He flipped the dagger around so the flat of the blade rested against his wrist, and he slid its twin from the sheath at his back. He was better at throwing with his left hand, so he kept his grip soft, preparing to hurl the point of the dagger into an enemy’s eye if necessary.
Silently, he unhooked the latch of the front door. He could see no light outside, but that meant naught.
There was someone out there. He could feel him.
Surprise would be his ally, here.
With a burst of movement, he jerked the door open with his free fingers and reached out blindly.
Just as he suspected, his hand closed around fabric, and he yanked hard.
The body fell against his with a startled gasp, and he swung them both against the wattle and daub wall of his home. His assailant was smaller than him, and breath whooshed from lungs as he used his larger frame to pin flailing arms and legs.
He pressed his forearm against a thin neck and knew the point of his dagger rested within an inch of his enemy’s eye.
“Who are ye?” he growled. “Why have ye come?”
The body beneath his ceased struggling.
“Pherson?”
It wasn’t the incredulous whisper which finally answered his question; ‘twas the fact his mind finally caught up with his nose. He’d know her scent anywhere; ink and oil and something floral.
That scent had driven him mad since the afternoon he’d sat with her at the high table in the great hall. It had teased him, making him think thoughts he had no right thinking. It reached beneath his kilt and tugged, and late at night, when he did his own tugging, he was imagining how she’d taste.
“Christ Almighty,” he rasped. “Wynda?”
Before she could do more than squeak, he’d stepped away, flipping the daggers back toward their sheaths.
“Come in,” he commanded, pulling her into his home.
It was short work to find the flint and steel and light a candle, then more. By the time he was able to turn back, his heartbeat was under control and he was breathing normally.
Ye stupid arsehole, ye might’ve hurt her!
Aye, that had been the point, had it not? He’d thought her an intruder.
Why? Because she was sneaking about?
Because, for years, he’d lived his life expecting an enemy behind every closed door. Expected retribution to come, deep in the night.
But not tonight.
“What the fook were ye doing out there, Wynda?”
She’d closed the door behind her and now raised a brow at him, one hand on her hip. “Och, I’m Wynda now? No’ milady?”
He wasn’t going to apologize, not for that. “Ye’re sneaking about my house like a thief! I’ll call ye whatever I damn well please.”
“Good!”
Well, he hadn’t expected that answer. As he frowned, her cheeks began to pink. But her chin rose stubbornly.
“And I wasnae sneaking.”
“Ye were sneaking,” he countered. “Ye were flitting about through dark streets at close to midnight, with no light.” Unbidden, he stepped toward her, although he wasn’t certain if he was trying to intimidate her or comfort her.
“I didnae want to wake anyone, and I thought a light would….” With wide eyes, she watched him slowly stalking closer. “I was just…out for a stroll. At night. With nae light.”