Page 12 of Plaid Attitude
But as he reached the posts stacked in a haphazard circle to mark the sparring grounds, one of the warriors broke away from the man he sparred and whirled to face Doughall. The man wore a helm which obscured his face, but that didn’t hide the enraged bellow echoing within as the stranger hurtled toward Doughall, sword raised.
Years of training and instinct took over. Before Doughall’s brain even processed the attack—or the fact the man wore a helm of the King’s Hunters—his sword cleared the scabbard and was rising to block the attack.
He caught the man’s blade on his guard, but the strength behind it was enough to send him to one knee in the mud. Grunting, he shifted his hold, and as he loosed the hilt with one hand to reach for the dagger at his belt, he rolled, knowing he couldn’t maintain this defense.
Who the fook was this?
He had no time to consider, as the man was actively trying to decapitate him.
Doughall came up shoulder first, swiping at the man’s knee with his dagger, but the lucky bastard nimbly jumped out of the way. Throwing himself to his feet, Doughall roared as he charged, blades held at the ready, toward the other man.
Dimly, he wondered why no one had stepped up to help.
The other man tossed aside his sword at the last moment and grabbed Doughall’s wrists, a blindingly stupid move Doughall didn’t have time to consider before the Hunter had twisted the hand holding his sword nearly backwards.
The sharp spike of pain was enough to almost cause him to drop his blade, but he wasn’t that dumb. Instead, he slammed his knee between the other man’s legs—or would have, had the bastard not twisted at the last moment to catch the blow on his thigh.
Now, Doughall had a sneaking suspicion, and the chuckles coming from inside the helm validated them.
So, when he wrenched his dagger-hand free, he didn’t rake the blade across his attacker’s wrist and open a vein as he otherwise would have. Instead, he flipped the weapon over and jabbed the hard round hilt into the fleshy skin under the attacker’s upper arm.
“God’s wounds!” roared the man, stumbling backwards and yanking at his helm with his other hand. “That’s going to leave a mark, Doughall!”
Breathing heavily and trying to hide the fact his hands shook from the life-or-death struggle, the Commander slid first his dagger, then his sword, into their scabbards. Still, he kept his tone bland when he quipped, “That’s the idea.”
The other man was grinning again as he examined the mark on his arm. “I can barely use my hand. What the hell did ye do to me?”
“’Tis called a pressure point, and ye’ll be fine in a moment. Or ye’ll be dead. What in St. Berthwald’s name did ye think ye were doing, Barclay?”
“I was saying hello, cousin.”
God’s Teeth, but it was impossible to be angry at a man who was in such a perpetual good mood. Doughall’s shoulders relaxed…that was, until he glanced down at himself and realized he was covered in mud.
“Some peoplesay hello with words. Or handshakes. Or even hugs.”
“Ye want a hug?” his cousin asked, arms wide.
He was bluffing.
Doughall called his bluff.
With no warning, he threw himself at the other man, locking his arms around the bastard and taking him down into the mud.
Nowthiswas going to be a fun time.
His warriors gathered around the grappling men, calling out suggestions and making wagers and laughing.Thisfighting wasn’t for their life, but just for dominance, and it was exactly what Doughall needed.
Barclay was his cousin on his grandfather’s side, and stopped to visit every few months, when he was in the area on the King’s business. Doughall liked his cousin, he really did…but the bastard always knew how to make an entrance.
But Doughall was older and larger, and before long had pinned the laughing man on his stomach right in the deepest part of the mud.
“Enough, Dougie! Ye’re going to drown me in this mud.”
Doughall pushed the other man’s face into the slop. “That’s the idea,” he repeated. “Dinnae call me Dougie.”
But he was smiling when he finally let Barclay up, and then they did embrace, seeing as how they were equally filthy. The anger and frustration he’d felt earlier, dealing with Edgar and Bess, had melted away, and Doughall was feeling at ease as he slapped his cousin on the shoulder.
“Kev can handle the men’s training today. Let us go to the loch to wash, and ye can tell me what brings ye to Oliphant land this time.”
