Highland Escape - Cathy MacRae Page 0,44

her direction.

“I dare because if you insult me again, I will collect on the debt you owe me. This time, your laird will not be able to save you.” She glared at him defiantly, not budging an inch, awaiting his reaction.

Roaring in anger, Shamus drew the claymore strapped to his back. She knew the long, two-handed blade gave him the advantage of reach—and that she would not survive even the slightest of strikes.

His face distorted with malice. “I think I shall add to the scar I gave ye the last time we scrapped and finish what Alain started.”

She drew her twin falchions and circled him. “I think I will send you to greet your brother.” Her words rang loud, goading him—as she intended. He swung wide, creating an arc of steel meant to decapitate. Stepping under his swing, Anna raised her hand and blew a kiss in his direction.

Further enraged, Shamus changed direction, bringing his blade down at an oblique angle. Anna predicted the arc, parrying the blow by pushing his sword in the same direction with her own. Her parry caused him to stagger as his momentum, paired with hers, carried his strike further than he intended. The clang of steel on steel echoed throughout the village like a thunder strike. A crowd hastily gathered around the combatants, warily beyond the reach of the long blade.

Swinging repeatedly with his whole might, Shamus’s breathing labored while Anna parried and danced lightly away. His face bloomed red with exertion, or humiliation, she knew not and cared not. He’d stepped into her snare as predictably as any witless prey.

“For ye, Alasdair!” Shamus roared. He brought his sword high overhead, pushing downward with great force—a blow designed to cleave her in twain.

Anna’s sword met his, hilt up, tip down. His blade scraped along hers, sending sparks flying. His strike continued inches past her, piercing deep into the ground with a dull thud. She kicked the flat side of his blade with her boot. The sword twisted in his hands, turning the flat of his blade upward.

Using his sword as a ramp, Anna took a quick step upon his blade, closing the distance between them. Swords crossed in front of her, a blade by each ear, she swung each arm violently across her body as her voice gave cry to her anger. Both blades bit deep into his neck, and Anna straddled him as his life bled out. One spasmodic jerk, and his body stilled forever.

Anna swiveled her head, searching the crowd, her enemy’s blood spattered over her.

“I am Anna of the clan Elliot! My grandfather is laird! I am marked as a warrior by my clan!” She ripped her tunic, exposing her shoulder, neck, and arm, her blue markings visible to all.

“Anyone else who takes issue with my presence can face me now!” She turned slowly, her stare defiant.

She saw several expressions of disbelief, and more than a few approving nods. Her gaze met and locked with Duncan’s. He held a bow with an arrow notched, pointed toward the ground. He gave her a fierce look and quick bow, apparently well pleased by her actions. She took a deep breath and returned his salute. Wiping the blood off her swords on Shamus’s lifeless body, she sheathed them and strode toward the keep, her pounding steps echoing the angry thud of her heart.

Duncan tore his attention away from the smith as Anna and Shamus’s verbal exchange rang through the village. It required all his willpower to stand aside and watch, teeth clenched, blood pounding in his veins, as Shamus insulted and provoked Anna. To her credit, she tried to walk away. Realizing a fight was inevitable, Duncan grabbed the smith’s longbow, fitting an arrow in case Shamus appeared to gain the upper hand.

Duncan had sworn to protect her, even if she didn’t wish it. He hadn’t forgotten her scathing remarks about his protection earlier, nor his father’s words from their last talk. The instinctive pull to fight in her place proved almost irresistible. Knowing she would be angrier with him than with Shamus was all that kept him from intervening.

Duncan watched the lass who’d bested him many times the morning before, toy with a veteran warrior. Though easily angered, Shamus was no green lad. Never in any real danger, Anna danced him like a puppet at St. Crispin’s Festival. She moved and parried, allowing Shamus to over-commit and wind himself. All the while, she pricked his anger, prodding him to be more