The Highlander's Bargain by Barbara Longley Page A

polished to a high shine and had lines and circles painted upon its surface. Racks and shelving positioned near the wall on one end held all manner of swords and accoutrements. Most of the swords were unlike any he’d seen—smaller, shorter, with narrow, unsharpened blades and blunted tips covered with small plastic circlets. But there were also many resembling his claymore, only made of plastic. A group of individuals wearing padded garments like he wore under his armor were engaged in practice with broadswords. “What do they wear over their faces?” he murmured.
    “Ah, it’s just protective gear. Come on. There’s Connor. He owns the place.” Mark took off for the tall, fit man standing to the side and watching over the group practicing. He held a long plastic sword with the flat side of the blade resting upon his shoulder.
    “Connor, I want to introduce you to my friend. You won’t believe the mad skills he has with that weapon he’s carrying. Robley MacKintosh, this is Connor McGladrey.”
    His stance, assessing stare, the width of his shoulders and the condition of his well-toned muscles took Robley by surprise. He recognized a hardened warrior when he saw one. Connor appeared somewhat older than Robley, perhaps in his late thirties or early forties. His red hair and beard were neatly groomed and threaded with silver. Robley extended his hand. “’Tis glad I am to make your acquaintance.” They clasped forearms for a second. Robley gestured to his own claymore. “Do you fancy a new sparring partner?”
    “Aye.” McGladrey’s eyes lit up. “But first I must fetch my sword. Prepare to be soundly trounced, boyo.”
    Robley laughed. “You have the lilt of the Irish.”
    “And you’ve the brogue of a bluidy Scott.” He eyed the hilt of Robley’s sword intently, his expression inscrutable. “Wait here.”
    He strode up a short flight of stairs and moved behind a counter to a back room, returning just as quickly. This time he held a real broadsword. “Let us move to where we have room to move.” He swaggered off to the center of the indoor lists. Robley and Mark followed.
    Robley rotated his neck and shoulders, stretching his muscles in readiness. In Connor McGladrey, he sensed he’d finally found a worthy opponent. He drew his claymore, and they faced off, slightly crouched, loose and battle ready. Robley shifted, first right, then left, taking his weight upon the heels of his feet. He adjusted his grip, balancing his weapon. Everything slid into its proper place.
    “Normally, I’d insist you wear protective gear, and we’d use mock weapons,” McGladrey informed him as he paced, running his eyes over Rob. “Liability, ye see.”
    “Och. No need. ’Tis unlikely you’ll manage to touch me.” He watched Connor, waiting for the first strike, gauging how the other man moved, how he held himself, which side he favored. Wits and brawn. Their swords rose at the same time, crashing together in midair. The force of the first blow reverberated down his arms. They both backed off. Robley grinned.
    The dance had begun in earnest. The next clash involved a series of offensive strikes, advances and defensive feints, forward and back. Robley slid his blade along Connor’s, pivoting as he applied pressure in a circular motion.
    Connor laughed aloud. “I’ve not defended against that move since . . .” Shock crossed his face for an instant and disappeared just as quickly. Instead of attempting to parry, he’d allowed his blade to glide into the rotation, effectively thwarting Robley’s attempt to disarm him. Robley’s brow rose, and he bowed his head slightly in respect. Connor was no novice. He faced a true knight of noble blood, judging by the way he carried himself.
    Keeping his glare focused upon Rob, Connor initiated a flurry of blows, forcing him back. Robley blocked each swing and shifted into the offensive, gaining ground. They both backed off, circling each other again, swords at the ready,