The Highlander's Folly (The Novels of Loch Moigh Book 3) by Barbara Longley

artery.
    She stepped back, unable to take her eyes off of the thick red stream spurting down his front with each pulse of his heart. Less than a yard away, he dropped the axe and fell to his knees. Then he toppled over face-first on the ground. A pool of crimson stained the mud beneath him.
    All the air left her lungs at once. Spots danced before her eyes, and she collapsed to her hands and knees. Crawling away from the corpse, tears dripped from her cheeks to the ground, and the awful taste of bile rose to her throat. She shut her eyes tight in an effort to block out what had just happened, but the image was as real with her eyes closed as it was with them open—and the memory every bit as terrifying.
    I killed a man.
    Her gut lurched. She sucked in huge gulps of air and concentrated on breathing, on the feel of the wet ground beneath her palms and knees. She focused on anything other than the gruesome images flashing through her mind.
    Strong hands lifted her to her feet. Alarm lit her nerves on fire, and she tensed to fight. Her eyes flew open. Hunter had her. All the fight left her with a whoosh of air from her lungs.
    “Are ye hurt, lass?” His voice came out a gruff rasp, and he gripped her arms so tightly he’d leave bruises. His worry-filled gaze traveled over every inch of her.
    “No.” She shook her head, and a tear slipped down her cheek. Next thing she knew, she found herself crushed against his broad chest, his strong arms banding around her with such force that all the energy she had left was squeezed right out of her. Good thing he held her up, because she couldn’t have stood on her own to save her life.
    Aunt Betty’s Jell-O had nothing on her. She shook uncontrollably. Placing her palms on Hunter’s chest, she closed her eyes again and rested her cheek against the wet wool of his tunic. Somehow, finding his heart pounding as rapidly as hers gave her comfort.
    “You should ha’ seen it, Sir Hunter,” Tristan cried. “The lass popped out from behind the rouncies and felled the man with a single toss of her wee dirk.”
    “Aye,” Allain squeaked and cleared his throat. “Do ye ken what she said to him afore she smote him dead?”
    “Nay. What did she say?” Hunter asked, his voice hoarse. He rocked her back and forth in a soothing motion.
    “She told him to pick on someone his own size,” Allain answered, his tone filled with incredulous awe. “His own size, sir, and she’s nae bigger than I! Then she had the ballocks tae call him an asshole .”
    Hunter grunted and cradled her head against his chest. She heard him swallow a few times. Her heart rate slowed a bit, but the shakes still gripped her. She was safe. Somehow she’d managed to live through the ordeal, thanks to a lifetime of training at her father’s knee.
    Lord, how she wanted her dad right now, and her mom. Hell, she wanted to go upstairs to her own bedroom—after a long, scalding hot bath, that is—crawl into her bed and sleep for a week. In clean sheets and wearing her favorite flannel jammies. She hiccupped against Hunter’s chest.
    “She saved Allain’s life, and that’s the truth,” Harold said. “Here, my lady.” He nudged her shoulder. “I cleaned the dirk for ye.”
    “Keep it.” She burrowed closer to Hunter and gripped handfuls of his tunic. “It’s not mine anyway.”
    “ ’Tis now,” Allain crowed. “A war trophy, my lady, tae recall the deed. Mayhap I’ll compose a ballad for ye, in honor of yer bravery.”
    She groaned, gagged and slipped her arms around Hunter’s waist.
    Hunter stiffened. He removed her arms from around him and stepped away. “I’ll take the dagger for now, lad. We must be off. Open your eyes, Meghan. ’Tis over and done.”
    Wait. Who’d flipped his switch? Why had he shifted from caring, comforting protector to brusque commander? She wasn’t finished with being comforted. Not by a long shot. “I prefer to keep them closed.”
    “Aye, but ’tis far more difficult to