The Witch and The Thief

4

Lachlan had to agree she had him there. Granted, he wasn't sure he'd constitute a bruised hip and splitting headache as life-threatening injuries. He paused and watched the thick rivulets of water drip from her nose and chin.

Without a doubt, she was a beauty; the candlelight hadn't exaggerated her attributes at all. He even liked the fire in her eyes, shooting daggers at him.

Slightly relaxing his stance, he lifted his chin at her, "How came you to be here?"

Maera took a step back to put space between them. The thickening muck rose around her ankles, and the thief instantly followed, keeping the tip of his blade pressed to her chest.

She glared. "Is that necessary?"

"Not another move, lass. T'would be a shame if I slipped, and my sword ruined such a well-shaped pair of breasts."

"How dare you," She gasped, both mortified and flattered at his remark. A blush warmed her cheeks, and she fought the urge to cross her arms over her chest.

He winked and widened his stance, lowering his appreciative gaze to her bosom for a brief moment before once again meeting her eyes. Honestly, he didn't think he'd ever seen a more exceptional set.

"I wouldn't want to, but the rain is making the ground quite slick, and after my fall, I'm not as sure-footed as usual. You have yourself to blame for that. Now answer my question; why are you here?"

Maera ground her teeth against the guilt piercing her once more at his words. Scowling, she took a cautious breath before admitting with a small shrug, "I followed you."

Lachlan blinked. Honest witches were rarer than unicorns in these lands. "Why?"

Maera lifted her chin to a haughty angle despite the rain and held his green-hazel gaze, surprised to find magic laying in their depths. "Because you have something that doesn't belong to you, and I need it back."

He narrowed his eyes and pressed the sharp point of his sword harder against the witch, piercing through the soaked material of her dress and cloak, but careful not to harm her. "Who's to say it doesn't belong to me?"

"I do." She looked at him as though she thought him obtuse.

Lachlan shrugged his broad shoulders, "And I say it does."

"Well, it doesn't, you ignoramus; you're going to have to come to terms with that fact," Maera snapped. "Now hand it over, and we'll both be on our way."

He struggled to contain his grin. Their conversation bordered on ridiculous considering the circumstances, and surprisingly enough, besides being miserably soaked to the skin, he was thoroughly enjoying every moment.

Almost any other striga he'd met in years past would have used their magic to take what they wanted without pause and damn any consequences to his life or health.

Thunder rolled and crashed above, and the air filled with a strange energy that sparked a frisson of anxiety in his gut. Seconds later, a blinding bolt of lightning lanced through the sky, followed by another boom of thunder. Lachlan looked to the threatening clouds and cursed.

A tremor of unease coursed up and down his body. Only a simpleton would remain out in the open during a storm, holding a sword, practically begging to be target practice for the next lightning strike. And damn him for a fool, but he didn't like the sight of the pretty witch's teeth chattering behind slightly blueish lips from the frigid rain.

Refusing to study the possessiveness and urge driving him to action, he lowered his sword, grabbed her hand, and set off at a run, then slowed his pace to accommodate her shorter stride. They darted through the open field toward the stone ruins nestled within the tree-line.