“Och lass, I dinnae think that ye cannae handle yerself at all. Perhaps I was just hoping ye would show me a hint of appreciation for saving yer life.”
Iris tried to break their hold, but he held firm, his warm fingers brushing over her skin lightly. She found herself wanting to lean into his touch, her thoughts muddled as to what she should do. This Scot infuriated her but also had her feeling things she shouldn’t.
Things she had never felt before.
“Let me go.”
He held her for a beat more before dropping her wrists, and Iris stumbled backward to put some distance between them.
“I did as ye asked,” he said in a low voice. “Wot do ye want now, lass?”
She wanted… She couldn’t tell him what she wanted! It was embarrassing and confusing.
It wasn’t at all what she had come here for.
“Stay out of mah way,” she warned him, her voice shaking a bit with each word. Iris needed to leave and forget this night ever happened.
He smoothed his hair back off his face, tying it with a leather thong.
“’Tis kind of hard tae do so, lass, when we keep meeting like this.” He finished his task before grinning at her. “Something tells me our meetings might be fate.”
Iris snorted. “Then next time I wilnae hesitate tae run mah sword through ye.” She took a step forward, her eyes boring into his as she gave him a hard smile. “Wot do ye think aboot that, Scot?”
“James,” he repeated, no hint of fear in his eyes. “Mah name is James.”
Iris opened her mouth to retort, to say something witty, but couldn’t form any words on her tongue. Her cheeks flamed, and she was grateful for the night so that he wouldn’t see her embarrassment. Turning instead, she stalked off in the direction of her tent, her hands clenched at her sides. How dare he taunt her so! Step into her business like he had a right to do so!
She had that small bit of excitement handled herself.
Blowing out a hard breath, Iris forced herself to think about how he had made her feel, the ire of his intrusion now fading from her memory. He made her feel, well, unsettled. It wasn’t that she was frightened of him. No, that was far from the truth.
It was the way he had touched her, the way his eyes had seemed to want to look upon her not as an enemy or even as the daughter of Laird Wallace but as something more.
Something she didn’t quite understand.
Iris reached her tent and slipped inside, removing her weapons carefully. She had never been looked upon like that before. Most Scots were afraid of her brothers or under the assumption that she was a warrior, nothing more.
Which was how Iris preferred it.
Yet this Scot—James, as he had informed her—didn’t even know who she was. He didn’t know her as her father’s daughter or a warrior in her own right.
Shaking her head, Iris stripped down to her tunic and climbed into the pile of blankets that would suffice as her bed for the duration of their visit. All around her tent, the celebration went on, the bonfires casting shadows that danced along the rough canvas and affording very little privacy for Iris.
It mattered not, she decided, who he was or what he had done up until this moment. He was going to be in the games in the morning and therefore was her enemy until it was complete. She didn’t need the distraction.
She wouldn’t allow the distraction to consume her.
But as she turned to her side in the darkness, Iris traced where his fingers had gripped her wrists, allowing herself to remember the warmth of that touch. He had touched her in a manner she wasn’t familiar with, and despite all the promises she was making to herself, she wanted him to do so again.
7
The next morning, James stood with the rest of his clan in the mist-covered pasture. There were a lot of bleary eyes that he had encountered, but no one was going to miss the opening of the games. No clan was going to allow the other to think they were weak because they couldn’t handle their ale.
James looked up at the flag that was flapping in the cool morning breeze and felt a sense of pride for what he was about to do. Regardless of what his father thought, he could defend his clan as well, and this was going to be the beginning of that defense.
Next to him, his father stood, his hands clasped behind his back. James had often thought that his father should have been a warrior himself. He knew that though he was an advisor to the laird, the elder didn’t shirk on keeping his form in top shape. His father had told him once that he would take a sword for the laird, but it didn’t mean he didn’t know how to fight back.
James believed it. His father took his position seriously, and if giving up his life for his laird was what he had to do, then he would do it.
