“Och, lass, I dinnae like tae run.”
“But do ye like tae fight?”
The familiar voice sent a wave of relief through Bridget as the warrior whirled around, bringing her with him. Irvine stood only a few feet away, his sword in his hand, and she gasped at the sight of the blood on his tunic, the cuts on his face that made him look like an avenging warrior and not the mild-mannered farmer that had sent her blood soaring with his kisses.
The warrior laughed and thrust Bridget away, causing her to fall into the snow with a cry. “Aye, I do, and I will be glad tae cut down the son of McMillian in the process.”
Irvine grinned, his expression hard. “I would like tae see ye try.”
The warrior lost his humor, and his gaze narrowed. “Then let’s get tae it.”
Bridget watched with bated breath as the two men charged each other, their swords clashing in a furious arc. Irvine bested the warrior quickly, but his boots seemed to move slower in the rapidly growing snow, and the warrior was able to overcome the furious assault, catching Irvine on his injured shoulder.
“Nay!” Bridget cried as Irvine seemed to fall backward, catching himself before he sprawled to the ground. He was up fighting immediately, catching what would have been a death blow with his sword and pushing the warrior back. They went back and forth like that for what seemed like centuries, and when Irvine was able to get the warrior to the ground, her throat froze as his sword went across the warrior in a furious swipe.
“Seems I cut ye down,” he answered, breathing heavily as he pushed off the warrior.
Bridget hurried over to him. “Ye’re hurt!”
His eyes landed on her. “Are ye, lass? Are ye hurt?”
“Nay,” she responded, biting her lip to keep from sobbing. “Ye came back.”
Irvine’s jaw worked. “’Tis not the time, lass. But aye, I came back.”
He was right, of course. Fighting was still going on around them, and until the warriors were either wounded or dead, that was their focus.
“Go tae the barn,” he urged, wiping the blood off his sword. “Yer da is there.”
“Nay,” she breathed. “I want tae fight.”
He reached out and grasped her hand, blood flecking his skin. Bridget would have normally pulled away at the sight, but she was so happy to see him that the blood on him didn’t bother her.
“Please,” he whispered, his breath tickling the loose hair around her face. “I need tae know ye will be safe.”
“’Tis mah farm too,” she answered softly. “I cannae run.”
He swore and pulled her to him, pressing his lips to hers in a hard kiss. “Stay safe then,” he growled, pulling away. “I will be back for ye.”
Dazed from his kiss, she watched as he stalked away, his sword gleaming in the dying fire that had been one of the huts.
Irvine was back. She couldn’t believe he had come back, presumably to save their farm. What did that mean?
Now wasn’t the time to be thinking through it. There were more important things she needed to see to.
Bridget found her rake in the snow and grasped it in her cold hands. She wasn’t about to abandon those that needed her help. If her father was in the barn, then he was safe.
That and Irvine was out here, fighting for a farm that he didn’t even belong to. He was fighting for people that he barely knew; that warmed her heart.
He had come back.
Setting her jaw, Bridget forced her feet to move from her current position and toward those that needed her help. She was doing what her father couldn’t—what a true leader would be doing—and that was protecting those that had put their faith in this life.
In this farm.
With a yell, she helped one of the tenants fight off a warrior, using the rake to knock the sword out of his hand and catch him off guard. Malcolm raced by and cut the warrior down, winking at her as he did so.
They still had hope.
