Bridget rolled her eyes, but her insides warmed to the fact that she was locked in his arms and not Fraser’s. “Well, ye wilnae be the one who has tae listen tae his moaning after ye leave aboot how ye bested him.”
Bruce grinned. “That I dinnae, but perhaps I wilnae leave empty-handed this time.”
His words were soft, but Bridget heard them just fine, missing one of the steps to the dance as a result. What could he possibly mean about that statement?
“Tell me ye dinnae feel this between us,” he continued, pulling her just a bit closer as a mournful ballad about doomed lovers filled the air. “And I will walk away now.”
Her lips parted. She wanted to tell him that he was wrong about his thinking, but was he truly? Bridget knew she had felt something different whenever he was around, something she had never felt with anyone else.
“I...I dinnae ken wot I feel,” she said honestly.
“Then we agree,” he answered, his expression softening. “That we both might be doomed.”
It was Bridget’s turn to laugh. “I dinnae know if I like being doomed.”
His smile took her breath away, and the quivering in her stomach returned. “As long as it is with ye, I can withstand it.”
Bridget was suddenly aware that her hand had moved from his shoulder to his chest, pressed up against where his heart was beating as quickly as hers was. Bruce’s eyes transfixed on her lips, and she wet them nervously, wondering if she was about to experience her first kiss from a complete stranger. He leaned close, and her eyes fluttered closed, anticipation eating at her gut.
“Bandits!”
Bridget’s eyes flew open, and she jerked away from Bruce, who had already released her. “Get to safety!” he yelled at her as he took off in the confusion.
Bridget tried to locate her father in the crowd, but couldn’t, instead seeing the masked bandits riding hard into the pasture, their swords raised.
She knew exactly where they were headed. “Protect the cattle!” she shouted, picking up her skirts and running to the fence where the cows were located. Fresh meat was what the bandits were usually after, though in their pursuit, they usually trampled what was left of the crops.
Thank God they had finished that work, or the crops would have been lost.
Reaching the fence, she stood in front of the gate, her entire body trembling. The tenants were fighting back, and luckily there were not many this time, but few were armed this evening. She spied her father raising his sword—one that he had fashioned himself—to one of the bandits, successfully knocking him off his horse in an instant.
Wasting no time, Bridget reached under her skirt and pulled the dagger out of its sheath strapped to her thigh, something she never went anywhere without. She had learned long ago that she was the only means to defend herself.
But as a bandit caught sight of her and started to approach, Bridget felt some of her courage flee.
“Wot do we have here?” he asked as he slid from the horse, his voice muffled by the rag he wore around the lower half of his face. “Come here, lass. I wilnae hurt ye.”
“Stay away,” Bridget said bravely, holding her dagger aloft.
He chuckled, holding out his hands. “I’m unarmed. ’Tis been a long while since I’ve had a pretty lass like ye. Maybe I will take ye as spoils.”
He started to advance, and Bridget pressed her body against the fence, attempting to remember where her father told her to go for first.
“Leave the lass alone.”
Bridget’s knees weakened as Bruce came into view, his sword gleaming in the moonlight. “Wot’s this?” the bandit asked, drawing his sword. “Did ye simple tenants pay for protection?”
“’Tis none of yer concern,” Bruce stated, palming his sword. “Come pick on someone of yer own size and not the lass.”
The bandit growled as he looked back at Bridget. “Ye’re going tae be mine,” he stated. “Once this bastard is dead.”
Bruce’s smile grew deadly. “Come and let’s see if ye can foretell the future then.”
The bandit roared, and Bridget cried out as their swords clashed together, the sound echoing in her ears. For a moment, she feared for Bruce, the heaviness in her heart nearly overwhelming at what might happen.
But it didn’t take her long to realize that the bandit had underestimated the handsome stranger. Bruce fought like that of a warrior, just as her father had pointed out, and in a matter of minutes, he had disarmed the bandit and had his sword pressed against the bandit’s throat, close enough to draw blood.
“Do ye yield?” he called. “Or shall I cut yer miserable throat?”
