancing before a throw. She found Duncan to be like most men, thinking physical strength the answer to any obstacle.

Though the thick grass cushioned her landings, Anna’s muscles protested from repeated impact. She recalled the look of satisfaction on his face when he finally threw her, his expression that of a little boy, pleased to learn a new trick. A faint smile played about her lips.

Passing the cooper’s shop, she saw the man working outside on a new barrel. He waved to her, raising the tool in his hand. She smiled and waved in return. The simple act of friendly recognition made her feel more at home. The ping of the smith’s hammer on the anvil in the background punctuated the feeling.

A voice she’d heard before stole her peace.

“Look at the English bitch. The laird let ye off yer tether, did he?”

Anna didn’t have to see his face to know who spoke. “Good morrow to you, Shamus. I see being home all this time hasn’t changed the sweetness of your voice.”

A few laughs followed her reply as she kept walking.

“Dinnae walk away from me, whore!”

Anna blew out a breath, and with it her hopes of avoiding confrontation. She considered the many ways she might prove herself to this clan. The one at hand wasn’t among them. She’d recently learned that his brother, Alasdair, had met his end on the tusks of a wild boar while hunting. Surely he does not lay his brother’s death at my feet as he did his earlier injury? She shook her head, remembering the way he’d challenged her for his brother’s mistake the first time they met. Likely.

Shamus growled. “Ye might be under the laird’s protection, but ye still could have an unfortunate accident if ye are not careful.”

She spun to face him, hands curling into fists. “Are you threatening me, Shamus? If memory serves, I beat you unconscious the last time we fought. I would think you would have learned your lesson about speaking to your betters.”

Shamus’s face flushed red, darkening to purple. “How dare ye!” he bellowed, taking a furious step in