Page 14 of A Highland Rogue to Ruin

“C’mon, man,” he urged his stallion to solidify his win. “Oats and sweet grass and anything ye desire, just catch this MacDonald maggot…”

Pride surged through his blood as strangely, he was sure he smelled lavender—

“Maggot? Mayhap the MacLeods should stick to terrorizing the waters on their wee bàtas!” the milksop replied in a surprisingly high voice, insinuating Tormund’s fleet of ships was merely a spate of toy boats.

His eyes narrowed. Insults were part of these events. He ignored them, but this lad had guts to challenge him. “Put a claymore in yer fist and see if yer bark is still as loud!” Tormund growled over the wind. “Have yer bollocks even dropped yet?”

Insulting someone’s masculinity usually earned him a glower. But the lad’s lips spread wide, a beautiful smile that snagged his attention. It was too bonny a smile for any lad to have. A shiver of premonition washed over him that he couldn’t place. Didn’t dare place…

The lock of hair tickled upon his pectoral badly enough he almost scratched it.

Since when were bairns allowed to participate? The weight difference was several stones, making the lad far lighter than Tormund’s bulky frame. Hardly a fair competition. But then again, the MacDonalds were as crooked as the pleats of Kilt Rock.

“Last I checked, man, I have no bollocks!” The lad glanced at him with amusement dancing in his wide blue familiar eyes. Tormund wanted to scrub that look off his pretty face speckled in mud and dirt from this jaunt. Preferably using nettles. That premonition tingled harder, buzzing over his skin.

“Ye think a truce declared means I’ll overlook this cheating?” Tormund snarled. “Lads are forbidden from running!”

“Find me a judge who’ll overlook my win in favor of a MacLeod, and I’ll find ye a river filled with gold!” the insolent lad retorted.

Damnation but he sounded so young. Tormund’s proud warhorse was tiring. He ground his molars. If he could overcome just one. More. Inch.

His breath came hard as blessedly, he moved ahead by a neck. The finish line loomed closer. Patrons lined the sides, shouting. The galloping hooves thundered a cadence. His braid banged against his neck, the carved beads tangled in the ends stinging with each slap.

Sweat soaked his tunic in the blinding sun, now risen over the highest peak; dirt turned to mud on his slickened skin. But his opponent’s horse was still too close for comfort. He needed a few more inches to make it a full length and unequivocal win. They thundered along the river weaving through the strath.

Come on, Nykr. A little farther and the milksop will be guaranteed second. Remain focused…

Said milksop was muttering to himself under his breath, urging his horse onward, knot of hair bouncing looser and looser from its ties. Tormund made the grandest mistake. He looked back. Straight at his opponent’s twinkling blue eyes.

His pulse froze. Galloped like Nykr’s hooves. Eyes dipped to the lad’s chest, to a talon banging up and down upon it. No… And the lad’s chest—now that he could see it—wasn’t so flat, but rounded with smooth, soft breasts.

Tormund’s eyes furrowed as the leather tie holding back his opponent’s hair finally jostled loose.

Bright, honey-golden tresses unfurled like a sail pluming on the wind.

“Oh!” Her horse jerked to the side.

She flung off-balance in her stirrups. Cried out.

He lunged and grabbed her arm, and her death grip clenched down on him, too, as he yanked her upright before she was tossed to her death against the rocky riverbank.

Brighde MacDonald. His former sister-in-law. The lover he’d ravaged last night.

He was a she. And she was the lass he’d spent all damn night regretting.

God really did have a sense of humor. Except it wasn’t damned funny.

It cost him.

He fell behind a pace. Lost the edge he’d just gained as she expanded her lead, leaving him in her horse’s dust. Bairns couldn’t participate. But there was no rule about grown women.

Bloody hell! He was about to get an arse trouncing from none other than his gravest enemy’s sister whose virginity he’d stolen. He kicked his own arse as that odd ache knotted in his chest, and tapped Nykr again and again to try to catch back up. Second place was the first loser.

But the finish line was nigh. The pennants snapping on the wind ahead were nothing but a signal of defeat.

Faire-goers screamed from the sidelines behind the ropes chuting them toward the end. Their cheers and insults grew into a mighty cacophony: ladies waving their kerchiefs, men and boys with fists in the air and bellows on their lips, running along the ropes.

All those ladies in their finery cheering for their men… He’d been a damned fool, looking for his angel there when in truth, she was a wee devil in trews and mounted on horseback. Nykr couldn’t move any faster, couldn’t overtake the cinnamon roan ahead of him again. Damnation!