Wager with a Warrior - Emma Prince Page 0,2
observed, she did not fear that he would lose his temper, and with it, his control. Nay, she’d watched him best four men already without so much of a ruffle to his cold, almost bored demeanor.
The real danger was that he wouldn’t be baited by her taunts, that he would simply brush her off like a fly and walk away, leaving her no better off than when she’d arrived at the Caithness Games.
Which was to say, desperate.
To her combined relief and trepidation, he paused, sweeping her with those dark, assessing eyes once more.
“Where is yer nursemaid, my lady? Ye shouldnae be in an alehouse alone.”
He was right, of course, but Birdie wasn’t about to admit that. Although she hadn’t traveled to the Games with a chaperone, she had brought along a half dozen guards. But she’d managed to slip away from them earlier that afternoon when she’d heard the whispers about the Black MacLeod.
The festivities had brought together the Sinclairs, Sutherlands, MacKays, and several other smaller clans for a sennight of competitions, buying and selling in the makeshift marketplace, and general merrymaking.
On the wide, flat green not far from the alehouse, men were testing themselves against one another in the caber toss, hammer throw, footraces, and several other games of strength and skill. The green was surrounded by canvas tents selling everything from wrought silver and gold jewelry to mince pies, cloth, and even late-season livestock.
The Caithness Games was one of the last festivals of the year in the Highlands, and all those gathered were eager to absorb as much cheer and entertainment as they could before the long winter set in. Plenty of women moved about the main festival, yet the alehouse was different.
This was an all-male space, where men came to drink and fight, not in the controlled way of the Games, but to settle scores and end feuds with their fists.
Or in the case of the Black MacLeod, to win a wager against the best warrior in the Highlands.
When she’d heard rumors that the Black MacLeod was here, and challenging men to test their might against him, she had to see for herself if the whispers about his fighting abilities were true.
He had not disappointed.
Now if only she could get him to square off against her.
“Ye said before that anyone who bested ye could hold ye in their service,” she said, ignoring his question. “Were ye lying, then?”
A few of the onlookers chortled at her continued needling.
“I’ll give ye something to hold onto, lass,” a man called out from the back of the alehouse.
That drew more snickers and another bawdy offer from elsewhere in the crowd.
They instantly fell silent, however, when the Black MacLeod swept a deadly glare over those gathered.
“Ye truly wish to fight me, lass?” he asked, settling his gaze on her once more.
Birdie swallowed. “Aye.”
He cocked a dark eyebrow at her. “Verra well. I’ll set ye on that bonny wee behind of yers as gently as I can, if it’s a lesson ye’re after. Just remember that ye wanted this.”
Despite the fact that her nerves were drawn taut as a drum head, Birdie almost snorted at the man’s arrogance.
Of course, she couldn’t beat him strength to strength. He was easily twice her size, and hewn of naught but battle-earned muscle.
Nay, she’d have to use the element of surprise—though from the looks of him, very little caught the Black MacLeod off-guard. Still, Birdie had precious few options.
She stepped farther into the open circle cleared around the Black MacLeod. He swept her with that cool, calculating gaze, and she had to resist the urge to shiver.
He softened his knees—bent them deeply, more like—so that he only stood half a head above her rather than head and shoulders. Then he lifted his hands in front of him, not even bothering to curl them into fists as he had against his other opponents.
“I’ll even let ye get in the first hit,” he said, his voice low and surprisingly velvety.
More derisive murmurs rippled through the crowd, but they quieted when Birdie lifted her own hands and took another step forward.
Standing this close, she could reach out and touch him if she wanted to. Her nearness afforded her a detailed view of the black stubble roughening his square jaw, and the flat press of his mouth.
Her gaze slid to the massive hands held loosely before him. His knuckles were covered in cuts and bruises from his many fights that day—and before, judging by the older scrapes and fine white scars.
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