Page 48 of The Highlander’s Savage Vow

He fought unlike any man she’d ever seen.

Where others swung wildly, he danced between blades, his movements as graceful as if he were in a ballroom, dancing.

He didn’t waste a single movement. His sword flashed, striking, parrying, spinning with deadly accuracy.

Each step he took brought another man to his knees, and he cut through the Sutherland forces with such terrifying efficiency that even Ailis couldn’t help but pause and tremble in fear, the sight of him—of his skill in taking a life, without a thought or a wasted drop of sweat giving her pause.

Ailis watched, transfixed, as the man who had tied her wrists was forced backward. The Caithness warrior closed the distance in seconds, and their blades clashed with a sound like thunder, a sound that rang in her ears long after thereafter.

Only when one of her father’s men stumbled right past her and then fell to his death did Ailis realize just how close she was to her own.

She was not safe there, in the middle of the battle, but there was nowhere for her to run.

Even if she managed to push herself to her feet on the bog with her hands tied behind her back, avoiding the blades that swung like pendulums over her head would be next to impossible.

She was stuck there, in the middle of the fight, and no matter how much she hated it, the safest bet for her was to stay where she was, flat on the ground, hoping she would neither get trampled nor stabbed by a rogue blade.

Quietly, she prayed, not only for her safety but, selfishly, also that Clan Caithness would win.

She turned her gaze back to the Caithness warrior.

Her captor was fighting him valiantly, swinging his sword in large, smooth arcs again and again, seemingly without tiring.

But Ailis could see right through him—she could see the way he gritted his teeth, the sweat that dripped down his brow.

And she could see that the Caithness warrior had noticed too.

This warrior cannae be of flesh and blood, the way he moves. He is larger than life, and more handsome than any living man I have ever seen.

Her father’s man was aiming for a quick strike, one that would end the fight.

The warrior was aiming for a drawn-out dance, avoiding the man’s blade and pirouetting away from him any chance he got, growing and closing the distance between them strategically just so he could draw another grunt out of him, another belabored move.

He ducked under a swing, slid to the side, parried the blow aimed to his head with ease—like a cat playing with a mouse, just for its entertainment.

I ’ ve never met a man like this afore.

He ’ s nae a simple man. He is like an avenging angel.

Ailis’ captor stumbled then—one wrong move that had the Caithness warrior grasping the opportunity instantly, striking fast. And with one brutal motion, he drove his blade through the man’s ribs.

The Sutherland man gasped, blood frothing from his lips. For a moment, he glanced down as though he could hardly believe he had been hurt. Then, as though his strings had been cut, he dropped to the wet ground, the life leaving his eyes.

The warrior stood over him, silent. All around them, the fight was over. The bog was still again, the air thick with mist and the scent of blood and damp. The remaining Sutherland men had fled, leaving their dead behind.

Ailis lay in the mud, her arms still bound, her hair clinging to her cheeks in wet curls. The rope burned against her skin, but she hardly noticed. Her gaze was locked on the man who had saved her.

He turned to her. And for a moment, they simply stared at each other.

“Laird Malcolm Caithness” the man introduced himself, and Ailis’ blood ran cold in her veins She had hoped that her first meeting with the man would be in the safe confines of his castle, where she could calmly explain her situation and beg for his help, but now she had no choice but to plead with him there.

Or lie… I could lie tae him.

She could tell him she was someone else, someone unimportant; the daughter of a minor noble man, cast away by her father, or the daughter of a merchant who had fallen on rough times.

The baritone growl of Laird Caithness’ voice seemed to ripple right through her, her breath catching with something akin to fear—but no, it was not fear, not exactly.

There was an excitement behind it, a rush of something she could not name.

His face and hands were spattered with blood and he had a wild look in his eyes—one that spoke of the adrenaline still rushing through his veins after the fight, the rabbit-fast heartbeat in his chest after a battle won.

Ailis was caught in his gaze for what seemed like eternity, unable to look away or speak a single word.

But then again, he said nothing either; he simply stared in silence, taking in her disheveled appearance.

Taking a deep breath to compose herself, Ailis pushed herself up to her feet, brushing the dirt off her skirts as though that could help in any way.

She was covered in mud from head to toe; her hair, usually a neat braid over her shoulder blades, now wild, auburn strands flying around her head.

She quickly decided on a lie—she was the daughter of a dying laird who had no successors and no gold in his reserves, and she needed his assistance.

“That’s Ailis Sutherland,” a voice called out before Ailis could say a single thing.

Her head whipped to the side, her eyes wide as her gaze met one of her father’s remaining men, ruining her plan before she could even put it in motion.

“Dae ye ken who that is, ye fools? Dae ye ken what this means? Laird Sutherland will have all yer heads!”