Highland Wolf Pact: Blood Reign: A Scottish Werewolf Shifter Romance Read Online Free PDF Page B

easily, taking a graceful step back and sighing again, like it was quite taxing to be forced to fight her. Bridget felt anger rising and tried to swallow it down. Her father had trained her to stay calm and cool-headed in a fight and normally, she didn’t have any problem with that. But for some reason, seeing this giant, broad-shouldered man smirking, even chuckling as she advanced, made her furious. 
    Griff’s sword blocked another one of her blows and Bridget swung again, more quickly this time, driving him backward. The horse pawed the ground a few feet away, as if objecting to his master’s sudden predicament. It didn’t take Bridget long to push the big man back toward the other side of the crossroads, going after him relentlessly, swing after swing of her heavy long sword. 
    “Well, lad, ye take yer job seriously, that much is clear.” Griff panted as he rallied, getting his bearings and whirling on her, his sword blow coming so hard and fast, it actually knocked her off her feet. 
    Her pride was hurt more than her bottom as she struggled to stand.
    “Ye’ll right, lad?” Griff frowned, reaching down a hand to help her up, and that’s when something inside Bridget snapped.
    She was up in an instant, running at him like a bull, her helmet hitting him hard in the gut. She heard the air go out of him and he grunted. Her fast action had surprised him, caught him off guard, and he stumbled. Unfortunately, he didn’t go down as she planned. It took him just two strides to regain his footing and he gave a low growl, whirling on her, sword at the ready.
    “I’m endin’ this now.” Griff snarled, coming at her so fast and furious, she could barely see his sword flashing. She had to repel him only on instinct, which she managed, but it took her breath away. “Someone needs t’teach ye a lesson.”
    Bridget winced as the big man’s sword slid against hers and she found herself pinned against the rock—how they’d managed to get so far, she didn’t know. He crushed her against the stone with his weight until she couldn’t breathe at all, even in her armor. Her breastplate dug into her skin, compressing the air from her lungs. She tried to move, but there was no possible way. He covered her completely, his arm across her chest and shoulders, heavy as a log, his thigh between hers, so thick it felt like she was straddling a tree.
    Bridget struggled, trying to lift her sword, but he had that trapped too, with the heavy weight of his boot. The anger rising in her blurred her vision. She could only see a slit of him through her face plate. His breath was hot and heavy, but not unpleasant. He ducked his head so he could see her eyes—his were the strangest color she’d ever seen, a sort of amber, and for a moment, she was transfixed. The man searched her eyes with his, far too much amusement in them at having bested her, but there was an empathy there too, that bothered her even more.
    He let up just a little as he asked, voice soft, “D’ye yield?”
    Bridget thought of Alaric, watching her in the clear surface of the scrying pool—or mayhaps he was standing even now on the other side of the rock wall, watching via the reflective metal she’d used to spy on the approaching warrior. She wouldn’t yield—couldn’t let him down.
    She shook her head, glaring at him, and wheezed, “No.”
    “Yield, lad,” he said gently. “I will best ye, and if ye yield now, t’will mean far less bruisin’ fer ye—an’ yer pride.”
    Bridget snarled, throwing all her weight at him—not that it made that much of a difference. How could Alaric have handed over this task to her? How could he have believed she could best someone twice her size? But he had charged her with this task. He believed in her. He thought she could do this, had trained her to be better than this.
    “Get off me, ye fat oaf,” she snapped, hearing him chuckle, then sigh and shake his head as he eased back.
    “So ye yield then?”
    “No!”