“Of course you don’t,” Patrick said with a snort. He walked over and did Nathaniel the favor of pushing him back upright. He looked at the grime now on his hand, then at Nathaniel. “Don’t expect any more help than that and leave your woman to her work. She’ll see to it well enough.”
She supposed that was enough of a vote of confidence for her. She smiled at Nathaniel, then turned to face his cousin.
“Is this any better,” she asked politely, “or would you like to rest before we end this?”
Gerald looked at her in astonishment. “I can’t believe you expect me—”
That was the last thing he said for quite some time. She supposed all that dirty fighting Patrick MacLeod had taught her wasn’t exactly what Gerald was expecting, but her, er, boyfriend had spent almost two weeks in a medieval dungeon thanks to the idiot standing there, which she supposed disqualified him from any mercy she might have been willing to show. Considering that amount was exactly zero, she supposed he wasn’t going to have a very good morning.
His sword was sharp, though, and he grazed her arm before she decided that any Marquess of Queensbury rules were definitely off the table. She didn’t think it would go very well for her to just stab him, so she spent most of her time just nicking him and verbally getting under his skin. It was almost too easy to set him off, which left her thinking that maybe Poindexter MacLeod was smart not to let Gerald have control over any of his assets. She also was beginning to understand why John wasn’t terribly sad over not getting to see his son on holidays and long weekends.
“This is ridiculous!” Gerald shouted finally. “I don’t want her, I want a real swordsman—”
She took the hilt of Nathaniel’s dirk and smashed it into Gerald’s nose.
Gerald dropped his sword and clutched his face. “She broke my nose!”
Emma kicked him as hard as she could in the gut, sending him sprawling. She flipped his sword up with her foot, then tossed it to Patrick, who reached out and casually caught it by the hilt. She paused for a moment to appreciate that medieval nonchalance, then looked back at her fallen foe, who was rolling around on the ground, howling.
“You tried to kill my—” Emma paused, which was annoying because she quite suddenly lost the rhythm of the diatribe she had been getting ready to let loose.
“Future husband,” Nathaniel called.
Emma looked at Gerald. “My future husband,” she said. “Now, get up and stop being such a baby. It’s no wonder your grandfather doesn’t want you having any of his stuff when you act like this.”
Gerald actually kicked his heels and pounded his hands against the ground. She had never seen anything like it before. She checked him over for other weapons, saw none, then decided she had done all she could do. It was going to be up to Nathaniel to make some decisions—
Or maybe Archibald Poindexter MacLeod, Jr., could jump right in and offer an opinion.
She shifted so she could still see Gerald out of the corner of her eye and looked at the little collection of men who were leaning against the railing of Nathaniel’s porch. She spared a brief thought that if three of the four leaned any harder, the railing would simply give up, then took a moment or two to identify the players now involved in the current drama.
Patrick MacLeod was farthest to the left. He had shoved Gerald’s sword into the ground next to him and was currently standing there—not leaning—with his arms folded over his chest, smiling faintly. She supposed that was a smile of approval.
Nathaniel was next to him, wheezing. She didn’t expect anything else from him, but she thought he might be thinking kind thoughts about her.
She wasn’t so sure what Poindexter MacLeod and Franklin Baxter were thinking. They were both gaping at her as if they’d just witnessed a horror movie come to life. Emma retrieved the sheath of Nathaniel’s dagger, then walked over to hand it back to him. She shoved her own blade down the side of her boot, then looked at Nathaniel’s grandfather.
“Mr. MacLeod,” she said politely.
“Ahhh,” was all he managed.
She left him to his grappling with whatever he was thinking and turned to her father. “Dad.”
Her father’s mouth was working, but no sound was coming out.
She thought it might have been the most delicious moment of her life to date.
Dexter MacLeod looked at her father. “My grandson has wine inside. Perhaps we should go pour glasses all around.”
“Whisky instead,” Frank said. “Please.”
They felt their way into Nathaniel’s house. She watched them go, then looked at Nathaniel.
“They’ll drink your good stuff.”
“It’s locked.”
“Well, that’ll buy us ten minutes,” she said. She walked over to put her arms around him and tried not to think too hard about what he was covered in. She looked at Patrick. “Well?”
