Page 78 of Her Highland Prophecy
What more could he do? He had already given her everything he was and everything he had, and she had not even paused to consider it. He told her he loved her, baring his heart to her, and though she had not crushed it outright, it was a near thing. What she hadn’t done in person would happen the moment she stepped into that cave and disappeared from him forever.
He was being a bit unfair, he realized. She had not asked for him to fall in love with her. If anything, she had done everything she could to prevent it. She had outright told him that they couldn’t be together, and he had told her that he didn’t care about the consequences.
Yet, as he was faced with her imminent departure, he couldn’t help but feel like maybe he shouldn’t have been so hasty. He adored her, from her beautiful face down to her quirky habits, but her leaving would crush him. Thank the Lord that he had found a way to support the Clan that did not involve him marrying anyone anytime soon, because he didn’t think he could go through with it.
He wondered for the thousandth time if there was any way he could convince her to stay, but he dismissed the thought almost instantly. She had made it very clear that she wanted to return home. To prevent her from doing that would be utterly selfish.
Lost as he was in thought, he didn’t notice the footsteps at first. Whoever it was, wasn’t hiding the fact that they were approaching him from behind.
He frowned and turned around just in time to see a man entering the clearing where he was sitting. He frowned. The man had dark-blond hair and dark eyes, and although Gordain was certain that he had never seen him before, the stranger was looking at him as if he had clearly expected Gordain to be sitting where he was.
“Gordain Boyd?” the man asked him, confirming his suspicions. His voice was not what Gordain had expected. It was high pitched, the voice of a boy rather than a man.
“Aye,” he replied carefully, “who asks?”
“I have information for ye,” the man said, his eyes darting from side to side, almost nervously. “But I cannae tell ye here.”
“What kind of information?” Gordain asked. “What is this about?”
“I ken about the man that sent ye the letter,” he said. Gordain started in surprise.
The only person he had told about the letter was Tamas, and he knew that the old man would not have shared that information with just anyone, let alone a stranger. Which only left the person who had actually sent the letter as the source of information.
“What do ye ken about that?” he asked, voice rough with anger.
“Nae here. Come with me,” the stranger with the odd voice said, and then he turned around and walked further into the forest.
Something was not adding up in his behavior. They were perfectly alone, isolated from almost everything of the fair. Why did they have to go further into the trees? It made him instantly suspicious of the man, but if he had any information, he needed to know it. He adjusted his dirk against his hip, ensuring that he could grip it in a moment’s notice and followed.
The man stopped some fifty feet into the tree line, the canopy over them casting a green tinge to the light filtering through the leaves. The stranger turned around with a manic glint in his eyes, revealing a short sword in his hands. With a loud cry, he rushed toward Gordain, who was cursing inwardly for not following his instincts and pulling his dirk out before.
Gordain spun away from the sword that was aimed directly at his stomach, pulling out his dirk from his belt as he went. He managed to avoid the direct hit, but the sword caught on his arm, slashing through his shirt and piercing the skin beneath it, drawing blood.
It stung, but he ignored it, never taking his eyes off the man who had just attacked him. His attacker took a moment to adjust his grip on his blade before coming at Gordain again, blade high.
This time, Gordain was ready. Rather than spinning away from the blade, he parried away the hit, and then tried to hit the man with his dirk. He was successful in blocking the hit but wasn’t able to land a blow on his opponent.
Again and again they came at each other, neither gaining the upper hand. Both of them were winded, with several slashes on their bodies. Gordain had been hit on his thigh as well as his shoulder and he could feel the sticky rivulets of blood flowing down his body.
Deciding to try another tactic, the next time the man came at him with his sword, he swung out both with his dirk and his fist. The dirk missed its mark, but the fist was unexpected and his opponent hadn’t expected it.
Gordain watched as the blow found its mark on the man’s stomach, making him double over in pain, the air driven out of him. He wheezed from the blow, the sword clattering from his hand as he raised both of them to his sternum in his attempt to draw a breath.
Gordain did not give him the chance to recuperate, he had snatched him around the neck, pulling up the man to face him.
“Tell me who sent ye,” he growled. He was still breathing hard from the exertion, but he was in a much better condition than the man below him who seemed unable to draw a breath still.
“Tell me!” Gordain insisted.
“I’ll tell ye! I’ll tell ye!” the man finally managed to stay, though he still sounded winded.
Gordain released his neck but brought his dirk up to the man’s throat threateningly.
“One wrong move and I will end ye,” he said.
There was nothing but the sound of the man’s loud inhalations for a few seconds, before the quiet of the forest was broken by a loud laugh. Gordain stared at the man who was laughing hysterically, wondering if he had come unhinged.
“What the hell is wrong with ye?” he asked.
