Braden assessed his opponent.
As the youngest of five boys, Braden had been a warrior since he could first clasp a sword in his hand. In all the years of his life, only his brothers had ever been able to stand toe to toe with him in war. And the foolish Sassenach before him would prove a poor match for his skill.
Though he’d never shirked at killing men in battle, it didn’t suit Braden to draw blood over so trivial a matter. A woman was not worth a man’s life.
Now, if he could only convince the earl of that fact.
Braden spread his arms wide. “Be reasonable, Rufus. You don’t really want to fight me.”
“Not fight you, you backward Highland barbarian? After what you were doing? I’ll see you in hell where you belong, you primitive, unholy dog.”
Braden stifled his laughter. How charming. Insults. Too bad the man hadn’t had more practice. Braden’s elder brothers could well tutor him in ways to draw blood with the tongue.
“Can we not be mature about this?” Braden asked the earl.
“Mature, you boiled-brained fustilarian?” Then, without warning, Rufus lunged with the sword.
Braden sidestepped him easily enough, but since the point of the sword whistled just inches away from his throat, he decided it was definitely time he parted company with the earl.
“Come now, Rufus,” Braden said in an effort to distract the man from the fact he was inching toward the open doors of the balcony. “You know you’re no match for me. I could fight a dozen men such as yourself.”
Rufus pulled back with a speculative smile. “‘Tis good then that I brought my three brothers.”
Said brothers chose just that moment to enter the room and unsheathe their swords.
You just had to say that, didn’t you? Braden sighed heavily over his stupidity.
Then, he paused as he summed up his new opposition. None of them could possibly be younger than two score. Still, by the way they held their swords, he could see these were trained knights and not dandies out to pay scutage to their English king for their service. These men had battled much and still trained for war.
Not that it truly mattered, for he wasn’t afraid of mere knights. There would never be a day when such could ever lay low a Highlander. But Braden wasn’t a fool, and four trained knights against one half-dressed, unarmed Highlander were not the odds on which he was used to wagering.
He decided to play to the earl’s good English breeding. “These odds really aren’t very sporting.”
“Neither is cuckolding.”
Well, so much for sport.
Again Rufus lunged. Braden grabbed a pillow from the bed and deflected the blade with it. Jumping to the bed, he rolled across the mattress as Rufus brought the sword down for his shoulder. Rufus’s blade missed by a hair and tangled with the drapes of the bed.
Braden came to his feet on the opposite side and glanced to where the earl’s brothers were moving in.
“Braden!”
Dropping the pillow, he turned to see Prudence in her corner, holding his sword. Kissing the hilt of it, she tossed it to him.
Braden caught it by the hilt and thanked her an instant before one of the earl’s brothers charged him.
He deflected the man’s blow with ease, and twisted out of the corner. Before he could make his way to the balcony, he was set upon by all of them at once.
Braden made a good showing, but with one boot on and one boot off, his hop-along stance made it rather difficult to keep up. Damn the English for their strange clothing. At home, he’d never been bothered by these uncomfortable boots, or so many other articles of clothing.
To think, they called his beloved Scots brethren backward. At least in the Highlands a man knew how to dress for convenience and health.
And most importantly, unexpected trysts.
As they fought, the earl lost his balance and stumbled, giving Braden the chance he needed to escape without shedding English blood.
Twisting against the wall, Braden cut the cord to the chandelier.
