Page 18 of The Dragon Laird’s Obsession

He dragged his blade sideways and thrust forward again, his steel blade clashing with Malcolm’s.

Gordon understood the skill of battle: the fierce rush of energy that surged through a man when he had to decide whether to live or die. He could not understand why Ailis’s brilliant blue eyes and rosy full lips were stuck in his head.

“Again,” he ordered Malcolm. “Hold yer courage.”

Malcolm circled him with his sword raised. “We’ve been at it since dawn.”

“Again.”

Malcolm’s mouth tightened, but he attacked. Gordon met him hard. Steel struck steel with a sharp ring. Malcolm feinted left. Gordon turned the blow aside and stepped in close, shoulder driving forward, sword angled to force Malcolm back.

It should have been easy. It was definitely familiar. His body knew the work even when his mind grew restless. Yet Ailis’ mouth rose in his thoughts. Soft. Full. Curving into mischief as she said, “Me chamber.”

And Gordon’s grip faltered. Malcolm’s blade slipped beneath his guard and scored across his upper arm.

Pain flashed hot and clean through him, and he stepped back.

For one breath, neither man moved. Blood welled through the torn linen of Gordon’s sleeve.

Malcolm lowered his sword slowly. “Saints.”

Gordon stared at the cut. It was shallow. More insult than wound.

Still, Malcolm had touched him.

And that never happens.

“Again,” Gordon said, his jaw even tighter now as he ignored the pricking sensation in his arm.

Malcolm’s brows drew together. “Nay.”

Gordon looked up. His man-at-arms did not flinch which was one reason Gordon valued him. Malcolm was broad, weathered, and old enough to have lost his fear or nerves when he needed to speak the truth.

“Yer mind is elsewhere,” Malcolm said, shaking his head. His eyes narrowed as his brows drew together in concern.

“Me mind is where it should be.”

“Then I must be the finest swordsman in Scotland.”

Gordon’s jaw tightened. “Mind yer tongue.”

“I would, but apparently ye are not mindin’ yer blade, Me Laird. Ye always tell me the mind is the sharpest weapon. Lose it, and ye lose the battle before it begins. Yer thoughts are troubled.”

Gordon turned away, pulled a cloth from his kilt, and pressed it against the cut. The sting steadied him, and he welcomed it.

Anythin’ is better than thinkin’ of her.

He had endured battle wounds with less torment than three days of Ailis Sinclair beneath his roof.

Her scent somehow followed him everywhere now.

Lavender, he thought as it came to mind, so fresh and real.

Gordon closed his eyes for half a breath and tried not to think of it or of her. But laughter rose from the fields beyond the training ground, and he instantly tightened all over because he knew it was Ailis.

She stood near the edge of the kitchen garden with Marion, Beth the housekeeper, and Jane, one of the younger maids. The four women stood by a basket of cut herbs, and whatever Ailis had said had bent Jane nearly double with laughter.

Marion shook her head though even from a distance, Gordon could see his aunt’s smile. Beth, stern Beth who had once made a lad cry for stealing sugared pears, wiped at one eye with her apron. They all seemed to enjoy her presence, even his aunt who rarely ever spoke to anyone.