Bronson lifted his sword high above him, and his men did the same. In one mighty roar, he yelled out, “Tae Clan Lyon!”
Chapter Two
Genevieve wiped the sweat from her brow and grabbed the bundle of eggs the chickens had laid that morning. The sun was high, and she was already tired, but the farm wouldn’t tend to itself. She glanced over at her father, who was busy feeding the mare, and couldn’t help but smile. He tried to act so strong, but he was getting older, and his body was starting to show the wear and tear of a life of hard labor.
The feeling of the ground rumbling, of the very earth quaking beneath her feet, was so pronounced that she held on to the small coop and glanced in the distance. The straw hat she wove sat atop her head and covered her face from the Scottish sun. Even though she was hot, tired, and still had a whole day of work ahead of her, the sight that was coming forward chilled her to the very bone. She swore her heart stopped, but then it started beating hard and fast inside her.
She had come to realize Bronson could control her body without even having to look her way. Men—no, warriors—rode forward on great stallions, their blue-and-green-colored tartans raised high. A part of her wanted to run in the other direction, but there was another part that wanted to move closer, to be closer to Bronson. Maybe it was because she knew she’d never have a man like that, one who was ruthless and fought for what he wanted, even if that meant he’d die because of it.
The closer Bronson came, the clearer she saw him. His chest was bare, riddled with scars, but glistening from his sweat. He wore his kilt with pride, that much was clear in the way he held himself on his massive steed. He led the group of men with a sword strapped to his back, strips of plaid tartan wrapped around his bulging biceps, and this hard, determined look on his face. Over the years and while growing up, Genevieve had seen the fearsome warlord pass through. He stayed at the manor many a fortnight, but he did not call this village his home.
She was young, but even so, she heard the stories of Clan Lyon fighting through the villages and patches of territory that had once been his family’s. It was a hard battle, with a lot of land to cover, but it had ended now, or so she heard. It was better to back away from the politics of the land, especially when it concerned a clan that was as lethal as the Lyons. But what she couldn’t deny was that as powerful and frightening as Bronson Lyon and his clan were, the men who had taken over his territory had been brutal and vile. Surely Clan Lyon was better than they were, better than the rape and murder she knew had gone on all around her.
The nearer they came, the faster her heart pounded. The warriors moved closer to the farm, but she couldn’t move, couldn’t even breathe as she stared at the warlord Bronson. He didn’t notice her, didn’t even turn his focus her way, but then again, he never did. Surely he’d see her as just a farmer’s daughter with nothing to offer.
She could see how he defeated all his enemies, why just his name sent fear in the surrounding villages and even throughout the kingdom. Just looking at him frightened and excited her to no end. She wiped a bead of sweat that was trailing down her temple and licked her suddenly dry lips. He stopped his steed on the other side of her fence, so close to her that she could have reached out and touched him. For a moment, he just sat there, and she was frozen to the spot.
His men stopped behind him, their horses breathing out and stomping their hooves. And then Bronson started speaking in Gaelic. His words were clipped and harsh as he spoke about finally being able to rest after the grueling battles. After he stopped speaking, he was silent for a moment, and then he slowly turned her way. She lowered her head, thankful she decided to wear the oversized hat, because it blocked his view of her. Genevieve knew he couldn’t see her, but she still felt his gaze upon her.
Finally, she heard him move away and lifted her head. He moved away from her small, meager cottage and headed toward the towering manor that sat atop the hill in her village. She remembered when that massive stone structure had been built. It had taken years, and a man who hadn’t cared about the people had resided there. The rumors of the many women the former lord of the manor had bedded, of the feasts he had thrown even when there was not a scrap of food that could’ve been spared, had run rampant throughout town. But, like Genevieve, the villagers had focused on themselves and worried about caring for their own families. Why worry about a man who had stolen land from another and didn’t care whether the people in the village were taken care of?