Page 6 of A Highland Rogue to Ruin

She giggled. “Hark, a blushing warrior.”

That laugh rumbled again and he scoured his jaw. “I’ve been called a lot of things, lass. Blackguard, bastard, brigand. Beautiful has never been one of them.” He shrugged out of his doublet. “Careful, I might think ye like me.”

“We could nay have such a grave misunderstanding,” she replied. “Are ye trifling with me, demon?”

He hitched his chin at her, his knees splaying around hers, his boots planted against her slippers, caging her in. “I think ye like it.”

Chapter Two

Brighde swatted her adversary’s forearm with the back of her fingers at his roguish smirk. A chuckle rolled up his throat. He returned the swat, their hands settling upon the table, touching.

Again that chuckle! Deep and husky, it seemed that this man wasn’t prone to laughing, judging by how fast he’d drawn his blade. And the way their fingers continued to touch, the way his knees and boots pressed against hers had her so flustered, she could barely think straight. She should be alarmed by this guarded tower of a man, dark hair the color of midnight hanging around his face, knuckles battered from sword and knife like her brother’s. His obsidian eyes that glinted like gems in the firelight should spark worry in her belly.

He was a blackguard indeed, likely the worst sort of man, if one were to judge him by the arsenal of knives stowed about his body. The type her brother would die of apoplexy to see her consorting with. When she’d seen her brother emerge from the ale tent, she’d panicked that he’d spot her and scare her stranger away.

And beneath the masked demon’s words, she could swear she heard the vestige of a continental accent. From where? She loved it.

She began resetting the pieces as he leaned onto his elbows and steepled his hands at his chin.

“Stakes first,” he said.

“Stakes? In a friendly match?” She bit her fingertip and felt his eyes fall to the gesture.

“Is it friendly?”

“Fine, nàmhaid”—enemy—“for every move made, a question answered honestly. And if I win, ye—”she tapped his chest across the board—“must give me that talon as my boon. To remember ye by.”

Amusement continued to twinkle in his eyes, even if he didn’t smile again, and he lifted his decanter to her lips. Tipped it and watched her swallow. “Agreed. Questions and answers, but nothing personal.” Nothing personal? Aye, this man had secrets to conceal. “Allez.”

She hesitated. French? And wiped her lips to clear the sheen of wine as he brought the decanter to his own mouth, as if eager to taste her essence upon the rim. Then she moved a pawn out two spaces and glanced up, calculating him.

“Why the talon?” She asked her first question.

…

So much for nothing personal. “Why no’?”

“That’s nay an answer.” She laughed and smacked his hand again but this time, he pinned hers to the table, relishing her surprise and then acquiescence, leaving her hand in his hold.

He plucked his talon on a string up from his neck and inspected the charm, the one that matched another in his ear, hidden beneath loose hair he normally kept braided. “’Twas my brother’s.”

“Was?”

He nodded once. “We both had one. I took it from his body when he was cut down traveling to an enemy for help.”

“What was yer brother like?” she asked gently, as if sensing there was more. She was out of turn, but then again, no one had ever asked him about his brother. Only formed accusations. He should be warier. This angel had just prodded an old scar he didn’t want reopened. But he liked this rare anonymity, and the illusion of safety their masks created.

“Nessun maggior dolore, che ricordarsi del tempo felice.”

“There is no greater sorrow than to recall some happy time. From…Inferno, by the great Dante Alighieri.” Her eyes widened upon him. “Ye are learned.”

“And so are ye. Ye speak Italian?”

“Nay. I speak only French, aside from Scots, as well as the Sassenachs’ tongue, well, and Gaelic,” she giggled.

He harrumphed. “Only.”

“I was tutored well. Often the only thing I ask for is a new book.” Was it now? Hell, but the more he talked to her, the more he realized he liked her. “But why that quote? Do ye find remembering yer brother to be painful?”