Page 17 of A Highland Rogue to Ruin

“…has nay been an instance of cheating since ’39…” a scribe was saying.

“The rules clearly state”—the seneschal jabbed a parchment, objections rippling through the crowd as the two camps of celebrants formed a battle line, lobbing arguments across at one another—“a boon may be requested in equal value of the winning purse.”

“But she won. The rules are in place if someone cheats another from winning…”

Illness roiled as the rush of winning wore off. To know he’d lost because he’d helped her, and now stood to be accused of cheating. If their clans were ever to have peace, why couldn’t she be the one to perpetuate it now?

She never lied. She was the only one who knew the truth, too.

“…doesnae matter. Still tampered with the opponent to try to win…illegal…”

“Expelled, too…”

“Then it’s settled.” The seneschal nodded to the others, heaving a disappointed breath.

“Aye. Settled,” his officials agreed, shuffling the parchments back into their portfolios.

Rose turned toward the crowd.

“Laird MacLeod! Come forth!”

Brighde dared another glance at Tormund as the onlookers parted for him, whispering like winds over the moors at his expense. His face was tight. Chest heaving in furious breaths, teeth gritted so hard, Brighde feared he’d crack them. He dismounted with a heavy thud, his great kilt swaying around his legs, tunic covered in dust and sticking to his sweaty frame.

He passed off the reins and lumbered forth. Each footfall drew him closer like a winch cranking up a portcullis. A rock flew from an anonymous hand and pummeled his cheekbone, splitting his skin. Yet he stared only at her, unflinching, as a droplet of blood oozed from the cut. As if impervious to their hate.

He hopped up the opposite side of the dais deftly, despite his tall frame, and loomed. She leaned to see around James, who’d stepped toe-to-toe with him.

Her heart stopped. That wasn’t a shadow upon his neck, but a vicious scar cutting a path from his collarbone up and over his jaw.

He was magnificent. Wild.

She took in his tunic, the sleeves rolled up his forearms. Tattoos and scars adorned his skin, patterns of sea monsters and sailing ships, waves and whales and fish, silvery scars that painted a subtle story across his body. Adventure. He lived his life like her brother did, going where he wished, when he wished, how he wished.

And his eyes…so dark and familiar. Flecked in gold and maple striations that glittered in the sunlight, depths she felt like she knew… Tingling erupted in her belly, across her skin.

“Émile Tormund MacLeod. Ye’ve been caught attempting to thrust nay just an opponent, but a lass, from her horse.” Booing. Cajoling. “Do ye deny this?”

Émile? French. The ominous furrow on Tormund’s brow only darkened, as his gaze bored into hers, nostrils flaring as he, too, still caught his breath from the race. As if waiting for her to exonerate him.

“Nay,” he finally growled. “Ye’ve decided my guilt already.” He notched his chin high, revealing the scar up his muscle-thickened neck as if daring her to look. Her lips trembled. Her finger furiously twisted the talon as his gaze tracked her wringing, as if looking at a regret. “I’d nay find a judge who wants me to win anyway, right?” he bit out through gnashing teeth, eyes slicing away to Rose. “What’s my penalty?”

Shame lanced through her! Sakes, he thought she was letting him be hung on purpose, when in truth, fear was crippling her tongue! He spoke her words against her.

“James,” she beseeched this time, yanking on his arm. “If ye’d just listen—”

“Sister, wheesht.”

Her brother was growing frustrated with her constant interruptions.

“As penalty, Laird MacDonald can claim any boon worth the value of the winning purse,” Rose continued. “After which, ye are expelled from the faire.”

Tormund’s face turned to stone. His eyes deadened. A tick quirked below his ears as his jaws clenched tighter still, but he no longer looked at her, or anyone. Simply looked into space like he gave not one shite as a droplet of blood rolled down his cheek and dripped onto his tunic.

“Unfair!” called MacLeod’s men. “Bollocks! He nay harmed a hair on her head!”

Silence prevailed, settled like a mantle over the gathering when Rose held up his hand. MacLeod still didn’t look at her.

“The winning purse was one hundred pound,” James called. “I demand the same value from him in grains.”