Wager with a Warrior - Emma Prince

Chapter One

October, 1332

Scottish Highlands

Gregor MacLeod wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. It came away with a smear of red, confirming the metallic tang of blood on his tongue.

He lifted a brow at his opponent, the first to land a blow all day.

“A fair shot.”

The man opposite him puffed with smug satisfaction. Those gathered in the alehouse, especially the man’s fellow Sutherlands, roared in approval.

“Get him, Willem!”

“Fists up, laddie!”

“Knock the Black MacLeod on his arse!”

Gregor eyed the crowd. They’d been loosened with ale and coiled back up again with outrage—directed squarely at him. The men pushing in around him were clearly spoiling to see Gregor beaten.

And no surprise in that—he’d already defeated most of the best warriors from amongst the various clans gathered for the Caithness Games. Their clan pride pricked, these men were all too happy to see Gregor taken down a peg or two.

His current opponent, Willem, shuffled toward him once again, his hands balled into fists before him. The man was nearly a head shorter than Gregor, yet half again as wide. He was built like a bull, stocky, shoulder-heavy, and relatively low to the ground.

Then again, everyone seemed low to the ground from Gregor’s towering vantage.

He softened his knees and widened his feet in anticipation of Willem’s next attack. Of course, because the man had managed to land a punch by feigning right and swinging left, he repeated the exact same move.

Gregor was more than ready. He ducked under Willem’s flying fist, then delivered a sharp punch to the man’s exposed ribs.

Willem staggered backward, clutching his side. The crowd rumbled in anger at Gregor’s successful hit.

Gregor paid them no more attention than a buzzing swarm of midges. He’d given the Sutherland lad a fair chance. Hell, the man had even drawn blood, which would surely soothe his pride and give him a wee something to boast about later. But there was no point in drawing this out longer than necessary.

As Willem approached again, this time warily, Gregor purposefully dropped his guard on the left, letting his shoulder and fist sag as if he were already growing fatigued.

It was convincing bait. After all, he’d been fighting all damn day—all damn month.

It seemed this was the only way to gather an army to stand against the Pretender King, Edward Balliol. Gregor’s wager was simple—any man he bested in combat had to pledge loyalty to Gregor’s cause and agree to fight against Balliol when the time came.

Gregor would build this army even if he had to battle every last man in the Highlands. Using his impressive size, strength, and nigh-preternatural skill in combat was all he was good for anyway.

Just as he’d intended, Willem’s muddy gaze shot to Gregor’s lowered defenses. The man wound up for what would have been a crushing punch—if he’d landed it.

But the Sutherland moved like a lumbering ox, slow and predictable from a league away.

With a quick step, Gregor closed the distance between them. He delivered two fast hits to the man’s middle, causing him to sag forward. With Willem’s chin hanging out in the open, Gregor dispensed a devastating uppercut.

Willem went flying backward, landing on the alehouse rushes with a muted thump. His compatriots closed in around him, urging him back onto his feet, but he was out cold.

Gregor scanned the alehouse wearily. “Anyone else wish to have a go?”

“Black MacLeod.”

The sound of a woman’s voice had Gregor’s head whipping around. Many in the crowd, too, craned to see who had spoken, apparently unaware that a lass had been in their midst.

Over the turned heads of the others, Gregor’s gaze landed on a wee slip of a lass pressed back into one of the alehouse’s corners. Her chestnut head bobbed as she pushed her way through those gathered. When she broke into the circle that had been cleared in the middle of the room for the fight, he got his first good look at her.

She was petite, the top of her head not quite clearing Gregor’s shoulder, yet she was no bairn. Her gentle curves were unmistakable beneath her simple blue gown.

Wide, moss-green eyes fringed with dark lashes were set in her heart-shaped face. Two bright flags of color sat on her softly rounded cheekbones, a contrast to her otherwise creamy skin. This close, he could make out a smattering of freckles across the bridge of her pert nose.

But what captivated Gregor’s full attention was the lass’s mouth. Petal-pink and sinfully full, her lips were lush and more than generous.

“Is it true?”