Highland Escape - Cathy MacRae Page 0,8

longer than she could remember—flowing through her like the air she breathed.

Shamus spat on the ground at her feet, his face contorting with hatred. “English bitch.”

He seemed to need no provocation to work himself up to kill a woman. Any blood spilled would be on his hands.

“Barbarians,” Anna growled. She brought the batons up and swung them around in circular patterns. Shifting her feet along with the sticks, she fell into a steady rhythm. The rods moved rapidly in a blur of motion, singing low as they cut through the air. Shamus watched with surprised fascination, seemingly uncertain what to make of the unfamiliar movements. She needed to take care. By the way he moved, this man had survived a number of fights.

He moved warily, probing the perimeter of her swings. Where the batons made contact with his blade a distinct clack echoed. Cautious not to hit the dagger on the edge, she struck only the flat of his weapon. This pattern went on for a while, his probing, her defending. He sought a weakness. She strove not to show one.

Shamus stepped in for a slash. Anna deflected most of his blow, but the tip grazed her left arm between the elbow and shoulder, causing a familiar sting and warmth as blood flowed.

He tossed her a wicked grin and a taunt. No time to think, only focus on the here, the now. Another slash and she swung both sticks in response. Each made contact with the wrist holding his blade, creating the distinctive smack-smack sound of wood on meat. Shamus dropped his blade. From the force of contact, she hoped for a broken bone.

Allowing the batons to continue to circle after the strike, she brought them both down to crash into the outside of his knee, spinning as she swung to add more force to the blow. The twin strikes buckled his leg, driving his knee into the soft turf. As she continued her spin, Anna used the momentum of her last attack to power the next, aiming for the back of his skull where the spine joined. The double strikes—one after the other—to this vulnerable area rendered him unconscious with a sickening thud, dropping him like a felled tree.

Snatching up his fallen blade, she grabbed the back of his hair and placed the dagger against his throat. The crowd, which she’d ignored during the fight, fell into silence. She scanned the crowd for MacGregor. He stepped into the circle. She issued her challenge.

“Laird, this man owes me a life debt. Agreed?”

The laird stared at her with surprise for a moment before answering. “Aye, agreed.”

She dropped her unconscious opponent, turned and stalked toward her campsite.

“The blade,” Duncan barked.

Whirling to face him, her knuckles whitened as she fisted the dagger, tempted to fight her way back to Orion. After a moment’s hesitation, she flipped the knife over, blade now in her palm, and hurled it toward the fallen man. It struck between his legs a few inches below his manhood, pinning his plaide to the ground.

She stormed to her campsite. Fat drops of rain fell, pulling her attention away from the fight. She fixed the waxed cloth overhead on the two poles she’d cut earlier, anchoring the ends to a rock and a couple of stakes, giving it a tug to test its strength. She ambled to the stream and crossed it, not giving her back to the man following her. She washed as much as she dared with MacGregor present, then filled her water skin and a small cooking pot from her pack.

She returned to the fire and inspected her wound. A three-inch-long shallow slash oozed blood below her shoulder. Uttering a curse toward all things male, she wiped the blood away, grateful she’d sustained no greater injury. After boiling the water in the pot, Anna soaked both the needle and thread. She cleaned and stitched the wound, applying the same salve used on the injured men earlier. Fetching bandage material from her pack, she bound the cut.

Adding more wood to the fire, she positioned a number of small twigs around her site to signal her if anyone stepped close. Still seething over her treatment thus far, she sat cross-legged under her small shelter. Eyes closed, body relaxed, Anna forced her mind to still. After an hour of calm, she opened her eyes to the night. The fever from battle, along with most of her anger, had ebbed.

Stretching out, Anna wrapped up in her plaide, trying for as much sleep