Page 17 of Highlander's Secret Heiress
Alyth took her stance, ready to begin the imaginary bout, but she never got the chance. She jumped in fright as a heavy hand landed on her shoulder, and whipped around to see who was there, raising her sword as she did so. However, when she saw who it was, she stiffened her body in a defensive position.
“Good morning,” said Lachlan Carrick. His words were ostensibly a greeting, but they sounded more like a threat.
7
Alyth could see, even in the dim grey light of dawn, that Lachlan was holding a mighty broadsword in his hand. He was sweating, and his tunic was sticking to him, outlining every one of his impressive muscles. Either he had been training alone or he had something nefarious in mind; from the look on his face it was the latter. Or perhaps, like her, he had been fighting some imaginary enemy, and that enemy was probably her. The depth of hatred they had for each other was equal on both sides.
For a few moments he stood looking at her grimly, his brows drawn down in a fierce frown, shadowing his eyes and filling his face with menace. Alyth had often tried to imagine him smiling at her and found it impossible. It certainly was now.
Instinctively, Alyth backed away a few steps, but Lachlan stood still, his eyes never leaving hers. His body was tense, still, and silent, and somehow his soundless posture made him more intimidating, like a big cat about to spring on its prey. Indeed, Alyth felt acutely vulnerable and helpless. She was not a tiny woman by any means, but at this moment, Lachlan Carrick looked absolutely huge.
She could imagine another scenario when they would fight each other with a different kind of passion, this time kissing, sweating, limbs tangled in a frantic, lustful embrace. Alyth was baffled by the fact that she was both attracted to him and repelled by him in equal measures. What was it about Lachlan Carrick that confused her so much? He was just a man, after all; a very attractive man, to be sure, but there was more to life than a handsome face.
She took another step backwards, but this time Lachlan followed her. He had always suspected by the way she moved and the speed of her reflexes when she worked at some difficult task that she was no ordinary maid. Now that he had seen her using a sword, he was convinced that she had been trained to defend herself—no, not only defend, but attack too.
He was sure that if he took her on now, she would put up a good fight, even though it was unlikely she would beat him. A man always had the huge advantage of natural strength, over a woman, after all.
Lachlan felt himself harden as he contemplated the possibility of doing battle with Jeannie Dunbar. She was one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen, especially in the breeches she was wearing, leaving her sensual curves in imagination. He pictured himself lying with her, skimming his hands over her soft skin, cupping them over her generously sized breasts and kissing her full lips.
He began to walk around her, his body thrumming with desire, while she watched him. Daylight was broadening now, and Alyth knew it would only be a matter of time before they were seen by someone, who would no doubt be extremely curious to know why their Laird was engaged in combat with a serving maid.
Although she was shaking with fear inside, Alyth stubbornly refused to let her feelings show on her face; she had becomean expert in hardening her features into a stony mask. She kept her gaze fixed on the door of the weapons store, her eyes never moving a fraction.
“You are a very strange woman, Jeannie Dunbar,” Lachlan remarked, his voice a low, threatening rumble. “I have never met a serving maid who reads, handles herself with such grace, and speaks with an accent that is very, very different from the one the other servants use. I have heard it said that you are very adept at looking around the castle, even going into places you have no business being in at all. Several of my guards have seen you, but somehow you always convince them that you have a good reason for being there. You seem to think Leithmuir belongs to you.
One might think that being able to disappear from one place and reappear in another is witchcraft—or perhaps they might suspect that you are a spy.”
Alyth jumped in fright as the word hit her like a blow. For once, she had been unable to hide her reaction, and Lachlan Carrick had seen it all too clearly. He bent down so that his nose was almost touching hers, and suddenly, he was not aroused any more—at least, not in the way he had been. Now he was simply furious.
For a long moment, Lachlan stared at her, then suddenly he stepped back, and raised his sword, holding it upright in front of him. Alyth recognised the gesture as the formal challenge to a duel, and held her own sword up in answer to the invitation.
“I accept,” she said firmly. “And I promise you a fair fight, M’Laird. I am only a woman, and I am not as strong as you are, but I do not ask for any allowances to be made because of that. Treat me as you would treat a man. Agreed?”
“Agreed,” he replied. “We will fight for first blood.”
“First blood” meant that whoever was the first to draw blood from their enemy would win the bout, even if the wound wasonly a tiny scratch. All the weapons they used to practise with were blunt, so likely a scratch or a cut would be all they could inflict on each other anyway. The duel would likely be a short one.
Alyth made the first move, thrusting her sword at Lachlan as hard as she could. However, he parried the thrust and launched into one of his own, but there were two attributes in which he could not match Alyth, and they were speed and agility.
When it came to sheer strength, she was, of course, outmatched, but now, as Lachlan’s sword tip came straight at her, Alyth sidestepped so that he missed her completely. He stumbled forward for a few steps and narrowly missed falling to the ground, and as he turned to face her again, Lachlan saw her sword swiping towards him again. He parried the stroke, sweeping her weapon away in a wide circle, but he had left the front of his body open to attack.
Too late, he saw his mistake and took a few steps backwards to reposition himself, holding his sword horizontally across his body to block her next stroke. He was astonished to find himself firmly on the defensive and wondered how this could possibly have happened—especially against a woman!
Alyth’s next stroke proved that she was definitely no amateur, as she raised her sword and was about to bring it down on his head before he lifted his own weapon to block it. The two swords clashed and for a second it seemed as though there would be a stalemate, with neither willing to move, before Alyth backed away. They circled around each other before Alyth sidestepped and attacked Lachlan from another direction.
This blow wrong-footed Lachlan, but only for a second, and he recovered quickly, but when he turned to face Alyth again she could see that his eyes were smouldering with a terrible rage.
Her stomach filled with terror, but there was nothing else she could do but keep on fighting because she could hardly give upnow. She had a dreadful feeling, even though they had promised to fight only till first blood, that he would kill her.
Lachlan was astonished at the girl’s obvious expertise; it was clear she had been well-trained by an expert because she was not merely waving her sword around, but handling it with energy and purpose. If he had not known better, he could have imagined he was doing battle with one of his guards.
He could not help admiring her confidence, her agility, the speed of her movements and her stamina. He had no idea how long they had been fighting, but he was beginning to tire. Damn the woman! She was fighting like a man, although she most definitely was not one of his own sex; he almost laughed aloud at the thought.
Even if he had not had his suspicions before, the level of her skill told him that she was no ordinary maid: she must be a spy, but if she were, she was not a very good one. Her talents marked her out as someone quite extraordinary, and he had to know more —he would not sleep until he did.
Alyth was also beginning to flag; she practised regularly, but this encounter was different—of course it was. Her enemy was not imaginary, but a large, powerful, flesh-and-blood man with a very hostile attitude and a prodigious amount of strength.
It was Lachlan’s strength that finally won. They carried on with the duel for what seemed like hours before he swiped his sword across the front of her chest, narrowly missing her, but Alyth was too exhausted to battle any longer.
