Page 47 of A Highland Rogue to Ruin

Tormund clapped James on the shoulder. “Nay, man, why leave when I can be a nettle in yer saddle?”

James shoved his arm off.

“We have a late entry!” boomed the royal seneschal. “Laird Tormund MacLeod, Duke of Avignon, Chief of MacLeods!” He eyed Tormund, then James, a glint in his eye. No…it couldn’t be as Brighde had teased. “He shall be paired with Laird James MacDonald, Earl of Ross!”

“Hell no!” Tormund whirled around.

“Are ye out of yer bloody mind?” James bellowed at the same time.

Shouts rose among the crowd, as did laughter. “They’ll kill each other before they scythe a single grain!”

The seneschal only smiled. “It is so, my lairds. Either compete for yer people, or forfeit out of spite.”

Tormund ripped a hand into his braid. Paced a restless step away, turned back to see James doing the same thing.

“I never surrender,” Tormund rumbled.

“Neither do I.” James cast him a smug look. Ridiculous as my brother. “But I do need my knives for this event.”

“Fok the wee blades, Devil, I need my sword,” Tormund growled, prowling a circle around James who was doing the same to him.

“To yer plots of land, my lairds!” the royal seneschal, surrounded by royal guards, said. “Either harvest or kill each other. Either way, the people will enjoy the spectacle.”

Damnation, his people needed this grain. Brighde’s purse of coin had eased the strain—his easternmost village only one of many villages that needed help, not to mention his isles—but they’d still barely make it through until next year’s harvest.

He hoisted his tools with a clatter as James did the same. Stalked toward the cordoned-off field they were assigned as the crowds shouted taunts at them. Anger so hot trailed in his wake, the field might catch fire. The seneschal wasn’t wrong. The crowd would love a good spectacle such as him and James locking horns.

He took up position on one end of their assigned field, when he felt James eying him, then noticed him glancing to the ladies, then him again. He glared sidelong at him, as James’s eyes dipped to his chest. To his clipping of hair.

“What the hell is that on yer chest?”

Tormund didn’t dignify the demand with a response.

“I asked ye a question, demon,” MacDonald seethed, throwing aside his tools and stalking toward him.

Tormund’s scythe dropped. Hands unsheathed his sgian achlaises under each arm on instinct. “I’m nay inclined to answer, devil.” He spun them, as the crowd roared with warnings while James did the same. “But harass me and suffer the consequences—”

MacLeod and MacDonald warriors posturing along the edge of the field broke free with battle cries and charged forth, two jaws stretched wide, snapping shut. Panic consumed the crowd. Folk stampeded toward the campsites to take cover. Vendors snapped shut their cart gates, scrambling away as knives unsheathed and royal soldiers charged the field to intervene, swords drawn, mail jingling.

Tormund’s eyes flashed to Brighde’s wide blues brimming with tears, hands over her mouth in horror, and shame assailed him so intensely, he reacted before he could think.

“Halt!” He turned and darted toward his men, making his back vulnerable to James’s blades, but held up his fists. “Halt! Ghost! Reaper! Nay!”

Nay skirmish in front of the lass. He didn’t want Brighde to see bloodshed. Didn’t want her to cry. James had taunted him, but he needed to take the high road, even if James took the low. For her, because Brighde clearly loved her brother, and Tormund, blast it, cared about her, remembered her scolding how she’d hidden in fear inside Tioram because of him.

And then he saw her. Buttery yellow blazing under the bunting, running toward them, screaming for them to stop, dodging between knives and muscles of adversaries letting their fury fly.

“Get back, lass!” He dropped his knives, bolting for her, as a thrusting dirk skimmed close to her, as royal soldiers shoved warriors backward with spear shafts sideways, as bodies knocked into her and she stumbled, crying out.

“Nay!” The murderous bellow thundered from Tormund’s chest. “Sheath yer blades!”

Fear sliced. Memories flashed like blinding light. So much loss.

Pinned down.

Knife descending toward his chest.

Sword through Owen.