Iris wanted to run him through with her sword, but if she did so, their clan would be subjected to the laird’s ire, and she didn’t think that her father would be very pleased with that.
So she removed her sword from his throat and took a step back.
“Get out of here,” she breathed. “Before I change mah mind and send ye tae the gods instead.”
He scrambled backward, and Iris turned toward the sound of fighting, watching as the Scot who had completely ruined her plans to fight the last of the bunch. It was the Scot from earlier, the very one who had taunted her after she had signed her name to the ledger.
The swords clanged in the air as they fought, sparks flying as the metal grated. While the other Scot was bigger, her “savior” was faster, lighter on his feet, and was clearly besting his opponent with each movement. Iris was angered that he feltthe need to fight her own battles, but she couldn’t help but be impressed by his sword fighting.
He had been trained well, it seemed.
Iris thought about stepping in but, watching him, felt the same flutters of warmth slide through her as she had earlier. His muscular back flexed with each movement under his tunic, his forearms tightening as he gripped his sword tightly in his grasp. His hair had fallen out of whatever confines he had gathered it in and now fell like a red waterfall about his face, obscuring his handsome features.
Still, Iris found it hard to breathe as he went in for the block, his opponent falling back a moment later. He stood over the Scot just like she had, his sword pointed at his throat.
“Apologize tae the lass,” he said, surprising Iris.
The Scot’s expression darkened. “Nay.”
Her companion pressed the sword against his throat until a bead of blood welled at the point.
“Apologize tae the lass, or I will turn ye over tae the laird. I imagine he wilnae take kindly tae wot ye have done this eve. And the shame?” He tsked, pushing his hair back so Iris could see the smirk on his face. “Ye will be outcasted by yer own clan.”
“Mah apologies, lass,” the Scot finally said, his voice stiff and full of hatred for what he was being forced to do.
Iris slid her sword back into its resting place before crossing her arms over her chest.
“I dinnae wish tae see ye again, Scot.”
“Ye won’t,” he growled.
“Let him be.”
Her companion hesitated but finally removed his sword from the man’s neck, allowing him to get to his feet and escape into the shadows of the camp. He sheathed his own sword before turning toward her, his eyes raking down her form.
“Are ye hurt, lass?”
Iris ignored the sudden warmth from the caring in his voice, giving him her best hard stare.
“Nay, I’m not. Why did ye feel the need tae step intae mah business?”
He arched a brow. “Ye were in trouble.”
“Nay I wasnae,” she forced out, torn between the need to touch him or hit him. She didn’t understand why she was feeling this sort of way or what it meant, but she needed to break whatever connection he thought they had now before it got out of hand.
After all, she was not at the gathering for a dalliance. She was there to win the games and move on.
“Ye put yer own nose in mah business, Scot. I dinnae appreciate it.”
He let out a laugh that sent shivers down her spine.
“From where I was, lass, ye were outnumbered and in sore need of a partner.”
She shoved him then, her hands colliding with the hard planes of his chest. He barely moved an inch when she did so, and it only irritated her further.
“I can handle mahself, ye arse! Dinnae think anything other than that!"
He chuckled, gripping her wrists in his hands and holding her in place.
