The rest of her heart-shaped face was equally captivating. She had delicate bones, from the soft curve of her high cheekbones to the line of her faintly stubborn jaw. Her nose was small and straight, her skin clear and fine with a hint of gold to it as if she had been gently gilded by the sun, and her lips were full and tempting. He idly wondered where she had gotten the scars, one on each cheek. They were neat, a rather gentle mark beneath each of her lovely cheekbones.
He silently cursed as he dismounted and drew his sword. If he was thinking that even her scars were beautiful, she was more dangerous than she looked. Ewan knew how intimidating he looked so was rather surprised when she only blinked once, slowly, looked him over, and then tensed in the way a warrior does when braced for an attack.
“Ye cannae be thinking to fight with me, lass,” he said, scowling at her.
“And why shouldnae I?” Fiona asked.
“Because I am a mon, bigger than ye in height and breadth.”
“I did notice that.”
It was impossible not to notice that, Fiona mused. He had to be a foot or more taller than her own meager five feet three inches, if she stood very straight. She suspected he might even be taller than her brothers. He was broad of shoulder, lean of hip, and had long, well-formed legs. His loosely fitted jerkin and breeches did little to hide the strength in his body. His sword looked rather impressive as well.
Fiona knew she ought to be shaking in her boots, but she was not. It puzzled her, for there was no softness to be found in his harsh features. There was a predatory look to the man. His bone structure was good, from the high cheekbones to the strong jaw, but there was a hardness to the face that stole away the elegant handsomeness it should have had. His nose had probably once been long and straight, but a break or two had left a bump at the bridge of it, giving it a hawkish look. Despite his dark scowl, she could see that his mouth was well shaped, a hint of fullness to his lips. His eyes were an intriguing bluish gray, like a clear summer sky when the clouds of approaching night started to seep into it. And he was lucky to still have both of them, she mused, as she glanced at the scar that ran from just above his right eyebrow, down his right cheek to his jaw, passing within a hair’s breadth of the corner of his eye. There was a hint of softness to be found in those eyes, however, in the long, thick lashes and neat brows that held the touch of an arch. His long, thick, pitch-black hair, hanging several inches past his broad shoulders, was braided on either side of his face and only added to his look of a fierce, dark warrior.
And he was very dark, indeed, she thought. Even his skin was dark, and something told her it was not from the sun. There was the inky shadow of an emerging beard, which only made his face even darker. Fiona wondered why she, a woman who had spent her life surrounded by fair, handsome men, should find this dark man so attractive.
“Then ye will nay be fighting with me,” Ewan said, subduing the urge to back away from her intense study.
“They do say that the bigger a mon is, the harder he will fall,” she murmured.
“Then old Ewan ought to fair shake the ground,” said the young man holding the reins of the dark man’s horse, and the other men chuckled.
“I willnae fight with a wee lass,” Ewan said.
“Ah, that is a relief as I had no real urge to get all asweat and weary. So, I accept your surrender.”
“I didnae surrender.”
That deep, rough voice produced an impressive growl, Fiona decided. “If ye arenae going to fight and ye arenae going to surrender, then what are ye planning to do? Stand there all day blocking out the sun?”
If Ewan had not suspected it would be a serious error in judgment to turn his back on this woman, he would have scowled at his snickering men. “Now that ye have had your wee jest, I suggest ye surrender.”
Fiona knew she had little choice, which made her feel distinctly contrary. She still felt no real fear, either. The man had made no attempt to attack or disarm her. The amusement of his men did not carry the taint of anger or cruelty. There was also a look upon the dark warrior’s face that she found oddly comforting. It was the same look her brothers gave her when they found her to be excessively irritating and were heartily wishing she was not a female so that they could punch her in the nose. Fiona knew instinctively that this man would not strike her any more than her brothers would.
“I wasnae jesting,” she said and smiled sweetly. “I am ready to accept your surrender now. Ye can just pile your weapons up neatly by my feet.”
“And just what do ye plan to do with a dozen prisoners?”
“Ransom ye.”
“I see. And we are all supposed to just sit quiet like good, wee lads, and let ye rob our clan.”
“Oh, I dinnae wish to rob your clan. All I want is a horse and a few supplies.”
“Ah, lost yours, have ye?”
“Mayhap I ne’er had one.”
“Ye are miles from anywhere. Do ye expect me to believe ye just popped up out of the heather, ye daft wench?”
“Wench? Did ye just call me a wench?”
Ewan did not think he had ever seen a woman’s humor change so rapidly. He had just begun to understand her game. In an almost playful way, she had been testing him, trying to see if he could be spurred to violence against a woman. She had begun to relax. Now it appeared that, with one ill-chosen word, he had set her back up and set the progress of their odd negotiations back several steps. Before he could say anything to mend matters, his brother Gregor spoke up and made the situation even worse.
“Actually, he called ye a daft wench,” said Gregor.
“I hate being called a wench,” Fiona said.
She sheathed her dagger, grasped her sword with both hands, and attacked so swiftly and gracefully, Ewan was struck with admiration. So struck that he came very close to getting wounded. As he met her attack, however, he realized it would have been little more than a scratch, that she had not been aiming for anything vital. He also realized that she had been well trained. She might lack the strength and stamina to outlast a man in a long, hard battle, but she definitely had the skill and agility to give herself a fighting chance. A touch of good fortune or an error on the man’s part and she could win a fight. The silence of his men told Ewan they also recognized her skill. What he did not understand was why she had attacked him. He was sure it was not because he had called her a name she did not like. Ewan wondered if this was another test of some sort, one to judge his skill or to see just how hard he would try not to hurt her.
Fiona knew within minutes that this man did not want to harm her. He was fighting her defensively and she was certain that was not his way. Even as she wondered how she could now extract herself from this confrontation, it was ended. He blocked the swing of her sword and somehow ended up within inches of her. The next thing Fiona knew, her sword was gone from her hand, her feet were pulled out from beneath her, and she landed flat on her back, hard enough to knock the breath out of her. As she struggled to catch her breath, she braced for the blow of his body landing on top of her. It not only surprised her, but impressed her, when he somehow managed to completely pin her to the ground with his body yet rested very little of his weight upon her.
“Now, are we all done with this troublesome nonsense?” Ewan demanded, fighting to ignore the feel of her beneath him and pushing away the tempting images it tried to set in his mind.
“Aye,” Fiona replied, panting a little as she regained her ability to breathe. “I will accept your surrender now.” The man truly could growl impressively, she mused, and wondered why that rough noise should send small, pleasurable shivers down her back.
“Enough,” he snapped. “Ye are now my prisoner. Do ye have any other weapons?” he asked as he took