Page 34 of The Witch of Threadneedle Street

After all, who could blame her? The Highlander compelled the eyes to watch.

He stood on the cobblestones, projecting an easy confidence as he calmly observed his wary, circling opponent. Several times, the man feinted, but Taran didn’t move. He waited, appearing as if he would let himself be run through. Then, as quick as a flash, his blade arced. The next moment, his opponent’s sword clattered to the ground.

Laughter moved through the crowd.

Taran leaned against his sword as his opponent caught his breath, and then the men clasped hands.

Men stepped forward from the crowd to assist in the quick removal of the chain hauberks, and once divested, both Taran and his opponent stepped back into the ring, this time, clearly prepared to wrestle to finish the fight.

Moll swallowed. Lord help her, he stood bare-chested now, every inch of his tanned physique impeccably sculpted. Was he impervious to the chill in the air? He began to move, a fluid mass of force. ‘Twas mesmerizing, the way his muscles bunched and rippled beneath his skin. She couldn’t have walked away if she’d tried, her feet felt like anchors, cementing her to wall.

A roar went up around her, startling her attention from Taran’s wide shoulders and lean hips back to the fight. As she watched, the Highlander flipped his adversary onto his back.

A cheer tore from her lips. She raised her hands and screamed with the rest.

‘Twas then that Taran glanced her way.

He paused as their eyes met in a connection she could not break.

Her heart began to thud as her traitorous lips curved into an even broader smile. The crowd about her faded. Only Taran stood there, his dark hair blowing in the wind.

She didn’t see his opponent until it was too late. Seemingly out of nowhere, the man delivered a backhand blow, striking Taran’s collarbone hard.

The force of the impact knocked him flat on the ground.

An Awakening of Need

‘Strewth, but Moll was beyond bonny, a vision in rose and gold where she stood at the top of the steps, the breeze ruffling her honey-blonde hair. Taran couldn’t wrench his gaze away. Fate was strange. He’d only meant to help a stranger at the castle gates, a woman with children undeniably in need. But now? With the beauty standing before him, ‘twas his own need that jolted through his body—a need of a vastly different kind. He gritted his teeth. ‘Twas impossible for a man to avoid a bodily attraction to the woman—

A sharp backhand blow sliced through his thoughts and sent him reeling back. Pain lanced through his collarbone and over his shoulder. He stumbled. Then, losing his footing entirely, fell straight back, landing on the cobblestones with a teeth-jarring force as the onlookers gasped.

“Ach now, that’s a blow, lad,” one of his clansmen called out amidst a chorus of whistles and hoots.

Taran winced.

“’Twill hurt more than one day, I’ll warrant,” his opponent, one of Lord Haddon’s men named Roderick, panted as he rubbed his own jaw with a rueful smile. “Though, after the drubbing I received, I fear I may lie abed longer, my lord.” He braced himself with a hand on his knee but held out the other in an offer of assistance.

Taran grunted and took the man’s hand, rising to his feet amidst the peals of good-natured laughter. Ach, his neck, shoulder, and the side of his head ached sore. There would be no more practice this day—mayhap the remainder of the week, as well.

“’Twas an unfair distraction, lad,” his right-hand man, Doughall, teased as Taran arrived at the sidelines. “No man could ignore a lass so bewitching, aye?”

“Women shouldna be watching,” someone grumbled nearby. “I’ve lost good coin.”

Taran tossed a glance back toward the stairs, but Moll had gone.

“Let’s sit ye down, lad.” Doughall’s meaty hand fisted against Taran’s back as he manhandled him toward the great hall. There was no denying Doughall once he’d made up his mind. The grizzled man was as large as a bear. His gray braids swung to his hips as he kicked back the hall door and practically shoved Taran inside.

With a groan, Taran sank back on the nearest bench, closed his eyes, and stretched out his legs. A throbbing ache pulsed through his head, as with each breath, a pain shot from his collarbone straight across his left shoulder.

“Colin will fetch the physician, lad,” Doughall’s loud bass began from close by.

“Nay,” Taran grunted, keeping his eyes shut. ‘Twas not needed—especially when the man’s treatments consisted only of bleeding and leechcraft.

Doughall chortled from the next table over.

Taran paid the man little heed. He grimaced. ‘Twas quite unlike him to fall prey to distractions during a fight. No doubt, his men would tease him for days, but well he deserved such a mocking.

Gentle fingers probed his injury.