James shook his head. “Nay, I dinnae think I will.”
He didn’t want to look into the faces of the Scots from earlier and see the pity in their eyes at what they thought was a weak Scot. He was far from weak.
That and James didn’t think that Irvine would take too kindly to him challenging his warriors—members of his own clan—during the gathering.
Matteau arched a brow. “Will ye be alright then?”
“Go on,” he told his friend, giving him a small grin. “I wish for a clear head when the sun rises.”
The warrior seemed to believe him, and after a nod, Matteau disappeared into the crowd of Scots, leaving James to watch his retreat.
After another mug of ale, James decided to wander around the camps, keeping to the shadows so he wouldn’t be noticed. There were all sizes of tents in the pasture, from the most elaborate one that had the comforts of a keep to smaller ones that held a warrior or two and nothing else. There were far more tartans flapping in the evening breeze than James could recognize, and he wondered if there were more clans than had been expected to come.
Everyone liked a reason to gather and drink, after all.
Stepping over a passed-out Scot in the path before him, James wandered over to the sparring ring that had been erected, a wry smile on his lips as he watched two Scots go at it, barely sober enough to remain on their own two feet. The crowd that was gathered was jeering at them, and it was only the fates of the gods that neither had a sword in their hands lest they accidentally kill each other.
James stood there and watched the scene before him, laughing as one took a swing at the other and fell face-first on his face. His clan members were at his side in an instant, laughing as they helped him back to his feet and thrust a mug of ale in his hands.
It wasn’t a fight at all.
James moved past the crowd, walking along the path until he saw a familiar face ahead of him.
It was the lass from earlier, the very one who had signed up to fight in the games herself.
His steps slowed, his throat suddenly dry. She wasn’t one of the lasses he had seen in the keep before but reminded him more of a lass who could handle herself. She had not backed down from his jests earlier, instead challenging him in the midst of a crowd. As she had walked away, James had found himself more than intrigued to find her again.
He had never encountered another like her.
Not only that, but she was a bonny lass, from her red curls that brushed her shoulders to the way her clothing was draped about her form, giving him a healthy view of her curves underneath. She wore no tartan like most of the others around her, and when she lifted her mug to her lips, James ceased to breathe, feeling as if a horse had kicked him square in the chest.
Bloody hell, he wanted to know her name.
His sight was suddenly obscured by a pair of drunken louts and he pushed them aside, disappointed to see that the lass had moved from her position.
No, he wasn’t going to wait until tomorrow to learn her name!
Releasing a low curse, he stalked forward, deeper into the shadows of the tents and further away from the ruckus near the bonfires. She couldn’t have gotten far unless she had dipped into one of the tents, which meant his cause would be lost for the evening. While James knew he would see her at the games in the morning, he didn’t want their next encounter to be while she held a sword in her hands.
Never before had a lass intrigued him so.
James skirted around a tent before he finally spied her up ahead, still alone with a mug in her hand. Why did he feel suddenly nervous about approaching her? She couldn’t possibly know who he was or his past, but the thought of her turning her nose up at him didn’t sit right.
Right now, she would only know him as a participant in the games. That was all she needed to know.
As he approached her, he saw three men materialize out of the shadows, carrying their own mugs as they crowded the lass.
“Wot do we have here?” one of them laughed, his eyes raking over her body and setting James’s anger alive.
“Looks like a lass!” another called out. “Look at that hair! Wot’s yer name, lass?”
“None of yer business!” she shouted back. “Leave me alone if ye wish tae keep those hands of yers.”
James withdrew the sword from its scabbard as he approached, attempting to choose which one he would strike first.
The Scots laughed, and he saw the lass reach for her own sword, holding it aloft.
“Come now, lass,” one of them drawled as James reached the final shadowed spot before he would reveal himself. “We dinnae mean any harm. We can give ye a real good time if ye come with us.”
