He grabbed her arm lightly as she moved to pass him, leaning down so that she alone could hear his words. “Aye, but wot about a lass?”
Breta turned toward him, and he could see the shadow of her face under her hood. “A lass holds her secrets even tighter,” she said in a low breath. “Secrets that ye will never know.”
He gave her a quick grin. “I wouldnae say that so quickly, lass.” Will wanted to know all her secrets, and it confounded him. He had never had any interest in a lass like he had with her. Maybe it was the air of secrecy she was struggling to maintain, but Will found himself drawn to her repeatedly.
She removed her arm from his grasp, and her face was lost to him once more.
“Where are ye going tae go?” he asked. “Ye dinnae have a tent.”
“’Tis no concern of yers.”
Maybe it wasn’t, but Will felt like someone should be looking after her.
“Ye can come tae mine,” he blurted out, surprised that he had just offered up his own tent.
He heard her sharp intake of breath and wondered what she was thinking. “I’m not using it,” he said quickly, a dull flush creeping over his cheeks.
Bloody hell, I feel like a randy lad trying to woo a lass!
“If ye are going tae stay close, then ye might as well have a place tae take yer cloak off.”
Another poor choice of words. Will wanted to kick himself for the route of this conversation.
“Fine.”
Clearing his throat, he didn’t dare touch her again. “It’s over here.”
They walked together through camp, and Will pulled the flap aside on the tent he had set up the day before, allowing Breta to walk in first. There was nothing special about the interior, with a small bedroll and his pack of clothes, and suddenly he wished he had gone for more comfort for Breta. “I, er...it’s not much.”
She turned and pulled her hood back, unclasping the cloak. “My pack is still on yer horse.”
The tent suddenly seemed small; he backed up, itching for some fresh air. Without her cloak, she was more of a lass to him.
“I will go get it then.”
“Thank ye,” she said softly.
Will left her looking around his tent as he strode toward the horses, thinking that his idea of her having his tent was a horrid idea indeed. He should just tell her father and be done with it.
Later that evening, Will returned to the tent after spending much of the day avoiding Breta. After the games were complete for the day, he sat by his laird as he met with some of the other lairds across Scotland, one being Breta’s father. It had been hard to concentrate on her father’s words with him in attendance, knowing that his daughter was in Will’s tent and hiding from him. He would likely strike Will where he stood if he knew that, and Will might welcome it right now.
He didn’t know what to do with her, but there was no way he was going to sleep in that tent with her tonight.
The horses would do well for him.
But as Will opened the flap, balancing two plates in his hands, he found the object of his thoughts with a mug in her hand.
And his laird seated across from her. “Will,” Katherine said, her cheeks flushed from the ale, “why didn’t ye tell me the lass was Breta?”
“Wot are ye doing here?” he blurted out. She arched a brow. He hastily set down the plates, realizing he had just addressed his laird like a common warrior. “I am vera sorry, mah lady,” he said, his cheeks burning.
She waved a hand at him, and Breta grinned over the rim of her mug, her eyes dancing from the ale she had consumed. Knowing Katherine, that wasn’t the first mug they had consumed while he was gone. “’Tis fine. I’m just jesting, Will. Breta here has told me everything, and I think ’tis honorable of ye tae keep her secret.”
Will let out a slow breath. “I thought ye went back tae the keep with Cameron.”
Katherine shook her head, looking nothing like the ruler of the McDougal clan seated on his bedroll. “I begged Cameron tae let us stay in camp tonight. The clans have decided tae have their second spar with each other. I didna want tae have it happen, but I’ve been overruled.”
A sparring match? That was all he needed right now.
“I came tae let ye know,” she continued on, lifting her mug to a smiling Breta. “Imagine mah surprise when I found Breta McLeish in yer tent instead.”
“I wasnae wearing mah cloak,” Breta explained sheepishly.
Will sighed heavily. “I will take her tae Garia.”
Katherine stood, nearly losing her balance for a moment before she righted herself. “Ye wilnae. Breta can stay here or in our tent. Heaven knows ’tis big enough. Besides, if she’s tae win the games, she cannae do so from the village.”
Will bit his tongue against telling Katherine that it was where he had fetched her from this morning, knowing that the infernal lass would think something more than what it was.
What it was, he wasn’t sure.
“Well, I’m off tae be laird again,” Katherine said as Breta stood, her legs wobbling a bit. “Will, ye have less than an hour before ye are due tae be in the sparring ring being set up.” She laid a hand on his shoulder. “Dinnae let our clan down.”
“Nay I wilnae,” he told her.
She patted his shoulder and exited the tent, leaving them alone. “She doesnae act like a laird,” Breta said softly after a moment. “I can see why mah sister likes her so.”
Will sighed. Everyone liked Katherine.
“Well,” she continued, her hand wrapped around her mug, “I guess ye better go get ready for the sparring match.”
She was right. He did need to go do just that. But Will was rooted in place, noting the flush of her cheeks, or the way that her eyes were dancing with a hint of mischief. Something foreign hit him low in the belly, and he realized it was desire.
He wanted Breta.
No, this couldn’t be happening! He didn’t want anyone, less the lass that he was all but hiding from her own father!
“Will?” she asked hesitantly. “Are ye alright?”
Will backed up, nearly tripping over his feet in haste. “Keep yer hood up,” he told her as he reached for the flap. “Katherine will not divulge yer secret.”
She gave him a hesitant smile. “Alright.”
He stepped out of the tent, rubbing a hand over his hair in confusion. It was because he had been around here, that was it. He didn’t truly desire Breta McLeish.
But as he told himself that, Will wasn’t so certain he even believed it.
13
Breta stood in the crowd, a mug of ale in her hands as she watched the two Scots in the sparring ring dance around each other, the swords flashing in the lighted fires that were providing the source of light for all to see. Both men had discarded their tunics, and sweat gleamed on their bare chests, causing more than one lass to fan her heated face.
Even Katherine was enjoying the spectacle. Breta silently wished she could remove her hood and join in on the revelry, but her father and his warriors were lounging nearby, and she didn’t dare, afraid that he would spot her immediately.
The ale warmed her belly, spreading throughout her limbs as she took another large sip, knowing that if she kept this up, she would have a foggy mind in the morning.
Still, it was a pleasant feeling. She needed the ale for what was to come.
Will sparring.
Her cheeks heated as she thought about him in that ring, without his tunic on, knowing that later she would share his tent. When he had offered, she had wanted to say no, knowing that the more she was around him, the stronger the attraction grew.
The attraction was there. How it had happened, she wasn’t sure, but her heart sped up every time Breta thought of the handsome Scot.
Of course, he saw her as a lass trying to run from her responsibilities, including her father, and he had given her his tent out of obligation to his friendship with her sister. Breta knew it was nothing more than that, and it hurt to know that
he didn’t see her as a lass—but as a burden.
The sparring ended, and the crowd cheered as Katherine stood, her mug in the air. “Now, for yer amusement, mah own second-in-command will step into the ring!”
The cheers grew louder as Will strode in. His hard expression was far different than the others that had gone before him. Breta’s breath caught as she spied the sword in his hand, the way he carried it with ease. It was hard to picture that the Scot that had been so nice to her was also a hardened warrior like the rest, and one that was capable of bloodshed in the name of his clan.
Also, Katherine thought very highly of him. Before they were interrupted, she had told Breta those very words, how Will was likely the only Scot she knew that was as dedicated to his position as he was. “He doesnae have a family,” she had said, her expression soft. “Well, he does in us, I suppose, but there is no one else in his life. He is wed tae his sword.”
It was unfortunate. Breta could see the way some of the women in the crowd were waiting for Will to remove his tunic, and a spurt of jealousy shot through her. She had no claim on the warrior, yet she wanted to claw their eyes out for the way they were looking at him.
What is happening tae me?
Still, Breta waited with bated breath as Will untucked his tunic and pulled it over his head, placing it on the rough-hewn fence that had been erected to mark the sparring ring. His chest was broad, with the sprinkling of hair across it. Breta swallowed as her eyes followed the thin line across his abdomen and disappearing into the waistband of his breeks.
His skin was dotted with scars, and when he turned, she saw more across his back. Every seasoned warrior had them, but seeing them on Will made Breta’s heart break instead of race.
He swung his sword a few times, and the crowd cheered, heavy with the McDougal clan this eve. Breta found herself moving closer to the ring, her throat dry as she watched the spectacle, not even noticing that it was her father’s warrior that stepped in as his opponent.
Will grinned as he pointed his sword to the ground. “I fight for Clan McDougal!”
The other warrior rolled his shoulders. “And I fight for Clan McLeish.”
If Will was surprised by the name, he didn’t show it, and both warriors clasped forearms as a sign of brotherhood before they resumed their positions. Breta watched Will’s muscles ripple as he palmed his sword; her breath grew shallow with each movement he made. The crowd pressed forward, and Breta grasped a hold of the fence with one hand, keeping her mug in the other, and hoping that her hood would not fall off her head during this sparring.
She did not want to be the center of attention.
Finally, the warriors’ swords clashed together, and the crowd cheered as they sparred, Will far quicker than his opponent. She watched with rapt attention as he remained on his toes, clearly holding back against the weaker opponent with his sword strikes. It was enough to keep the crowd entertained, but Breta couldn’t help but wonder what Will would be like in battle.
It was likely a sight to behold.
Finally, Katherine called the sparring match, and Will grinned as he sheathed his sword, grabbing his tunic before he was offered a mug of ale. Instead of sliding it on, he threw it over his shoulder, accepting the handshakes from those that crowded him. Breta wanted to move closer but the crowd was too large, so she fought against them, pushing her way out of it and to the barrels of ale, filling up her mug.
After a long draw off her mug, Breta giggled as she weaved through the tents, the ale muddling her thoughts. Perhaps it was good that she couldn’t get to Will.
But as she opened the flap to the tent and stumbled in, the Scot that was occupying her thoughts was waiting.
“Wot are ye doing here?” she blurted out, her ale sloshing over the rim of her mug.
He lifted his lips into a small grin. “’Tis mah tent too, lass.”
It was then that Breta noted he hadn’t donned his shirt yet, his chest glistening in the light from the small, covered candle in the corner.
“Can ye...” she started, gesturing to his chest.
“Wot?” he asked innocently, looking down at his chest. “Dinnae like wot ye see?”
Breta couldn’t speak. That was the problem. She did like what she saw.
She liked it far too much.
Some of the amusement left his expression, and he grew solemn. “The scars,” he muttered, reaching for his tunic.
It only took seconds for Breta to realize what he was saying, closing the distance between them to place her hand on his chest. “Nay,” she breathed, stopping his movements. “It has nothing tae do with yer scars.”
Will looked down at her hand touching his chest but didn’t move to sever the connection.
“Ye must have won many battles,” Breta rambled on.
“Aye,” he said softly, his large hand coming to cover hers.
Breta sucked in a breath as his skin brushed hers, and she removed her hand. “I’m vera sorry for touching ye.”
“Nay, dinnae be sorry.”
Whether it was the ale or just her plain curiosity, Breta placed her hands on his shoulders, feeling his muscles shift under her touch. “Ye’re so strong,” she murmured as she slid her hands down his biceps and to his forearms, growing bolder by the moment. His body was far different than hers, hard where hers was soft, the bumps and ridges of his scars puckering his skin.
Breta wanted to touch Will all over.
When she moved them back to his chest, she felt his sharp intake of breath, even though he was as still as a statue. “Ye are a fine warrior,” she told him, her hands drifting over his chest. “I dinnae think ye could have moved any faster tonight.”
He chuckled and she smiled as she looked up at him, seeing the mirth in his eyes. “Wot?”
His hand came up to cup her cheek, the sudden touch robbing Breta of her own breath. “Was that all ye were looking at, Breta?”
Her name on his tongue caused her to shiver. “Nay...’tis not all, Will.”
His lips were on hers, and she was lost. His lips were soft, his touch gentle, and Breta didn’t know what to do at first.
But Will teased her lips until she parted them, and he swept in with his tongue, the taste of whiskey on his breath. She slid her hands around his neck and pulled him closer, finding the desperate need to have him consume her. This was far more than just touching him.
This felt like he was stoking the fire that burned inside of her, only for him.
“Breta,” he said against her lips, his large hands sliding down to her shoulders and unfastening her cloak. She let it fall to the floor, not caring that it did so. She wanted him to touch her as she had him. This was no longer the Breta that hadn’t experienced anything, but the one who wanted to experience everything.
With Will.
“Touch me, Will,” she begged as his hands slid down her arms. “Please.”
He reached the laces of her bodice, his fingers pausing. “I dinnae think this is a good idea.”
No, it wasn’t a good idea, but it was what she wanted.
“Ye cannae stop now,” she panted, attempting to pull him closer to her.
He didn’t let her, instead stepping back and putting more distance between them.
“Nay, lass,” he said thickly, grabbing his tunic from the bedroll and shrugging it on. “’Tis not what ye need.”
Breta grabbed his forearm as he tried to brush past. “Wot do ye know aboot wot I need?” she cried out, her body still on fire from his simple touch.
Will gently removed her hand from his arm, regret plain as day on his face, and Breta felt like ten times the fool for even starting.
“Never mind,” she muttered, wrapping her arms around her waist. “Just go.”
He opened his mouth to say more but then shut it. “Sleep well, Breta. I wilnae be back.”
Breta forced herself to turn away from him so he wouldn’t see the devastation on her face. When she was sure he had left the tent, she fell onto her bedr
oll, allowing the tears to fall. She could blame it on the ale and close quarters, but in her heart of hearts, Breta knew it was much more than that.
She wanted Will for herself.
The next day, Breta’s head was pounding from the ale she consumed, but she still pushed herself out of the tent and to the crowd of participants that were left from the cut made the day before. By the looks of it, she wasn’t the only one that had suffered from the night’s festivities.
“Good morn,” Katherine announced, looking a bit peaked herself. “Today we will compete in two different games, one now and one in the afternoon. Each challenge will eliminate participants.”
Breta straightened and pushed past the ache in her head, one that matched the ache in her heart. She didn’t dare look in Will’s direction, knowing that he wasn’t far from his laird. True to his word, he hadn’t come back to the tent, and Breta had fallen into a restless sleep, dreaming of his kisses.
Now she could scarcely face him. What had she been thinking, touching him like that? Never in her life had she touched someone so boldly.
Nor had she wanted to continue to touch him so either. It was quite frustrating, these feelings for Will.
“This morn will be stone put,” Katherine continued, pulling Breta back out of her present thoughts.
Breta looked around at the participants that were left and groaned. While she had outwitted them with her agility, she wasn’t strong enough to throw the weighted stone far at all. Despair welled up in her chest as she realized this would likely be the end of her time in the games.
Still, she would give it her all.
And so, she did. Breta joined the group of Scots that she had been paired with, and no matter how much energy she put into throwing the stone, there was only one other Scot that did worse than she had, and before she knew it, her time in the games was over.
Hanging her head, Breta walked away. She had failed—not just with the games, but with Will as well.
Lost in her misery, Breta wasn’t paying attention to where she was going and ran headlong into a strong, imposing force. She tried to right herself but ended up falling into the dirt with a thud, her hood slipping off with the movement.
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