Page 20 of A Highland Rogue to Ruin

Reaper chuckled, and he glared daggers at his cocksure man, the outlawed Comyn heir who’d taken refuge on Lewis after his kin’s failed attempt to overtake Freuchie Castle from the Grants. He was one of Tormund’s few allies.

Reaper nodded toward something behind him. “Look lively, laird.”

His hand went for the hilt of his sgian achlais beneath his arm as he pivoted, to see a pair of slim legs, leagues long, encased in fine trews and booted in tall polished leather, dashing toward him, blond tresses blinding him with glints of sunlight. Bright blue eyes he wanted to swim within. So delicately built. He felt that damned knot pinch and watched her hips sway as she approached, his eyes bouncing back to hers.

“What does she want?” Tormund growled to himself.

She came to a stop a few paces from him, dust swirling around her feet. A quick survey of the crowded path behind her told him she was unchaperoned.

The longer he stared, the more Brighde began to fidget. That finger she seemed to love punishing by strangling it in her necklace was at it again, pinching her fingertip and purpling it. In her other hand hung that hefty purse.

“Come here to gloat?” He arched a brow and nodded toward her winnings when she said nothing.

His pulse thrummed at her closeness. Her heartbeat fluttered in her neck at that kissable hollow he’d run his tongue across—fok.

“Ye lost?” Ghost realized. “To a lass?”

Her eyes landed on his man, a smile not meeting her eyes. “Nay any lass, man. A MacDonald lass.”

The wrong words to say to Ghost, whose face boiled with hatred.

“Why were ye going to take the blame?” She turned her attention back to him.

“That’s what I said,” Reaper scoffed under his breath. “The enemy and I agree. It must be snowing in hell.”

Tormund folded his arms, relishing how her gaze took in his bulging biceps that bore nail cuts from her desperate grip last night. “Why waste my time, lass? Best save my strength for battles I can win. Like when I reave it back from ye.” Or ambush yer brother. His eyes narrowed. “What do ye want?”

“Eh, actually, I-I wanted to thank ye,” she stammered at his abrupt tone but forced a smile.

His brow arched higher. “Thank me. For what?” he drawled when she didn’t elaborate.

Her perfect nail scored a path over her ear, pushing her tresses out of her eyes. He’d been the one to touch her hair last night, pushing it from her lips. His heart hammered just standing near her, knowing her in such a meaningful way. An invisible memory weighing them both down.

She laughed softly, though he could tell it was because she was nervous, not because anything was humorous.

“For helping me. It would have been a nasty fall. Back there. On, eh, the riverbank,” she added, glancing between his men whose glares bored into her.

Still, he watched her. Was there some sort of catch? She’s James’s sister. Sweet or nay, she could be a decoy to get my guard down like she did last night. And was that a love bite upon her collarbone peeking out from her tunic?

Jesu, he’d left his mark, and just seeing it sent a warning kick in his blood where it didn’t belong. Mine. He turned around and kept walking, needing distance from the memories—

“Is that it?”

He glanced back at her, standing in the middle of the footpath as people flowed around her like a river around a rock. He nodded once, a curt gesture, unfolded his arms, and turned away again when someone grabbed his forearm—

He ripped from the touch, dropped the reins, and flicked loose his achlais on impulse as he whirled around to strike. She flinched from him as the horses hurried aside, crying out.

Shite. She’d grabbed him.

His knife clattered down as his hand shot out to grip hers, to put her at ease, a reaction he’d not thought about. She yanked away, tears stinging her eyelids red. He wasn’t used to being grabbed unless it was from someone who wanted to do him harm. It had been unexpected, like her, and he didn’t like unexpected. But he liked her.

Her palm pressed out as if to placate an angry bull. He leaned down and swiped his knife, sheathing it, as she slowly backed up another step, breathing, “Sorry—”

“What do ye want, angel?” he said softly, regretting shunning her touch, because now she trembled. And the crestfallen look upon her face was going to undo him. Me?

Those berry lips parted, her breath hitching. Her gaze flitted askance as she bit her succulent lip as if to drive him wild, then lifted her crystalline eyes to his, summoning courage.

She thrust out her purse, breathing, “Take it. And then I’ll leave ye be.”