Page 14 of In Bed with a Highland Beast

“I’ll prove me worth tae ye,” said Lucia, and it was this which finally snapped Alaric out of his trance. “I will fight any o’ ye right now.”

Another wave of murmurs rocked the clearing, but Alaric didn’t move from where he stood in front of Lucia, even as the menexpressed their interest in such a fight. Logically, he knew she could defeat, if not everyone, then at least almost everyone in that clearing. He also knew that no matter how vicious the fight became, no one would dare harm her badly, not when her alleged husband was standing right there, ready to intervene. Still, the thought of her fighting any one of those men unsettled him, but what unsettled him most was the fact that he had become so protective of her in such a short amount of time.

Why should he care what happened to Lucia, he wondered? Why should it matter to him what happened to her any more than it mattered to him about anyone else? If anything, he should be glad for an opportunity to get out of this obligation and return home, where he could go on with his days and marry his betrothed, have the family expected of him, and live a content life.

He was anything but glad. He still didn’t trust her, not nearly enough to be allowing her to do this, dragging him along with her, but the urge to protect her was stronger than any mistrust.

“I think that is fair,” said their leader with a small shrug, though he didn’t seem to believe Lucia could succeed in such a fight. It didn’t surprise Alaric; he hadn’t expected it either, until he had seen her dominate that rink at the inn. “What dae ye say, lads? Should we see if our wee lady can fight?”

Jeers and laughter erupted around the clearing, the men amused by their exchange. When Alaric glanced at Lucia over his shoulder, though, she didn’t seem amused at all. She was only staring at the leader, her features set into a mask ofdetermination. It was then Alaric knew that no matter who fought Lucia, she would do anything it took to win.

That was precisely what he feared. In her quest to prove herself, she could also get hurt. She could become reckless, chasing her victory without any regard as to what it could cost her. It was already too late, though; Alaric couldn’t interfere, not when the leader had already all but accepted her challenge.

“I’ll fight her, Callum.”

The voice belonged to a large man, who stepped right up to the leader—Callum, apparently, was his name. The man was as tall as Callum himself and nearly as broad, with a thick neck and large hands calloused by years of wielding a sword.

He was not the kind of man Alaric wanted Lucia to fight. Though he was older, he towered over her and he bore the same scars as Alaric—scars which spoke of a lifetime of violence, thus a lifetime of experience. Lucia had her own scars, of course. Alaric had seen them just the previous day, the expanse of her back covered in them. The sight had given him pause, chest aching at the thought of how much pain she must have gone through to be scarred like that. Few of the scars he bore were as deep and as jagged. To think all of Lucia’s were like that sickened him and made him wonder who it could have been to put them there in the first place.

“Lachlan wishes tae fight her,” Callum said, turning to his crowd. He was more like an entertainer now in Alaric’s eyes than a leader of a vicious gang, gesturing widely with his hands whileLachlan breathed like a bull next to him and Lucia observed them both silently, utterly still. “What dae ye say? Should I let him?”

The men, naturally, agreed, much to Alaric’s disappointment. A part of him wanted to step in and demand that he fight in her stead, but he knew Lucia would never allow such a thing. If anything, she would only be furious with him for interfering with her plan and not allowing her to do the one thing which could gain her the respect of those people, and Alaric was not yet blinded to the truth: this was, indeed, the only way. Lucia had to prove herself through battle, with no one else helping her.

Anything else would only brew resentment and hatred among the men. Lucia had to become one of them by defeating one of them.

“Let them fight, then,” said Callum, stepping back to open up the space for Lucia and Lachlan. Before Lucia could get too far, though, Alaric couldn’t help but grab her arm and pull her close, whispering in her ear.

“Are ye certain about this? Surely, there are other ways.”

Lucia didn’t pull back from him, but her cold gaze told him that all she wanted was to yank her arm away and fight him, as well.

“I am certain,” she said, and there was no hint of hesitation in her voice. “I ken what I am doin’, Alaric. Dinnae fash.”

With that, she pulled away from him and stepped closer to Lachlan, both of them drawing their swords at the same time. Alaric had no choice but to step back into the sidelines, where he could do nothing to save Lucia from a well-aimed strike of Lachlan’s sword. He had no choice but to watch and to let this fight unfold as it was meant to.

In his chest, his heart beat rabbit-fast, erratic and syncopated. He watched as Lucia moved closer to Lachlan with the practiced ease of a predator, like a wild animal waiting to strike.

This was a dangerous woman, he realized. There was nothing about her he could trust; and yet, he could not take his gaze away from her.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Lucia stepped forward with no hesitation. Any sign of weakness would be as good as defeat in that situation. She couldn’t let Lachlan think for even a second that she was weak, though he was certainly thinking that.

In her years fighting men like Lachlan, Lucia had found out that it was better to show them from the very start that she was not a simple girl who had picked up a sword on a whim, but rather a warrior, much like themselves. That sudden realization always threw them off-balance, making them reconsider everything, from their initial choice to fight Lucia to the strategy they would follow.

There was nothing easier to defeat than an opponent without a plan. As long as Lachlan was panicking, Lucia could defeat him without even dropping any sweat.

As Lachlan stepped closer and closer, Lucia observed him—his light blonde hair and blue eyes, the scars on his face and arms. He, along with every other man in the camp, reminded her ofher own people—of her brother. There was no face unmarred by at least one scar, no hands that were soft and unused to manual labor. It would almost feel like home, were it not for the fact that these were not friendly faces.

As always, Lucia allowed her opponent to attack first. She had quickly come to find out it was the best course of action, so she could gauge their abilities and work from there. Lachlan seemed so certain of his victory that he didn’t even try. For his first blow, he walked slowly towards Lucia, circling her. There was no hesitation in him, either, just like there was none in her, but Lucia could see under his stoic mask, because he wore the same one.

They were both eager for this fight. They both enjoyed it, seeking this rush that compared to nothing else Lucia had ever experienced.

Lachlan attacked, his attempt half-hearted, even if he had the certainty it would work. When Lucia promptly deflected the blow, he frowned in confusion and took a few steps back, assuming a fighting stance once more. Much like many of her opponents, Lachlan’s mistake was that he was not quick on his feet like she was. Lucia could duck and dodge; she could pull and push, fighting like she was dancing, but all those men who had fought her always planted their feet so firmly in the earth that it was difficult for them to catch her. It didn’t help Lachlan was twice her size. Lucia may have been unable to match him in raw strength, but she could slip under his attacks, frustrating him and wearing him out.

And once he was tired, she could defeat him for good.

Lachlan’s second attack was stronger, with more force behind it, but once again, Lucia dodged it, avoiding his blade. In that instant, she became painfully aware that this was no practice sword he held in his hand. Both of them were using their real, sharpened blades and one wrong move could mean that she could lose her head, but the same was true for Lachlan. There was something to be said, though, about the thrill that came with fighting like this—not just with fists, but with weapons, sharp and deadly. It sent a shiver down Lucia’s spine. She was almost enjoying herself too much, she thought, grinning as she counterattacked with a swing of her blade, one that Lachlan barely managed to deflect on time.

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