All for You Read Online Free PDF

He smiled smugly. “Nay, there is none to equal me.”
    Stephen rolled his eyes. “How does your lovely wife put up with you?”
    “I keep her well supplied with wool, flowers, and my sweet attentions. And I change nappies. File that away in that poor brain of yours, my good Haulton, on the off chance you’re ever fortunate enough to find yourself saddled with a mate.”
    “I will,” Stephen promised, thanked Ian for his attentions on the field, then walked away before Ian made an offer for another round of torture.
    He looked back over his shoulder once, just to see if the piper were still there. The man was watching him, which was extremely unsettling. Stephen watched as the man made him a low bow before he turned and vanished.
    Stephen had to take a deeper breath than he might have otherwise, then walked swiftly back to the guesthouse Ian had added a pair of years earlier to the property for those brave enough to come for training. And whilst he walked, Stephen reviewed the things he couldn’t help but admit were past disputing: Artane did have ghosts; Artane’s ghosts were poorly behaved; and the rumors that Ian MacLeod had been born somewhere in the Middle Ages were absolutely true.
    Actually, he’d heard all about Ian’s past straight from the horse’s mouth, though that wouldn’t have mattered. All facts pointed to the truth of it.
    He walked up to the door of the cottage, then realized he should have been paying more attention to his surroundings. He had been assaulted there more than once by another member of the clan MacLeod, partly because he was an Englishman cheeky enough to set foot on Scottish soil, but mostly because Ian wasn’t the only person he came to Scotland to train with, if training it could be called.
    There was no one there today, but he supposed he shouldn’t have been surprised by that. He’d heard rumors that Patrick MacLeod, the survivalist instructor in Ian’s school of medieval torments and Ian’s own cousin, was off on holiday. Perhaps since Patrick wasn’t about to rough him up, Stephen supposed he would do well to get himself back home before the sun set.
    He showered, packed his gear, wrote Jane MacLeod a thank-you for the lovely dinners and conversation, then took everything out to his utilitarian Range Rover. He actually preferred his Mercedes for long trips, but it was a bit difficult to find a place in it to stash his Claymore. That, and it seemed as though Rovers were the beast of choice for English viscounts and Scottish lairds. No sense in causing any unwanted interest. He shut his gear in the boot, slid his Claymore into the especially constructed compartment in the roof that had taken some doing to have created, then turned.
    And felt a brick connect with his nose.
    Actually, it was only an elbow, and he knew that because his assaulter made some vile comment about the insult to his funny bone. Stephen would have made a comment about the blinding pain in his face he was currently enjoying, but he didn’t have the breath for it.
    The ensuing attack was vicious and relentless. Stephen would have been quite keen to merely stand to one side and watch whilst a clone of himself had to fight off a medieval clansman doing what he did best—which was using all kinds of moves that no medieval clansman could possibly have known.
    Patrick MacLeod was evil. Stephen told him that a time or two, though perhaps not in such polite terms.
    The first ten minutes of that fight were very dodgy only becausehe spent so much time spitting out the blood dripping down his face and trying to clear his eyes that were still smarting from the pain of what he was fairly sure was a broken nose. After that, things went better—if any sort of encounter with Patrick MacLeod could ever go well. All Stephen knew was that he managed to get his sword free from its hiding place so he at least had something in his hands to fight with. And he managed to use that sword for almost another ten minutes