The Broken Highlander by Laura Hunsaker Page A

closer. The smooth pink moonstone he’d put
into the hilt never failed to calm him. His wife had worn it as a
brooch when she’d been alive. Now he kept it as a constant reminder
of what vampires had taken from him.
    Drawing his sword, he pressed the tip into
the back of the man’s thick neck. “I doona think the lass is
willing,” he said softly.
    The man stilled atop her, but yelled out,
“Oy! Move along! This isna yer business.”
    A soft rustle from the side alerted Nevin
that he wasn’t alone with them anymore. He could hear individual
footsteps now coming from behind him. Without removing his sword
Nevin waited until the other man was close enough to reach and his
arm shot out, gripping the man by his throat. He was adapting to
his heightened senses very quickly.
    Without taking his eyes from the man’s
profile, he said, “You made it my business when you chose to force
the lass. Now move off of her, slowly.”
    He did, albeit unwillingly and while calling
Nevin every foul name he knew. As soon as he stood completely, he
spun with his dirk, aiming for Nevin’s heart. The move surprised
him, and he jerked out of the way.
    For all of his speed, Nevin still felt the
blade break skin, although not in his heart, but beneath his arm.
It went deep and it hurt like bloody hell. Nevin tossed the lad he
was holding to the ground and whirled to face the man. He stiffened
as he felt small fingers grip his shirt. The lass was holding on
for dear life.
    “Lassie, are you well?”
    He could feel her trembling against him, her
warm breath steaming his shirt, and a barely perceptible nod
against his back.
    His sword held in front, he waited for his
opponent to make a move. He might be a demon, but Nevin would never
hurt someone smaller and weaker than himself. This man he faced was
more demon than he. When he’d been human, he’d been a blacksmith
and a warrior. He protected those who couldn’t protect themselves.
Maybe he could do that here, and it would be one less black mark
against his soul. If he even had one now.
    His opponent feinted left but Nevin saw the
tightening of his muscles as he pulled back to attack from the
right. His new senses were helping him, and he would take advantage
of that. When their blades clanged against each other, the lass
behind him jumped, her fingers clutching his shirt even
tighter.
    Nevin went to place his hand over one of hers
to reassure her, but before his skin touched hers, he saw the dried
blood and grime on his fingers. Jerking his hand back, he shouted a
battle cry in his rage, and slammed his sword down at the other
man. The man stood no chance against Nevin’s enhanced strength and
dropped to the ground, cleaved nearly in half from shoulder to
belly.
    Breathing hard and disgusted by his loss of
control, Nevin glanced up at the lad who took one look at his eyes
and uttered “Demon,” before crashing through the trees like a
frightened mongrel. Nevin knew his eyes would be red, but had hoped
the dark would hide the color.
    Calming himself, he started to turn around,
but the lass wouldn’t let go of his shirt. Taking a small corner of
his plaid that was still clean, Nevin tried to wipe his hands clean
as best as he could. The dirt and blood beneath his finger nails
would have to wait until he could make his way back to the
loch.
    Satisfied he wouldn’t get any blood on her,
Nevin brushed his fingers over hers as gently as he could. She
didn’t move. Light as a butterfly, he once more stroked her
hand.
    “Lass, it’s all right, they’re gone. Doona
fash yourself o’er the likes of them anymore.”
    After a moment, his words sunk in, and her
breathing changed. He turned himself to face her, his shirt
bunching around in the process since she hadn’t let go of him. When
her eyes met his, he was shocked to see something akin to worship
in them.
    She pressed her face to his stomach, Christ
she was a tiny thing, and she kept mumbling “Thank you, thank you,”
over and over