Page 3 of Claimed by the Clan Chief

But it was like trying to shift a boulder and her slight weight did nothing to change his stance.

“Ye got more of that good ale for our end of the table?” he asked.

“I’ll go and ask cook,” she said, still squirming. “If you’ll let me.”

“Or we could come to some other arrangement. Perhaps I’m hungry for something else now.” He laughed loudly and glanced at his friends at the opposite end of the table who were smirking their way. “If you ken what I mean.” He lifted his left hand from her shoulder and cupped his groin. “I reckon a good seeing to would bring a smile to your face, stop you being so sour.”

“No, get off me.”

“Ah, come on, lass, your laird won’t mind. His home is our home, he said.”

Irritation turned to fear. A devilish shine in his eyes told Isla he wouldn’t be dissuaded.

She swallowed as nausea gripped her belly. “Leave me be, I have work to do.”

“Aye, woman’s work.” He leaned closer, seeming to loom over her and take out all the light from the candles behind him.

She twisted to shake him free, but he gripped her wrists and tugged her toward the door.

“No.” This couldn’t be happening. Not in front of the laird, in front of his guests. “May you burn in hell with Satan for all eternity.”

He spun to her, surprise crossing his face. He released her left wrist and raised his palm, as if to strike her.

Isla held her breath, an imagined pain already slicing over her cheek. She anticipated the worst.

A huge bang rattled around the room and up to the ceiling—wood on hard tiled floor.

Out of the corner of her eye, Isla saw McTavish rising to his full height with his seat toppled behind him. His jaw was set tight and his fists were clenched. He stared their way.

“Take your hands off her, Broc.”

Broc, Isla’s tormentor, stilled. “Ye said we’d have wenches here, McTavish. I’m claiming this one.”

“You can get yourself down to the tavern for that.”

“Why? I have one I want here.” Broc took another step toward the door, dragging Isla with him. “One my cock wants.”

Isla stumbled and tried to yank herself free. “Leave me be.” She’d bite him, knee him in the groin, and gouge out his eyeballs the moment she had a chance to. But damn, he was strong, and determined too.

A flash of polished silver rushed through the air—a sword—the sharp tip landing neatly in the hollow of Broc’s throat.

Again he stilled; he had to, it was that or have his blood spilled. His gaze went to McTavish standing at his side and the expression on his face tightened.

“I said,” McTavish tilted his chin, “leave her be. She’s not yours to take.”

Broc swallowed, his Adam’s apple grazing the sword tip, but he didn’t release Isla’s left arm.

McTavish’s nostrils flared and he jabbed the sword forward, just a little. A bright button of ruby-red blood appeared on Broc’s stubble-coated throat.

“Aye, aye, hold your horses.” Suddenly Broc released her and stepped away.

Isla gasped with relief and rubbed at her smarting forearms. His grip had been steely and mean.

But McTavish followed him, his sword still aloft, and now angled at Broc’s chest.

“I let her go.” Broc huffed and went to move to the side.

“Not so fast,” McTavish said, jabbing Broc’s tunic with his sword.

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