The Rebel of Clan Kincaid by Lily Blackwood

Author:Lily Blackwood [Blackwood, Lily]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: St. Martin's Press
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 9

Magnus spun round—and seeing Hugh, slashing—twisted away. The blade whooshed across his torso.

He stared into Hugh’s hate-filled eyes, and bellowed in rage.

“You want to kill me?” he shouted, stalking toward him—only half aware of the men gathering round … the faces watching … the voices shouting. “Kill me now then, face-to-face. Not with a blade to my back.”

“I will kill you.” Hugh lifted his sword with both hands, and swung the blade.

Magnus repelled the attack with a shattering series of counterblows, beating Hugh back, back and back again … and with the last powerful blow, forcing him to the ground.

Hugh lay panting on his side, his sword at a useless angle beside him.

“Coward,” Magnus shouted at him. “Cheat.”

The Alwyn stepped into his line of view, his gaze sharp and steady. “That is all. The contest is done. You have won, Magnus, and rightfully so.” He glared down at Hugh contemptuously. “What were you thinking?”

Magnus exhaled deeply, backing away. Only then did he realize he was bleeding from his side. Touching the wound, he judged it to be nothing serious. No deeper than other wounds he’d suffered before. He turned and strode from the field.

The Alwyn called after him. “Magnus, I wish to see you in my counsel room. As soon as you tend to your wound.”

Magnus heard the words, but his eyes were fixed on Tara, who looked at him, her eyes wide with fear and concern, over her shoulder as another young woman led her toward the castle.

He wished he could go to her. Talk to her. Make sure she was all right. And most of all, thank her for warning him of Hugh’s attack, but he couldn’t, not with everyone watching.

“Aye, laird. As you wish.”

He found his discarded tunic at the edge of the field, and taking it in hand, set off toward the castle.

A short time later, he lay on the large wooden table at the center of the kitchen while Lorna stitched him up. He gritted his teeth at each pinch of her needle, and tug of the thread, but he had suffered worse. When she was done, he sat up and patiently allowed Kyla and Laire and a score of other young women to flutter about him, wrapping his waist with unnecessary bandages, and dabbing his forehead with damp cloths, the point of which, he did not understand because he’d suffered no injuries there and had no fever.

“Thank you all,” he said. “But I really must go.”

Kyla tilted her head and looked at him sympathetically. “Someone should stay with y’ tonight. I don’t mind at all. Your bandages will need changing.”

Bandages he planned to remove as soon as he could get away.

“I can tend to myself,” he replied.

Laire’s gaze moved to his bloodstained plaid. “If y’ give me that now, I can wash it, straightaway.”

What, and stand naked here in the kitchen, with all of them ogling him? He was tempted to drop the garment just to watch their reactions.

“Thank ye, Laire, but no.”

Lorna turned from the hearth holding an enormous steaming pot.

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