Chapter 7

“Shite,” Jenefer bit out as the Highlander slammed the shutters and disappeared from the window.

Now she’d done it. The brute was coming downstairs. Which would have been fine if she were closer to her longbow.

But she’d left it in the trees. After all, what ghost carried a bow and arrows? Now it would take her too long to fetch.

Damn her cousins! She never should have listened to them. She’d always said this should be a battle of arms, not of wits. The Highlander hadn’t been convinced for one moment that she was a ghost.

What she wouldn’t give to have her bow—nocked and primed—in her hands right now.

Of course, bow or not, she wasn’t about to run. Only cowards ran away from a fight. So she tossed off the veil, which would only get in the way. Then she blew into her icy hands and bounced up and down on her toes, hoping to warm up her blood enough to put up a good fight.

The babe upstairs was still carrying on. Its wails of woe sailed on the wind, almost as piercing as the cold. She wondered why its mother wasn’t seeing to it. Then again, knowing the barbaric Highlanders, they probably toughened up their babes by letting them cry.

Sooner than she expected—had the Highlander flown down the stairs?—the timber gates burst open. What emerged was the biggest warrior she’d ever seen.

The breath deserted her lungs. Her eyes went wide. Every instinct told her to flee.

But she swallowed down her fear and braced her knees for impact, even though the fists she made seemed suddenly puny in the face of the beast coming toward her.

He was a good fifty yards away. But his long strides were swallowing up the ground at a rapid pace.

In a flash, all the gruesome rumors she’d heard about Highlanders streamed through her brain.

They ate live mice.

They slept in the snow.

They fought wolves barehanded.

They drank the blood of their enemies.

Twenty yards away.

Like a thunderhead, he boiled toward her with savage intent and the dark threat of violence.

A dozen yards.

Icy sweat covered her now. She was badly mismatched. But she refused to surrender. Better that she should die bravely on her two feet than cower in fear.

Six yards.

This close, she could see his face contorted with murderous rage and hear his feral growl of warning.

Her heart pounded. But she challenged him with an unwavering scowl.

Three yards.

He swept his claymore up in one massive arm, as if he planned to lop off her head then and there.

Still she held her ground and stared death in the eyes.

A yard away, really too close to strike, he finally stopped before her.

She held her breath.

His blade hung over her head. But his furious face was now marked by puzzlement. It was also marked by signs of a recent fight.

He could have killed her. But he hadn’t. And that meant he wouldn’t.

For an extended moment, they only stared at each other, like fire and ice, at an impasse.

Then he suddenly snarled, towering over her and shaking his blade in an attempt to scare her.

All she had left was the element of surprise. While he held his sword aloft, she drove her fist forward, punching him in the nose as hard as she could. Hard enough to make him stagger backward in pain and shock. Hard enough that she knew, once the thrill of triumph wore off, her knuckles would hurt like the devil.

His alarm didn’t last long. With a curse, he dropped the sword and came at her with his bare arms.

Normally, she could slip out of a man’s grasp with ease. She might be tall for a lass, but she was quick and agile. Especially when she was unhindered by clothing.

But with this giant, there was nowhere to slip to. She dodged left, and his right arm blocked her way. She dodged right, and his left arm corralled her back in. Her only satisfaction as they engaged in a back-and-forth combat dance was that his nose had begun to bleed.

Finally, deciding the only way to defeat a giant was to bring him to the ground, she dove toward his knees.

Her plan was to bowl him over.

She might as well have tried to bowl over an oak tree. All she managed to do was stop herself short. Worse, she ended up in the humiliating position of groveling at his feet.

But she needn’t have worried. She didn’t stay there long. In the next instant, he swept his right arm down and hoisted her up by the waist, settling her on his hip.

She fought for her freedom like a thrashing wildcat.

“Put me down!” she screamed.

“Nay,” he bit out.

She pounded on his thighs. They were as hard as iron.

“Let me go!”

“Nay!” he barked. “I might have a moment ago. But that was ere ye bloodied my nose.”

She twisted in his viselike grasp.

“You came at me with a sword,” she spat, “and you’re crying over a bloody nose?”

“I’m not cryin’,” he growled, “and I wouldn’t have harmed ye.” Then he added, as if she should have known as much, “Bloody hell, ye’re a lass.”

That almost made her laugh. The Highlander had obviously never heard of The Warrior Maids of Rivenloch.

“That’s right,” she cooed. “I’m only a lass.”

Then she drove her fist toward his ballocks.