The man snarled like he wanted a witness to hear it. “Ye think ye can lift what’s mine in front of me men?”
“I think ye should listen,” Alex said. “Ye are about to like the rules less than ye liked them this morning.”
The man drew his sword, and immediately, the ring went still. Stewards turned as one, and the braid on Erica’s wrist pulled tight against Alex’s knuckles. He did not draw on the first beat. He waited the length of a breath, in case the man had enough sense left to stop.
He did not. He brought the blade up in a short, ugly line meant for fear, not skill.
Alex drew then and struck immediately. It was a clean wave of movement and a clean cut with no heat in it. Steel met flesh. The man went down to his knees and dropped his sword. Blood ran bright on the packed earth. He clutched at his forearm and swore.
Shouts rose from three directions at once. A steward barked that the rules were broken. Someone on the far side yelled that MacGee’s name would not be pulled through dirt by a stranger.
“He started a war,” a voice threw from behind the crowd. “He drew his sword in the festival!”
Alex looked that way and did not bother to find the mouth it came from. “Do ye think I care?”
He lifted his chin at the nearest steward. “Truce stands. He drew first. Bind him. Fine his party and take them to the rope.”
The steward moved. Two more closed on the bleeding man. Other captains stepped in late and tried to look early.
Alex kept himself between Erica and every hand that wanted a share of the noise. He did not lower his blade until the steel was back in a sheath at his side. He felt her breath steady behind him, felt the line between what had been and what was now.
“Stay with me,” he said, without turning. “Ye’re safe for now.”
Laird MacGee spat a curse, clutching his arm while stewards closed on him, bound the wound, and marched his men toward the rope. He kept his head high, yet the set of his mouth showed what he could not swallow.
Erica watched him go until the crowd opened and swallowed the sight. A breath she had been holding in since he had dropped the mask left her in a rush.
She turned to the man at her side. “Thank ye.”
“It’s nae every day I get to help a woman in need,” he said, light as if they stood at a market and not beside fresh blood. “I’m near accustomed to rescuing damsels, truth be told.”
She shook her head. “Ye just had to ruin it.”
He raised a brow. “Ruin what?”
“The moment.”
“Aye,” he said. “I do have that talent.”
“Proud now, are ye?”
“I preferaccurate,” he said. “Ye will find I am a great many things, and wrong is seldom one.”
Erica folded her arms, grateful that her mask covered her lips at that moment. “Ye sound like a man who likes hearing his own voice.”
“I like hearing sense. Mine is what I have at hand.”
She studied him. The mask hid half his face, yet his lips grew steadier than ever. He stood and spoke as if he had only finished a chore.
“Ye ken, ye look a touch pleased with yerself,” she noted.
“A touch,” he said. “Nay more.”
“And if I said ye should try a little humility?”
“I would say I save it for Sundays.”
“Do ye pray?”
