Page 6 of A Hellion for the Highland Hawk
Her hand grasped for the tapestry, as if that would be enough to protect her from an earthquake. But as she stumbled, she felt the heavy, woven fabric detach from the wall.
She might have screamed; she wasn’t sure. But as the enormous tapestry fell on top of her, it took her down with it, trapping her in the middle of a room that might tumble down, too.
CHAPTER 2
CASTLE LOCHLANN, MAY 9TH, 1710
Sweat drippedfrom Hunter’s brow, his dark hair damp with it, his skin slick enough that he couldn’t be grabbed as he twisted and feinted, ducked and thrust, his sword an extension of his body, so attuned that he could almost predict his enemy’s movements.
For once, it had been worth coming down to the training yard.
“Too slow!” he barked at one of the novices coming at him.
“Keep yer sword up!” he shouted at another.
“Och, Lyall, ye should have stayed at home!” he muttered at the one lad who hadn’t shown a bit of improvement in the months he’d been there.
But the rest of them weren’t bad, showing a lot more promise than he’d expected when they first arrived. His man-at-arms,Jack, finally seemed to be taking his role seriously, whipping the new batch into some semblance of shape.
Hunter kicked one of them to the ground and twisted to tap another on the chest with the flat of his blade—a sign that they’d be dead if this were a real battle. The other three kept coming warily, though determination flashed in their eyes.
As of yet, no one had managed to tap the Laird, and there’d be a celebration in the barracks for any novice that managed it.
A few seasoned soldiers watched from the edge of the training yard, their faces creased with knowing smirks. In all the years that theyhad been warriors, they’d never managed to tap Hunter with their blades either.
As Hunter delivered a hard kick to the leg of one of the young men, sending him sprawling to the sawdust, a voice rang out across the yard.
“Me Laird!” Jack paused at the gate of the makeshift arena to catch his breath.
A year or so without war had made Jack lazy, though Hunter supposed that was the point of peace: to enjoy it. Maybe one dayhewould figure out how.
“What?” Hunter grumbled as he quickly dealt with the last two, disarming one with a bone-shaking blow to the blade and tapping the other square in the stomach.
“Ye have to come to the gates, me Laird,” Jack replied.
It had taken some time, but it seemed he was finally growing accustomed to the formalities. Though, in truth, Hunter often wished he could just be the man-at-arms again, dealing with tactics and training and inventory and victory instead of the myriad demands and questions and duties that came with a lairdship.
If he never had to deal with the council again, it would be too soon.
“Last time someone said that to me, I ended up with a baby,” Hunter said as he approached his friend.
Jack grinned. “Well, it’s nae a bairn this time. Come on.”
“What do ye mean, come on?” Hunter walked through the gate, following regardless. “Ye daenae give the orders, Jack.”
Laughing, Jack continued on past the armory and the stables, where lads who’d clearly been laughing and chattering a moment ago suddenly stood to attention. Stern and silent and rigid as fence posts, they gave respect to their Laird as he walked along behind Jack.
“What is it this time?” Hunter asked as he drew level with his man-at-arms. “Ye realize ye were interruptin’ the only good trainin’ session those lads have had in a week?”
Jack waved a dismissive hand. “It’ll just rile ‘em up to do even better next time.” He paused, some manner of mischief in his brown eyes. “As for what’s waitin’ for ye… well, it’s better if ye see for yerself. Cannae say I’ve ever seen aught like it.”
“No, I don’t thinkyouunderstand!” Nancy didn’t lose her temper very often, but these idiots were testing her patience beyond all rational limits. “You need to get some officers here, possibly a paramedic, because I’ve clearly been hit by falling debris, got concussed, and have wanderedwayout of town.”
Her head didn’t hurt, but that didn’t mean much. She knew that the brain could shut off all kinds of pain receptors when someone was suffering a trauma response. She didn’t need Dr. Adeline Clark to tell her that.
“Am I speaking French?” she barked, as the five men kept staring at her.
They were dressed up in the belted plaids she’d seen at the museum, the tartan woven in shades of red, green, and yellow. Their hair was long and tied back, three of them bearded and grizzled, while the other two were clean-shaven but just as rough-looking, all covered in an array of scars.
