Highland Warrior by Heather McCollum (the rosie project TXT) 📗

lasses should wear trousers, and this woman added merit to the opinion. Och but he wanted to run his hands down those slopes. She looked warm and supple, her mouth lush.

“Here,” said the old man, pushing through the back door to drop the turnip on the counter. Thudding, it rolled to the edge. He picked up the pennies Joshua had left and tucked them in his tunic.

“Any of these cottages in town open to travelers?” Joshua asked the woman. If not, he would have to find shelter for Fuil and then come back and buy tankards of mead until the old man fell asleep so he could spend the night on a cold stone bench.

“There might be a place for you to stay,” the woman answered. “I will…ask.”

“I am obliged.” Joshua let his mouth bend up in a half smile that usually softened the lasses back home. He let the appreciation for her form show in his gaze. Not too much, or he’d been known to look predatory, which frightened off the majority of lasses. Nay, just mild interest showed instead of the thrumming rush he felt inside.

Her lips parted slightly as if she needed to draw in more breath, and she pushed away from the bar. Stopping next to him, her hand rose with awkward hesitation to touch his arm. “I will return once I know.” It curled into a fist but then flattened out to slide down the length of his bicep. “You will wait?”

Her touch momentarily robbed him of thought. She had asked a question. “Will I wait?” he repeated slowly. “For ye?” Recovering, he let charm grow in his smile. “An army of horses could not drag me from here.” Behind him, he heard the barkeeper snort.

She strode away, taking the heat in her touch with her. The door slammed shut as she pushed out into the cold, and Joshua turned to the frowning man, still standing behind the bar. “What is her name?”

The man pursed his lips tightly and shook his head. “I call her dróttning.”

Joshua’s gaze slid to the door and back to the man. Three months on the isle, and he still had not picked up much of the local language. It was as if they guarded it against those speaking English or Gaelic. “What does it mean?”

“’Tis from old Norse,” he said. “And it means you best treat her well.”

“I have every intention of treating her very well,” Joshua said and snatched up the turnip, tossing it into the air to catch easily as it fell back to earth. He pushed out through the door into the twilight. And stopped. “Bloody hell,” he yelled, the turnip dropping from his hand to roll away. Fuil was gone!

Chapter Two

“The whole secret lies in confusing the enemy, so that he cannot fathom our real intent.”

Sun Tzu – The Art of War

Joshua whipped around, his fingers going to his mouth where he blew two short whistles. A neigh, from behind one of the buildings, tore through the growing twilight. Yells followed.

Bandits. Fools! Fuil was a warhorse and listened to no one but him. The only thing that would have made him move was a treat dangled before him. Damn horse thieves! Maybe Robert’s rant about the native people eating horseflesh was true. Had he starved his people enough to turn them into barbarians?

Joshua ran around the side of the thatched cottage, skidding to a halt before three men trying to control his raging steed. Their eyes were wide as they raised hands to the snorting beast, the whites of Fuil’s eyes showing and his ears laid back. The horse could kill them on his own, but the thieves might injure his friend. Fury roared in Joshua’s ears, and energy shot through his blood at the thought that they would steal him. And eat him!

Barely noting that the woman from the tavern stood nearby, he drew his sword from the scabbard strapped to his back, stalking forward. Sucking in large swaths of air through his nostrils, he prepared to win this contest by intimidation alone.

One of the fiends turned to see him advancing, his panicked eyes growing even wider. He had no sword and raised his fists before him, the snorting horse behind him. Damn. The thief was young, probably only recently growing into his pitiful beard.

The second man was dressed in ragged clothing, insufficient against the cold. He held a dagger and a wild glare. The third bastard surged toward Joshua, sword held by his two hands, striking downward. Joshua met the attack, the two blades clanging together. Desperate or foolish? Joshua wasn’t sure, but the man seemed immune to intimidation.

Joshua easily parried the man’s lunge, spinning to bring his elbow down at the base of the man’s skull, knocking him flat, his face in the dirt. Pivoting to the man holding his puny dagger, he yelled, “I will jam your own blade into your foolish skull.”

The man’s lips curled back as he spit. “There are worse things.” It was the look of desperation that made Joshua drop his sword to the turf. Even a horse thief could lose hope. That did not mean he deserved to be skewered.

In two strides, Joshua knocked the dagger from the man’s hand and threw a punch into his nose, dropping him to the ground without any effort.

“Foking monster!” the barely-a-man yelled. He charged, his fists still raised. Joshua held up his own fists, but instead of swinging at the lad, he swiped his leg across as he sidestepped, tripping the thief, who fell hard. Three steps back, Joshua swooped up his sword and spun back to Fuil.

“Stop!” came a voice from the road.

Fire ripped across the outside of Joshua’s upper arm. He looked down to see a slice in his tunic where a dagger had cut through as it grazed him, the weapon skidding across the pebbled ground beyond. He’d been merciful with the thieves and yet they sought to kill him. Rage added even more strength to