Page 122 of The Highlander's Auctioned Virgin
“In the few days I’ve watched her,” Gordon continued, his voice even, “I’ve seen more spirit in her than I’ve seen in any other woman or man in this castle. It has to be a family trait, do ye nae think?”
Ciaran lunged at him again. “What is yer point?”
“My point,” Gordon replied, blocking a high strike, “is that ye’d be a fool to let yer demons steal that from ye. Stealherfrom ye.”
Ciaran feinted left and swung hard to the right. Gordon grunted as the blade almost nicked him.
“I had a reputation once, too, ye ken?” Gordon revealed, stepping back to regain his balance.
“I ken,” Ciaran said. “Ye still do, actually. They call ye theDevil of the Highlands. ‘Tis quite a corny name, do ye nae think?”
“Says the man kenned as the Hound,” Gordon retorted, swinging his sword sideways.
Ciaran blocked it again. “Doesnae change me point,” he argued.
Gordon let out a low laugh. “Me point is that I didnae survive it by hiding from what I wanted.”
Ciaran did not say anything in response. He was too focused on finding a way to slam Gordon to the ground.
Gordon’s sword came up again. “Men like us,” he continued, panting, “We werenae made for peace. Nae on our own. But women like Elinor and Anna… they see what the rest of the world will never bother to look for.”
Ciaran moved faster than before. Their blades clashed so hard that the sound echoed through the courtyard, almost scaring the nearby animals that were grazing.
“They see the things we’ve buried,” Gordon persisted. “The parts of us that we have tried to push down so deep. Parts that we would most likely choke on if we ever let them rise again.”
Ciaran ground his teeth together. He forced Gordon back, step by step, until the man’s boots dug into the softer part of the courtyard.
“Ye let her slip through yer fingers,” Gordon warned, “and those demons ye keep holding onto will eat ye alive before ye ken it.”
With a roar, Ciaran knocked the sword out of Gordon’s hand, slammed the heel of his boot into his chest, and drove him to the ground. He planted a knee on the man’s ribs and pointed the tip of his blade just below his collarbone.
“Do ye yield?” he asked, his voice rough.
Before he could catch his breath, Gordon twisted, kicked out hard, and sent Ciaran sprawling into the grass. His back hit the soft earth, and his eyes settled on the graying morning sky.
“I let ye win,” Ciaran wheezed, hearing him shift beside him.
“Did ye?” Gordon scoffed, hauling himself up and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Ye’re the one on yer back.”
Ciaran pushed himself up and watched as Gordon offered him a hand. “I had ye already. If this were a war, I would have killed ye.”
A smirk crossed Gordon’s face as he lifted Ciaran off the ground. “Aye. And yet ye didnae. Never underestimate a man’s wits. How about we call it a tie?”
Ciaran opened his mouth to respond when a voice called out. “My Lairds!”
They both turned to the castle doors to find Anna standing there, her hand raised.
“I have finished the portrait,” she said, her voice carrying across the courtyard. “Ye might want to come see it.”
Ciaran wiped his palm over his mouth, though it did nothing to steady his thrumming pulse. At least now he could properly relax and stop trying to break things in his room.
He felt freer; Gordon’s words had struck something inside him. Something he was certain would lead him back toher. He coughed slightly, tasting metal in his mouth from when he had crashed into the ground.
“Fine.” He eventually responded. “We'll call it a tie.”
“Ye’re a great fighter.” Gordon’s voice broke into his thoughts. The man was wiping the mud off his sword, and Ciaran waited for him to finish so he could do the same. “I mean it.”
“Ye too,” Ciaran offered, his voice clear. “Ye ken how to hold yer own against anyone.”
