Chapter 6 #3
But the scars did not detract from his rugged perfection.
Not an ounce of spare flesh padded his form; he was rippled and strong and impossibly masculine, every inch a powerful Highland warrior.
She wanted to touch him, to run her hands over his hot skin.
The urge was so strong, it frightened her.
Her mother had been wrong. There was some appeal to the Highlander’s warrior way of life.
Now that she had seen a man such as this, a man of such physicality, of such raw power, how could a delicate courtier possibly compare?
They couldn’t. Lachlan Maclean was a man built for protection. And there was something almost intoxicating about watching him demonstrate his skills and strength.
Her senses flared. She couldn’t tear her eyes away, though she knew she was treading dangerously.
No longer could she deny it, even to herself.
She wanted him. And seeing him like this would only make him that much harder to resist. What would it be like to be held in his strong arms, cradled against that muscular chest and kissed passionately?
Would she dissolve in heat again? Would she ever want to leave the shelter of that protective embrace?
He raised his arms, holding the two-handed claymore high above his head, wielding it with an ease and grace that belied its weight. Only when he met the powerful blows of his opponent did the long cords of muscles flex and ripple with exertion.
At first, she was mesmerized by the sheer power of the display before her. There was a beauty to the thrust and swing of each powerful stroke. Beauty in the way he moved to evade and then attack.
Then she realized something strange was going on. There was an intensity to his movements, a ferocity to his strokes, that seemed odd. It seemed … real.
About a score of his warriors had gathered around.
She looked at their faces, so transfixed that no one had yet to become aware of her presence.
It was more quiet than usual—barely a sound above the heavy clashing of the swords and the exertions of the two men exchanging blow after powerful blow.
The ground seemed to shake with the force of each stroke.
There was a subtle undercurrent that permeated the air, thick with tension and the sultry scent of sea tinged with sweat.
For the first time, she glanced at the laird’s opponent.
Physically, they were well matched. The other man was perhaps an inch or two taller than Coll and also heavily muscled, albeit bulkier.
His movements were a bit more ponderous.
She paused. There was only one man with that build and white blond hair. Odin. Mary’s captain.
A chill of unease slid down her spine as understanding dawned. This was a battle.
Allan swung the mighty steel blade in a deadly arc, bringing it down with such force that Flora gasped and took a step forward as if she could protect him.
She need not have worried. The laird blocked the fierce blow with barely a grimace.
But he’d heard her. She felt the swift jolt when his eyes bored into her with piercing intensity.
Marking her. A look that made it clear he didn’t want her here; that she was intruding.
But how could she leave? She was rooted to the fierce drama unfolding before her.
Back and forth they went, exchanging blow after blow until Flora didn’t think she could take it anymore. Anxiety twisted in her stomach. She wanted them to stop. But it was clear they were almost evenly matched. This could go on forever. Or until they both collapsed from exhaustion.
Allan seemed to find a burst of strength. Her breath caught when he attacked with renewed vigor, driving the laird back until he neared the barmkin wall. She covered her mouth with her hand, muffling the cry that slipped out. She feared he was still weak from the stabbing.
Her heart pounded. Dear God, he was going to be hurt.
Allan had homed in for the kill. He swung the blade down again with deadly force, and the laird managed to block it with his sword high over his head.
But Allan had leverage. He used his formidable size to lower the sword, blade to blade, in a silvery cross, until it inched ever closer to the laird’s head.
“Yield, damn you,” Allan urged through clenched teeth.
Coll’s reply was too low for her to hear. But from Allan’s enraged expression, she could tell it hadn’t been pleasant.
The laird was straining under the weight. The muscles of his arms bulged and shook as he fought to prevent the blade from crashing down on him. She had to do something.
She made a move toward them. But in one smooth motion, the laird dropped to the side, laced his foot around Allan’s ankle, and brought the bigger man down to his knees. Before Flora could blink, Coll had his sword poised at Allan’s neck. She halted midstep, stunned by the quick turn of events.
“Yield,” he said raggedly. And in a voice she could just make out: “She’s not for you.”
Allan wasn’t going to surrender. She could see it in his eyes.
Not defiance, but resolve. He would never outright challenge his chief in his decision, but neither would he yield.
Not in this. Not for the woman he loved.
Without thinking, Flora rushed forward, putting herself between the two men.
The anger surging between them was palpable.
Neither would look away as their eyes engaged in an interminable battle of wills.
She reached up, gently placing her palm on the laird’s naked chest. It shocked them both.
His skin was hot to the touch, and her senses reeled from the heady masculine force of him.
She was immediately conscious of the raw power surging under her fingertips, radiating from him like an invisible shield.
She must be mad. What in the world was she doing?
She felt as though she’d just placed herself in the mouth of a lion.
How could she expect to harness such strength?
He hadn’t moved the sword from Allan’s neck, but his gaze had locked on hers.
He swore. “What the hell do you think you are doing?”
“Please, my laird.” Her voice trembled. “I need to speak with you.”
“Not now, Flora,” he growled.
She leaned her body closer to his and moved her hand in a light, soothing caress over his hot chest. “Please,” she begged. And under her breath she added, “Don’t do this. It’s gone too far already.”
She looked deep into his eyes, and something passed between them. Something that made her heart flutter hard in her chest. Something intense and … significant.
Slowly, he lowered his sword.
The hot rage of battle that had welled inside him eased back, dampened by Flora.
His men dispersed, fading away quietly as Lachlan stood in the hot sun, staring at the fey creature before him, not quite sure what had just happened.
Hell, he knew what had happened. After their conversation about Mary, he and Allan had taken their anger to the battlefield.
Lachlan didn’t want to think what might have occurred had Flora not stepped in and defused the situation.
Allan had shot him a quick glance before he left.
His captain had looked equally taken aback by what had transpired.
By how quickly their practice had turned into something altogether different.
Damn. This thing with Mary had gotten out of control.
How could he not have realized what was happening?
Allan might be his friend, but Lachlan was chief, and he had to make his decisions as such—for the good of the clan.
Even if those decisions went against his personal feelings.
He glanced down at her tiny hand, still resting on his chest. He couldn’t describe what he felt the moment she had touched him.
It was as if her hand had plunged through ice, reaching a part of him he hadn’t even known existed.
She’d drawn him back into the light from a dark place. All with a simple touch.
Seeing the direction of his gaze, she dropped her hand self-consciously. He felt the loss acutely, the severing of a connection the significance of which he was only beginning to comprehend. This woman did something strange to him.
He bent down, picking up the shirt and plaid that he’d tossed over a rock, feeling suddenly exposed. Though he knew it wasn’t his state of undress that bothered him. He folded the clothing over his arm and held out his hand. “Come.”
She looked at him uncertainly. “Where are we going?”
“To the water. Then you can tell me what you wished to speak to me about.”
Steeling himself for rejection, he was surprised when she wordlessly slid her hand into his.
He ignored the sudden hitch in his chest and led her down the rocky pathway to the water’s edge.
Rather than step on the white sandy beach, she pulled back with almost an aversion that he found odd and found a low rock to sit on.
Once again he relinquished his shirt and plaid to a rock, then pulled off his boots and dove into the waves of the sound, allowing the cool water to wash over him and rinse away the sweat and grime of the fight.
His muscles burned, and he could have used a long, cold soak, but he was acutely aware that she was waiting.
Reinvigorated nonetheless, he stepped up the rocky bank, feeling her big blue eyes on him the whole time, traveling over his chest and arms, unable to hide her interest. His body hardened.
He wanted more than her eyes on him. Her hands …
for starters. And then that naughty red mouth.
She could drive a man wild with erotic images of those softly curved lips.