Hearts of Highland Fire

Chapter 6

6

Moments before…

Iris eyed the Scots with some irritation that they had ruined her chance of getting a decent night’s sleep for once. Around them, the celebration continued, but after a few mugs of ale, she longed for her bed.

First, however, she would have to deal with these drunken Scots.

Her hand gripped the hilt of the sword, the familiar weight of the iron making her smile. While some were comforted by the hands of their loved ones or the warmth of a smile, Iris was just as happy with her sword in her hand. This was what made her happy in her life.

“Come on then,” she challenged, feeling the familiar thrill rush through her body. “Try yer best.”

There was a dull roar from somewhere behind her, but her eyes were on her attackers, waiting for one of them to charge first.

Or all of them. It mattered not. She had been in worse situations than this.

The first lunged, but before his sword could collide with hers, there was a blur of another body that stepped in her line of sight, taking the brunt of the sword.

Surprised, Iris stumbled back a ways to keep from stabbing the person. Was it one of her brothers who was coming to her aid?

“Ye bastard!” one of the Scots called out, charging the two fighting in front of her.

Iris turned her attention to the approaching Scot and stopped him with her sword, the vibration of their metal clanging together reverberating in her body. Instinct took over then, and she parried with the Scot, whose movements were slow and likely attributed to the amount of ale they had consumed.

Iris went through her own motions, her father’s voice in her head the entire time. He had always demanded she had the same fighting skills as her brothers and would often come to their sparring sessions when she was younger to tell her all the things that were wrong with her fighting skills.

Even in battle, she heard his voice sometimes, a constant reminder that her fighting skills could be better, that she could be better.

Iris tightened her lips and disarmed the Scot, planting her boot into his torso and sending him sprawling to the ground. She had barely a moment before the next drunken lout was on her, his beefy arms locking her against his body. Iris gagged at the smell of unwashed body and stale ale that was emanating from her attacker, tamping down the fear that threatened to rise in her throat.

She wasn’t afraid of these bastards. She had faced far worse in her lifetime.

“Not so tough now, are ye, lass?” he leered while Iris attempted to push her way out of his tight grip on her. “I am going tae teach ye a lesson that ye will never forget.”

He only wished he would be able to do so. With a roar of her own, Iris stomped on his booted foot hard as she shifted all her weight forward, throwing him off balance as she did so. They tumbled into the dirt, but it was enough for him to loosen his grasp on her.

Iris scrambled to her feet, finding her sword so that she could hold it to the Scot’s thick neck.

“Wot do ye think aboot this lesson?” she forced out, her heart pounding in her chest. “Hmm?”

His gaze narrowed but he didn’t attempt to knock her sword aside.

“We were just looking for a good time,” he growled, glancing at the sword. “That is all, lass.”

Iris wanted to run him through with her sword, but if she did so, their clan would be subjected to the laird’s ire, and she didn’t think that her father would be very pleased with that.

So she removed her sword from his throat and took a step back.

“Get out of here,” she breathed. “Before I change mah mind and send ye tae the gods instead.”

He scrambled backward, and Iris turned toward the sound of fighting, watching as the Scot who had completely ruined her plans to fight the last of the bunch. It was the Scot from earlier, the very one who had taunted her after she had signed her name to the ledger.

The swords clanged in the air as they fought, sparks flying as the metal grated. While the other Scot was bigger, her “savior” was faster, lighter on his feet, and was clearly besting his opponent with each movement. Iris was angered that he felt the need to fight her own battles, but she couldn’t help but be impressed by his sword fighting.

He had been trained well, it seemed.

Iris thought about stepping in but, watching him, felt the same flutters of warmth slide through her as she had earlier. His muscular back flexed with each movement under his tunic, his forearms tightening as he gripped his sword tightly in his grasp. His hair had fallen out of whatever confines he had gathered it in and now fell like a red waterfall about his face, obscuring his handsome features.

Still, Iris found it hard to breathe as he went in for the block, his opponent falling back a moment later. He stood over the Scot just like she had, his sword pointed at his throat.

“Apologize tae the lass,” he said, surprising Iris.

The Scot’s expression darkened. “Nay.”

Her companion pressed the sword against his throat until a bead of blood welled at the point.

“Apologize tae the lass, or I will turn ye over tae the laird. I imagine he wilnae take kindly tae wot ye have done this eve. And the shame?” He tsked, pushing his hair back so Iris could see the smirk on his face. “Ye will be outcasted by yer own clan.”

“Mah apologies, lass,” the Scot finally said, his voice stiff and full of hatred for what he was being forced to do.

Iris slid her sword back into its resting place before crossing her arms over her chest.

“I dinnae wish tae see ye again, Scot.”

“Ye won’t,” he growled.

“Let him be.”

Her companion hesitated but finally removed his sword from the man’s neck, allowing him to get to his feet and escape into the shadows of the camp. He sheathed his own sword before turning toward her, his eyes raking down her form.

“Are ye hurt, lass?”

Iris ignored the sudden warmth from the caring in his voice, giving him her best hard stare.

“Nay, I’m not. Why did ye feel the need tae step intae mah business?”

He arched a brow. “Ye were in trouble.”

“Nay I wasnae,” she forced out, torn between the need to touch him or hit him. She didn’t understand why she was feeling this sort of way or what it meant, but she needed to break whatever connection he thought they had now before it got out of hand.

After all, she was not at the gathering for a dalliance. She was there to win the games and move on.

“Ye put yer own nose in mah business, Scot. I dinnae appreciate it.”

He let out a laugh that sent shivers down her spine.

“From where I was, lass, ye were outnumbered and in sore need of a partner.”

She shoved him then, her hands colliding with the hard planes of his chest. He barely moved an inch when she did so, and it only irritated her further.

“I can handle mahself, ye arse! Dinnae think anything other than that!"

He chuckled, gripping her wrists in his hands and holding her in place.

“Och lass, I dinnae think that ye cannae handle yerself at all. Perhaps I was just hoping ye would show me a hint of appreciation for saving yer life.”

Iris tried to break their hold, but he held firm, his warm fingers brushing over her skin lightly. She found herself wanting to lean into his touch, her thoughts muddled as to what she should do. This Scot infuriated her but also had her feeling things she shouldn’t.

Things she had never felt before.

“Let me go.”

He held her for a beat more before dropping her wrists, and Iris stumbled backward to put some distance between them.

“I did as ye asked,” he said in a low voice. “Wot do ye want now, lass?”

She wanted… She couldn’t tell him what she wanted! It was embarrassing and confusing.

It wasn’t at all what she had come here for.

“Stay out of mah way,” she warned him, her voice shaking a bit with each word. Iris needed to leave and forget this night ever happened.

He smoothed his hair back off his face, tying it with a leather thong.

“’Tis kind of hard tae do so, lass, when we keep meeting like this.” He finished his task before grinning at her. “Something tells me our meetings might be fate.”

Iris snorted. “Then next time I wilnae hesitate tae run mah sword through ye.” She took a step forward, her eyes boring into his as she gave him a hard smile. “Wot do ye think aboot that, Scot?”

“James,” he repeated, no hint of fear in his eyes. “Mah name is James.”

Iris opened her mouth to retort, to say something witty, but couldn’t form any words on her tongue. Her cheeks flamed, and she was grateful for the night so that he wouldn’t see her embarrassment. Turning instead, she stalked off in the direction of her tent, her hands clenched at her sides. How dare he taunt her so! Step into her business like he had a right to do so!

She had that small bit of excitement handled herself.

Blowing out a hard breath, Iris forced herself to think about how he had made her feel, the ire of his intrusion now fading from her memory. He made her feel, well, unsettled. It wasn’t that she was frightened of him. No, that was far from the truth.

It was the way he had touched her, the way his eyes had seemed to want to look upon her not as an enemy or even as the daughter of Laird Wallace but as something more.

Something she didn’t quite understand.

Iris reached her tent and slipped inside, removing her weapons carefully. She had never been looked upon like that before. Most Scots were afraid of her brothers or under the assumption that she was a warrior, nothing more.

Which was how Iris preferred it.

Yet this Scot—James, as he had informed her—didn’t even know who she was. He didn’t know her as her father’s daughter or a warrior in her own right.

Shaking her head, Iris stripped down to her tunic and climbed into the pile of blankets that would suffice as her bed for the duration of their visit. All around her tent, the celebration went on, the bonfires casting shadows that danced along the rough canvas and affording very little privacy for Iris.

It mattered not, she decided, who he was or what he had done up until this moment. He was going to be in the games in the morning and therefore was her enemy until it was complete. She didn’t need the distraction.

She wouldn’t allow the distraction to consume her.

But as she turned to her side in the darkness, Iris traced where his fingers had gripped her wrists, allowing herself to remember the warmth of that touch. He had touched her in a manner she wasn’t familiar with, and despite all the promises she was making to herself, she wanted him to do so again.