Page 11 of When the Laird Conquers

Gordon knew it the moment the words left his lips, and Agnes surged to close the gap between them. Her arm sought to loop around his neck to hug him, her hand grazing his skin, but she was too short, and the baby was in the way, letting out a whine of annoyance as she narrowly avoided getting squashed.

“Oh, thank you! Thank you, my Laird!” Agnes yelped with a grin, trying again, clearly expecting him to stoop to allow her to embrace him.

He didn’t. Instead, he caught her by the arm and held her back. “Ye can stop that, too.”

“What did I do now?” She frowned at him.

“I daenae like people thankin’ me,” he replied coolly. “Means they owe me or I owe them. So, keep yer thanks to yerself, eh?”

She groaned, shaking her head. “It seems you don’t like a lot of things. How fussy you are for a big and powerful laird.”

He had clearly wounded her by not allowing her to show her gratitude, and that was probably for the best. Let her stay at arm’s length, where she would be safe.

“But you helped me,” she added obstinately, “so I want to help you in return. That is the way things are done, whether you like it or not. I will not be indebted either. So, you just let me know what I can do for you, and I⁠—”

“Stay out of me way for as long as ye stay here, and all will be well,” he said roughly.

Daenae seek to be close to me. Daenae try. Daenae think me doin’ this for ye is anythin’ more than protectin’ me own territory from English interference.

His frustration with the cheerful, smiling, defiant lass softened as his gaze landed on the baby in her arms. The little lassie was a sweet thing, with the same big eyes as her aunt, though the baby’s were a brownish green, instead of the bluer green of Agnes’s eyes.

And I suppose I’m doin’ it a little bit because yer faither is evidently a worthless weasel, wee lassie.

To his surprise, the baby burbled as if she understood, her happy face lighting up.

He turned, and with a nod to his man-at-arms, he made his way out of the breakfast hall, knowing the other man would follow without question.

He was not leaving to chase down those English interlopers, not yet, but to swing his sword at something until he got the feel of Agnes’s hand against his neck out of his head.

“First blood or first surrender,” Gordon growled, drawing his broadsword.

The loyal, powerful young men who had kept Clan Buchlann feared and respected exchanged amused looks. It wasn’t uncommon for their Laird to join the day’s efforts, far from it, but they were probably grateful that he hadn’t asked one of them to duel him.

“That bad?” Keith asked, laughing.

Gordon pulled off his shirt and tossed it onto the fence that ringed the training yard. “Enough talkin’. Draw yer sword, or it’ll be first blood faster than I’m willin’ to permit.”

“It’s nae like ye to be so grumpy in the mornin’,” Keith teased.

“Will ye just fight!” Gordon snapped as he began to pace back and forth across the sawdust-covered yard, impatience bristling in his tense muscles.

Keith put up his hands in mock surrender. “Aye, aye, give me a moment.” Still chuckling to himself, he pulled off his shirt and drew his sword.

Gordon didn’t hesitate. He swung his broadsword with all of the frustration that simmered within him, the blade cutting so close to Keith’s chest that even Keith looked surprised. A gasp of excitement rippled through the training yard, soldiers forming small groups to spectate.

Of course, Gordon wasn’t without his discipline; he wouldn’t cut his man-at-arms just yet, not when there was more tension that he needed to get out of his body. A short fight was no good for either of them.

The smile dropped from Keith’s face, and just as Gordon had hoped, the man leaped into action.

Like dancers, they twirled and ducked and feinted out of each other’s way, swords arcing and slashing, legs coming up in graceful, powerful kicks. They had fought together since they were boys, each aware of the other’s style, often able to predict one another’s next moves, which was what made Keith the only person Gordon could duel with when he was in such a fractured state of mind.

Anyone else in the yard would be at genuine risk of death if they were to take on the challenge.

“Nae like ye to lower yer guard like that,” Keith taunted, his blade singing so close to Gordon’s cheek that Gordon felt the rush of air, like a kiss.

Gordon recovered quickly, ducking underneath the blade and lunging forward. He jabbed Keith in the ribs with the pommel of his sword as he passed by, and as he ended up behind the man, he whirled around and delivered a hard kick to the back of his knee.

Keith staggered but didn’t lose his balance, turning quickly. “Just some constructive criticism,” he muttered, wincing. “Och, that’ll leave a bruise. I’ll have to get Leanna to rub it better for me.”