Exclusive Peek:
Wager with a Warrior (Four Horsemen of the Highlands, Book 2)
Chapter One
*Copyright Emma Prince 2020. Please do not share.
October, 1332
Scottish Highlands
Gregor MacLeod wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. It came away with a smear of red, confirming the metallic tang of blood on his tongue.
He lifted a brow at his opponent, the first to land a blow all day.
“A fair shot.”
The man opposite him puffed with smug satisfaction. Those gathered in the alehouse, especially the man’s fellow Sutherlands, roared in approval.
“Get him, Willem!”
“Fists up, laddie!”
“Knock the Black MacLeod on his arse!”
Gregor eyed the crowd. They’d been loosened with ale and coiled back up again with outrage—directed squarely at him. The men pushing in around him were clearly spoiling to see Gregor beaten.
And no surprise in that—he’d already defeated most of the best warriors from amongst the various clans gathered for the Caithness Games. Their clan pride pricked, these men were all too happy to see Gregor taken down a peg or two.
His current opponent, Willem, shuffled toward him once again, his hands balled into fists before him. The man was nearly a head shorter than Gregor, yet half again as wide. He was built like a bull, stocky, shoulder-heavy, and relatively low to the ground.
Then again, everyone seemed low to the ground from Gregor’s towering vantage.
He softened his knees and widened his feet in anticipation of Willem’s next attack. Of course, because the man had managed to land a punch by feigning right and swinging left, he repeated the exact same move.
Gregor was more than ready. He ducked under Willem’s flying fist, then delivered a sharp punch to the man’s exposed ribs.
Willem staggered backward, clutching his side. The crowd rumbled in anger at Gregor’s successful hit.
Gregor paid them no more attention than a buzzing swarm of midges. He’d given the Sutherland lad a fair chance. Hell, the man had even drawn blood, which would surely soothe his pride and give him a wee something to boast about later. But there was no point in drawing this out longer than necessary.
As Willem approached again, this time warily, Gregor purposefully dropped his guard on the left, letting his shoulder and fist sag as if he were already growing fatigued.
It was convincing bait. After all, he’d been fighting all damn day—all damn month.
It seemed this was the only way to gather an army to stand against the Pretender King, Edward Balliol. Gregor’s wager was simple—any man he bested in combat had to pledge loyalty to Gregor’s cause and agree to fight against Balliol when the time came.
Gregor would build this army even if he had to battle every last man in the Highlands. Using his impressive size, strength, and nigh-preternatural skill in combat was all he was good for anyway.
Just as he’d intended, Willem’s muddy gaze shot to Gregor’s lowered defenses. The man wound up for what would have been a crushing punch—if he’d landed it.
But the Sutherland moved like a lumbering ox, slow and predictable from a league away.
With a quick step, Gregor closed the distance between them. He delivered two fast hits to the man’s middle, causing him to sag forward. With Willem’s chin hanging out in the open, Gregor dispensed a devastating uppercut.
Willem went flying backward, landing on the alehouse rushes with a muted thump. His compatriots closed in around him, urging him back onto his feet, but he was out cold.
Gregor scanned the alehouse wearily. “Anyone else wish to have a go?”
“Black MacLeod.”
The sound of a woman’s voice had Gregor’s head whipping around. Many in the crowd, too, craned to see who had spoken, apparently unaware that a lass had been in their midst.
Over the turned heads of the others, Gregor’s gaze landed on a wee slip of a lass pressed back into one of the alehouse’s corners. Her chestnut head bobbed as she pushed her way through those gathered. When she broke into the circle that had been cleared in the middle of the room for the fight, he got his first good look at her.
She was petite, the top of her head not quite clearing Gregor’s shoulder, yet she was no bairn. Her gentle curves were unmistakable beneath her simple blue gown.
Wide, moss-green eyes fringed with dark lashes were set in her heart-shaped face. Two bright flags of color sat on her softly rounded cheekbones, a contrast to her otherwise creamy skin. This close, he could make out a smattering of freckles across the bridge of her pert nose.
But what captivated Gregor’s full attention was the lass’s mouth. Petal-pink and sinfully full, her lips were lush and more than generous.
“Is it true?” she demanded. “Anyone ye best is indebted to yer service?”
Her gaze was direct, her shoulders back, and her chin lifted as she spoke. The only sign of nervousness was the tightness in her otherwise melodic voice.
“Aye,” he said, eyeing her speculatively.
“And does it work the other way?”
He arched a brow at her. “What do ye mean?”
Her hands unconsciously gripped her skirts. “If someone bests ye instead, does that mean ye are indebted to their service?”
Amusement rippled through the gathered men, who were watching the exchange with rapt attention. They might be bitter over their own warriors’ losses, but they seemed to find the idea of Gregor being handed over to one of them rather appealing.
“It hasnae happened before,” he replied dryly, staring down at the lass.
“But if it did…”
Gregor snorted, crossing his arms over his chest. That drew the lass’s attention. Her green gaze traced over the contours of his corded forearms with fascination. It took a surprising amount of willpower to stop himself from flexing like a preening peacock before her, if only to hold her notice for another moment.
“Aye, I suppose if someone managed to best me, he could hold me in his service,” he said at last.
The crowd buzzed at that. A few of the men shouted out to their compatriots to have a go against the Black MacLeod, yet none stepped forward.
Gregor hardly noticed them. He couldn’t seem to stop staring at the mesmerizing lass before him. Despite himself, he couldn’t wait to see what she would do next.
That lush mouth flattened in resignation, then she planted her fists on her hips. “Verra well.”
“Verra well, what?”
The lass’s gaze lifted to his, and he couldn’t help marveling at the green fire burning there.
“I will fight ye, then.”
