The Highlander's Bargain by Barbara Longley Page B

nerves on edge.
    “You’re quite handy with a claymore, but no’ nearly as handy as meself,” his opponent boasted.
    Robley shrugged, his manner nonchalant. “Come then. Prove it.”
    Connor advanced, striking hard, high, low, pivot and thrust. Rob jumped back. They parted, stepping around each other warily, looking for openings, seeking weaknesses. Tension pulsed between them. Determination and battle lust washed through him. Predatory instinct took over, and he moved in for the kill, beating Connor back to the very edge of his limits. In a sudden spurt, Connor came back at Robley, just as determined—every bit as skilled.
    Robley laughed aloud. “’Tis good to be alive, aye?”
    “Aye, that it is, boyo.” McGladrey nodded. “That it is.”
    They continued on for a good while. Robley reveled in the physical exertion, the contest of wills, wit and strength. Equally matched, neither got the upper hand for long; neither gave ground for long. They had an audience. The clanging ring and hiss of steel on steel rent the air, and sweat dripped into his eyes. His muscles were loose, his blood hot, and his lungs worked like a bellows. This is what he lived for. “Had enough, old man?” he taunted.
    “Not nearly enough, laddie ,” Connor taunted back, blocking his attack. “But we need to talk, aye? Pax?”
    “Pax.” Robley backed up and touched the flat of his blade to his forehead in salute. He reached for his scabbard, sliding his claymore home. Mark handed him a small white cloth, and Rob wiped the sweat from his face and the back of his neck while catching his breath. “My thanks.”
    “That was incredible, man.” Mark followed them toward a door marked “Office.”
    “Mark, will you take my place instructing the class while I have a word with our guest? Jerry has arrived. Have him join you.”
    “Oh.” Mark’s face lit up. “Sure.” He veered off to take up his role as instructor, his posture a little straighter and his stride a bit longer.
    Connor opened the door and waved him in. He placed his sword across a rack hanging from the wall. “What year are you from, Robley of clan MacKintosh?” he asked, sliding behind the desk. He sank into the chair and propped his elbows on the surface. Clasping his hands together, he arched an eyebrow and flashed Robley an arrogant look.
    Connor was of noble blood for certes, he thought to himself. “I beg your pardon?” Rob shifted his claymore and took the seat opposite. Heat crept up his neck.
    “I know a well-seasoned, blooded warrior when I meet one in the lists, and I’ll wager noble blood runs through your veins. Your sword,” he said, jutting his chin toward Robley’s scabbard. “As sure as I’m sitting here, that blade was made for you centuries ago.” Connor leaned back in his chair, regarding him with steady intensity. “When are you from?”
    No wonder he’d recognized a worthy opponent in Connor. He should be more shocked than he was, but True had come through time, as had he. There were bound to be others. “And you? When are you from?”
    “The year of our Lord 1299.” Connor shrugged. “I was an arrogant boyo, full of meself, and the heir to a chiefdom. I was out hunting with a group of my friends when I spied a strange woman. Limned in blue fire she was, tall and slender with hair the color of moonlight. None noticed her but me, and I wanted her for meself. I ordered my fellows to continue on and told them I’d catch up with them later.” He grunted.
    “Foolishness. I thought to gain her favor or some kind of edge over my fellows, so I followed the faerie. I know that’s what she was. She led me all the way to the hills of Tara. The air around her began to ripple and shimmer. She disappeared. The shimmer remained.” He paused, his expression turning inward. “I went to have a closer look. The next thing I knew, a stranger was shaking me awake where I lay unconscious in the midst of a field of wheat.” He shuddered.
    “I’ve