Elijah’s arms tightened around the lass instinctively. She stiffened against him, but didn’t pull away. Couldn’t, probably. She was trapped between him and the other man.
“I daenae think so,” Elijah said, his voice cold. “Accordin’ to the rules of yer twisted little game, if ye fail to claim yer prey and another catches her, she belongs to the new hunter.” He looked the other man up and down with contempt. “Ye failed. She’s mine now.”
“Like hell she is!” The man took a step forward. “I tracked her for ten minutes! She’s mine by right!”
“Ye tracked her and lost her,” Elijah corrected. “And apparently got bit for yer troubles. That’s nae claimin’, friend. That’s failin’.”
The lass in his arms trembled. Elijah could feel every shudder, every frightened breath.
Part of him wanted to tell her the truth—that he was here to save her, not harm her. That this entire hunt was about to be destroyed, its organizers arrested or worse.
But he couldn’t. Not yet. Not with this fool in front of him who might ruin everything.
“I’m nae yer friend,” the man spat. “And I’m nae lettin’ ye take what’s mine. We’ll fight for her. Winner takes the prize.”
Prize.
The word made Elijah’s blood boil. This woman wasn’t a prize. She was a person. A terrified, brave person who’d been sold into this nightmare.
“Fine,” Elijah said. He looked down at the lass in his arms. Up close, she was even more beautiful. Soft curves that made his hands itch to explore. Full lips that he had no business thinking about. And eyes, gray as a winter storm, that held pain and strength in equal measure. “Stay here. This willnae take long.”
He set her down gently, and she stumbled back against a tree. Her gaze darted between him and the other laird, calculating her chances of escape.
“Daenae even think about it,” the other man warned her. “Ye run, and whoever wins will make ye pay for it.”
Elijah said nothing, but he stepped between the lass and her pursuer. Let the bastard think what he wanted. In a few minutes, it wouldn’t matter.
“Ready?” the other laird asked, drawing a short sword from his belt.
Elijah drew his own blade. “Aye. Are ye?”
The man attacked first—a wild, reckless swing that Elijah sidestepped easily.
No training at all.
Elijah was almost disappointed.
This really willnae take long.
The laird swung again, putting all his strength behind it. Elijah parried, the clash of steel ringing through the forest. Behind him, he heard the lass gasp.
“Stay back,” Elijah ordered without looking at her. “Daenae want ye catchin’ a stray blade.”
“Worried about yer prize?” the other man sneered, circling. “Scared I’ll damage her?”
“Nay,” Elijah said calmly. “Worried ye’re such a poor swordsman ye might accidentally hit somethin’ ye’re nae aimin’ for.”
The laird’s face went purple with rage. He charged, blade high, leaving his entire left side exposed.
Amateur.
Elijah stepped into the man’s guard, blocked the downward strike, and drove his elbow into the laird’s ribs. The man wheezed, stumbling. Elijah followed with a sweep of his leg that sent the laird crashing to the ground.
“Yield,” Elijah said, pointing his sword at the man’s throat. “This is over.”
“Go to hell,” the laird gasped, trying to rise.
Elijah pressed the tip of his blade against the man’s neck—not hard enough to break skin, but enough to make his point. “I said, yield. Unless ye want this to end with ye bleedin’ out in the dirt like the worthless piece of shite ye are.”
