He moved around to face her again, and the instant he let go of her sword arm, the heavy point dropped to the floor.
He sat on the footboard of the bed, curling his big hands around it. “It’s a sophisticated technique, lass. Only the strongest, most able of men can manage it.”
She was both amused and aroused by his confidence. “And I supposeyoufall into that category?”
“Aye. I’m the best there is.”
“Is that a fact?” She leaned the sword against the wall by the door and smiled at him cheekily. “Why don’t you describe to me the details of your supreme talents? I long to know them.”
He inclined his head at her, then moved into position to demonstrate. “It goes something like this. You approach the bayonet line at a run, then dip low with the left leg, thrust the bayonet upward with your shield, then move ahead with your other foot, strike the soldier to the right with your sword, while you dirk the front-ranked man in the chest.”
All her muscles went weak as he showed her the complex maneuver.
“That’s it?” she replied, however, folding her arms at her chest. “Sounds simple enough.”
In a flash, he scooped her into his arms and carried her to the bed. She shrieked with laughter and sighed when he came down upon her, kissing her deeply on the mouth.
“If you’re not impressed by that,” he said in a husky voice, “I will impress you some other way.”
“I have no doubt that you will.”
He tossed her skirts up and settled into a very different sort of charge that displayed an equally supreme set of skills.
For hours they made love without inhibitions, and each stroke of a finger, each kiss, each whisper of endearment, lifted their passions to new heights.
Gwendolen fell asleep in his arms, exhausted and satisfied. But not even the blissful haze of her dreams could diminish the terror she experienced when she woke up to an explosion of feathers beside her head, as a steel blade came slashing through the air and cut deep into Angus’s pillow.
Chapter Fourteen
Instantly awake, Angus rolled off the bed just in time to avoid the strike. He leaped to his feet and strained to see through the darkness as the intruder sliced through his pillow and nearly took Gwendolen’s head off in the process.
The prospect of her death hit him like a punch in the gut. It was followed by a wild fury of rage—and a debilitating dread that was completely unfamiliar to him, for he had never experienced a fear like this in any previous hand-to-hand combat. But he was not just thinking of himself tonight. There was another to protect.
Naked and unarmed, Angus backed away on agile feet to draw the man away from the bed. The enemy clansman was already spinning on a heel to swing his blade.
“Angus! Take this!”
Gwendolen tossed a dagger at him—the same one she had used to defend herself against him when he first came to her bed.
He caught it by the grip and tossed it into the air, then caught it again in an overhanded hold. Dropping to the floor, he rolled to avoid another swing of the intruder’s sword. A pulse beat later, he was plunging the dirk into the Highlander’s side.
The man crumpled forward with a raspy groan and fell to the floor, dead at Angus’s feet.
He immediately disarmed the intruder, while Gwendolen scrambled across the bed and dashed into his arms.
“Are you all right, lass?” he asked. “Are you hurt?”
“I’m fine. Is he dead?”
“Aye.” He crouched down to turn the Highlander over. “Go light a candle. I need to see this man’s face.”
Gwendolen moved to the table, fumbled with the flint, then struck a flame. She brought the candle closer and held it over the dead man’s body.
“It’s the MacEwen tartan,” she said.
“Do you know him?”
“No, I’ve never seen him before. What was he doing here? How did he get in? The door was locked.”
