The lass’s lip curled in disgust as she watched the Scot grab the front of his breeks.
“The only thing ye are going tae give me is the pox.”
His companions laughed, and James had to chuckle himself at the witty comeback, but the Scot’s face mottled with anger, clearly not entertaining the jest like the others.
“I’m gonna give ye a reason tae open that mouth of yers,” he sneered, pulling his own sword. “And soon ye will be begging for me, lass.”
She gave him a dark smile, beckoning him forward and causing James to step out of his position, his sword held before him.
“Come on then,” she said, not seeing James. “Try yer best.”
By the gods, the lass had a death wish! James let out a roar as he charged forward, hoping to get in front of her before the first sword was able to fall.
He couldn’t fail to protect her from these louts!
6
Moments before…
Iris eyed the Scots with some irritation that they had ruined her chance of getting a decent night’s sleep for once. Around them, the celebration continued, but after a few mugs of ale, she longed for her bed.
First, however, she would have to deal with these drunken Scots.
Her hand gripped the hilt of the sword, the familiar weight of the iron making her smile. While some were comforted by the hands of their loved ones or the warmth of a smile, Iris was just as happy with her sword in her hand. This was what made her happy in her life.
“Come on then,” she challenged, feeling the familiar thrill rush through her body. “Try yer best.”
There was a dull roar from somewhere behind her, but her eyes were on her attackers, waiting for one of them to charge first.
Or all of them. It mattered not. She had been in worse situations than this.
The first lunged, but before his sword could collide with hers, there was a blur of another body that stepped in her line of sight, taking the brunt of the sword.
Surprised, Iris stumbled back a ways to keep from stabbing the person. Was it one of her brothers who was coming to her aid?
“Ye bastard!” one of the Scots called out, charging the two fighting in front of her.
Iris turned her attention to the approaching Scot and stopped him with her sword, the vibration of their metal clanging together reverberating in her body. Instinct took over then, and she parried with the Scot, whose movements were slow and likely attributed to the amount of ale they had consumed.
Iris went through her own motions, her father’s voice in her head the entire time. He had always demanded she had the same fighting skills as her brothers and would often come to their sparring sessions when she was younger to tell her all the things that were wrong with her fighting skills.
Even in battle, she heard his voice sometimes, a constant reminder that her fighting skills could be better, thatshecould be better.
Iris tightened her lips and disarmed the Scot, planting her boot into his torso and sending him sprawling to the ground. She had barely a moment before the next drunken lout was on her, his beefy arms locking her against his body. Iris gagged at the smell of unwashed body and stale ale that was emanating from her attacker, tamping down the fear that threatened to rise in her throat.
She wasn’t afraid of these bastards. She had faced far worse in her lifetime.
“Not so tough now, are ye, lass?” he leered while Iris attempted to push her way out of his tight grip on her. “I am going tae teach ye a lesson that ye will never forget.”
He only wished he would be able to do so. With a roar of her own, Iris stomped on his booted foot hard as she shifted all her weight forward, throwing him off balance as she did so. They tumbled into the dirt, but it was enough for him to loosen his grasp on her.
Iris scrambled to her feet, finding her sword so that she could hold it to the Scot’s thick neck.
“Wot do ye think aboot this lesson?” she forced out, her heart pounding in her chest. “Hmm?”
His gaze narrowed but he didn’t attempt to knock her sword aside.
“We were just looking for a good time,” he growled, glancing at the sword. “That is all, lass.”
