Irritation sizzled in her gut, but there was too much at stake to give it voice. She raised her chin and squared her shoulders, meeting his gaze with her own. “If I accept, will you promise that I will join the warriors in battle when the English return? Will you promise not to force me to stay at the caves, no matter what any of the others say?”
“If you accept, and if”—he held up his hand to stop her from interrupting him—“if you prove yourself an able warrior, then I promise to do everything I can to make sure you get the chance to fight our enemies.”
She realized she was breathing fast and shallow. He offered everything she wanted, and she knew him well enough to know he would not lie to her.
“You will not go easy on me because I am female.” She did not ask, but demanded. She needed to be every bit as skilled as any warrior if she was to avenge the horrors that had befallen her clan. If that meant submitting to Duncan’s training then she would do it. “And I have one more requirement,” she said, now thinking how all the others would react when they found out she was being trained to fight. “This must remain a secret between the two of us until I say otherwise.”
Duncan considered her terms, his arms lightly crossed. “If I agree to your terms, you must agree to train with me every single day, no matter how tired or sore you may be, and that you will not go off alone, ever. As long as you do this, I will keep the secret.”
“Done,” she said before he could add more requirements.
“Done.”
Scotia wanted to throw her practice stick at him when she realized that even when she thought she was in control, Duncan had maneuvered her into doing as he wished. What was she thinking?
She was thinking of vengeance.
She took her fighting stance, facing him instead of the exposed tree roots. “We begin now.”
CHAPTER THREE
DUNCAN STARTED SCOTIA with the most basic of instruction but quickly found she had mastered the simple exercises on her own.
“Show me the exercise you were doing when I found you,” he said, circling around her to check her stance and her arm positions. Once more he watched as she closed her eyes. Her lips moved without sound, and then she moved through the combination as if it were a dance, lightly, and with grace, but without any power behind the strikes and parries. That would have to change, but not just yet. He had her show him the other two exercises the lads had been working on for weeks, and again, she moved lightly and with grace, but no power, and he suspected her balance would not be strong enough when clashing swords were involved.
“Now, do all three exercises in order without stopping,” Duncan instructed as he circled around to stand behind her, then picked up a stout stick about the length of his sword but far lighter. “No hesitation. No thinking. Just let your body do what you are training it to do.”
She stilled, and he knew she had closed her eyes and that her lips were moving without sound. He lunged toward her and poked her hard in the ribs.
She spun, ire spitting from her emerald-green eyes. “What—”
He held his position, ready for her attack, but he had not managed to goad her into motion.
“’Tis clear as day I said no hesitation,” he said. “No thinking.” He aimed the thick stick at her belly and lunged, as if with a sword.
Scotia didn’t have time to think, so she did as he hoped, she simply reacted, letting the training she’d had so far carry her into battle with him, parrying his first lunge, then flying through the rest of the exercises just as he’d said, one after the other, blocking every blow and thrust he aimed at her without thought, taking the advantage when she had it, but attacking him without power or conviction.
“You are fighting like a lass, Scotia. Are you so weak? You will kill no English unless you put some strength behind your sword.”
She spun and brought her stick around in a hard, sure arc parallel to the ground, as if she would take his head off with one swipe. He blocked her, and the impact of his stick and hers almost made her drop her weapon, but she managed to hold on to it and dropped back, as the exercise dictated. She drew in a huge lungful of air, and with her next attack let out a loud shout as she drove him back. It was all he could to do keep from grinning at her ferocity. He dared not let her know how well she was doing, how fast she was learning, as if she’d always known the skills of a warrior and he was but reminding her. Telling her how well she did might encourage her to revert to her cocksure ways. He must keep her attention. He must make sure that she knew she had much more to learn so he could ensure she kept to their bargain. ’Twas imperative that he keep her close so she caused no more harm to her clan.
He sped up, in an effort to throw her off what she had trained into her body already, but he could see the moment everything changed for her.
A calm came over her, and her focus was absolute. He knew she had reached that place where time slowed and reactions seemed to speed. He could see it as her movements became more sure, fluid still but with strength and power as if she understood exactly what each step of the exercise was for, what it taught.
She battled him right through his final blow, and her final block with her targe.
For a long moment they just stood there, breathing hard, staring at each other, their weapons held in the final clash as if frozen in time.
Exhilaration filled Scotia’s eyes and lit her face with a radiance he had never seen there before. It transformed her from the fiercely angry lass she had been for weeks, since her mother’s murder, to a woman who had suddenly learned her own strength. The change was startling, kicking him in the gut with an awareness of her that had nothing to do with weapons and battle, and everything to do with the confidence shining in the sparkling green eyes of the woman who stood before him.
He smiled and stepped away, putting some distance between them.
“That was amazing!” She grinned at him, and all he could do was nod. He turned away, needing to look elsewhere in an attempt to gather his thoughts and calm the heat that gathered within him.
“’Twas a good start,” he said as he forcefully turned his attention back to her training.
“A good start? Aye, it was. But that is the easy part, aye, the beginning lessons?”
“Easy?” He turned back to her, his mind focused back on her training. “It takes more than learning the moves of a lesson to be prepared for battle. You must also develop the mind of a warrior, and that is often more difficult than mastering the physical. But we start with the physical skills.” She had found that calm, that singular focus he only found in hard training and battle, but there was still much to be learned in this lesson. “Do it again. All three without thought or hesitation.”
He could see the argument gathering within her so he raised his brows at her, daring her with a look that he knew would spur her to respond, but she surprised him. Instead of a sharp retort, she pressed her lips together, trapping whatever she had been preparing to say in her mouth, and took up her beginning stance once more.
’Twas time for another lesson.
“Hold there,” he said before she could move. He walked around her slowly, assessing her position, then came up behind, so close he could feel the heat of her body on his though he tried, and failed, to ignore it. He put both hands on her shapely hips, turning her just a little more to the side, then cupped her shoulders and lined them up with her hips. He slid his hand along the underside of her sword arm, working hard not to think about how soft her skin might be beneath the sleeve of her kirtle, as he adjusted the angle upward, touching the inside of her elbow with his fingertips so she would soften it. He moved her targe arm just a little more to the left so it would still protect but not hamper the swing of her sword.
“Do not drop your sword arm,” he said quietly as he circled around her once more. He stepped close again, though he had not meant to, and tucked that ever-errant tendril of her hair behind her ear. He told himself to leave it, to step away, even as he remembered tucking that same s
ilky tendril behind her ear when she was a wee lass with hair that was always tangled, no matter how often her mother tried to contain it in a braid.
“You should get back in the habit of braiding your hair as you did when you were little, or at least secure the sides like the warriors sometimes do,” he said, finally stepping away. He wondered when he had ceased breathing.
“That would only serve to draw attention to what we do here,” she said, her voice unusually whispery. Her breath was as fast as it had been during their duel but now it was shallow. “Everyone kens I hate braiding my hair.” Her voice was a little stronger, with a familiar snap in it.
“Aye, you always have, but now it might serve you well. You have never avoided changing your mind about things before. ’Twould be a believable explanation.” And it would keep him from being tempted to touch it again. “Your sword arm . . .” He made a lifting motion with his hand, and she raised it back to where he had positioned it. “Do not let anything distract you from your purpose in a battle. The mind and the body must stay focused at all times, aware of what goes on around you, but focused on the immediate danger whether ’tis in front of you, behind you, or charging at you on a caparisoned courser from across the battlefield.”
He watched and waited until her arm, still firmly in the position he had required, started to tremble. She gripped the stick tighter, her knuckles going white and the blue veins in the back of her hand standing out starkly against her pale skin, but to his surprise, she did not complain. An unexpected and unfamiliar respect for her tenacity took hold within him. She was serious about this training and that was a very good thing.
“Loosen your grip, Scotia. The trembling is from muscle fatigue. I can see we have more than swordplay and a battle-ready mind to master. Now, move!”
He lifted his stick and lunged for her, fast and agile, moving out of the way of her offensive moves before she could even finish them, moving in on her, poking her in the ribs when she forgot and let her targe drop, smacking her across the upper back when she did not spin quickly enough to defend herself. A little pain and bruising often reinforced a lesson, though he hated the thought of doing that to her. But he had promised not to go easy on her, to train her as the lads were trained, and so he did.
Again and again he attacked, running her through the exercises over and over and over until her breath rasped and her arms surely screamed for rest.
“Enough,” he said. “’Tis enough for our first day.”
“You do not look the least fatigued,” she said to him, still struggling to hold her weapons up.
“Scotia, lassie, we are finished for this day. Lower your weapons. Give your arms a rest. You did well.”
Still she did not drop her guard. Stubborn, untrusting lass.
“I am serious. We are done. Put your weapons away. We do not want your da sending out a search party for both of us.”
“He would not—” Her stomach rumbled loudly enough to interrupt her. Puzzled, she looked up at the small circle of sky above them. “How long have we been at this?”
Duncan judged the change from where the sun hit the forest floor when he had arrived and now and was surprised to find the sun must be low in the western sky.
“Most of the day, ’twould seem. It cannot be long before the evening meal is ready.”
“The whole of the day? Nay, ’tis not possible.” She did finally let her arms drop limply to her side, the heavy wooden shield staying in place only because of the sweat-soaked leather straps.
“We will meet here again tomorrow,” he said, letting his stick drop to the ground. He waited for a complaint, a grumble, even an irritated stare, but none of that came.
“Good. I will be ready.” She stashed her weapons in the bole of a hollowed-out tree and left without so much as a hand raised in farewell.
Duncan stared after her, pleased that she had passed every test he had set her this day. He was equally pleased that he had kept her from causing any trouble to vex her family. If he was any judge, she would return to the caves, eat a larger than usual meal, then sleep the sleep of the dead. She would rise tomorrow stiff and sore, with bruises from blows she wouldn’t remember receiving. Even so, he rather thought she would return to train with him, out of sheer stubbornness if nothing else.
The true test of her pledge lay not in the physical training, though. He had witnessed her determination to perfect that today. The true test was to see if she could change her way of acting and thinking, to see if she could change her heart and her mind from those of a selfish lass to those of a battle-ready warrior.
He had his doubts, but he also had his hopes. If she could master this and prove the change was real and lasting, she might be welcomed back into the clan with open arms. She might be able to redeem herself.
DUNCAN FOLLOWED SCOTIA as she made her way first to a burn where she drank and washed her hands and face. She brushed dirt and bits of leaves and twigs from her clothes, then headed back to the caves. The closer she got the more he could see the change in her. Her stride grew stiffer, her shoulders drew up, and her pace slowed.
He let her enter the clearing outside the caves first, giving her a few moments before he entered so that the council, and anyone else nosy enough to pay close attention, would think he only followed her. He did not know how any of them would react to the promise he had made to her, but it did not really matter since he had also promised to keep her training a secret for now.
When he stepped into the gloaming of the clearing Peigi was already berating Scotia for leaving her duties behind for a full day. All the women and lasses who were nearby preparing the evening meal were averting their eyes, or even turning their backs, as if they did not want to so much as look at Scotia.
The brittle anger he could see clearly in the way Scotia held herself was such a contrast to the easy, dare he say happy, lassie he had spent the day with, that it made him all the more aware of how the clan subtly shunned her. Each dismissive gesture seemed to push Scotia deeper and deeper into that pit of anger she had lived in since the day of the fire, the day her mother was slain. Did he shun her, too? Aye, he did, when he wasn’t tracking her like an escaped prisoner.
He had thought ’twas Scotia isolating herself in her anger and grief, but he realized ’twas more than that. The lassie who everyone for so long had shaken their heads over and smiled at her antics when she landed in yet another bucket of trouble was now treated as if she did not exist, except by Peigi, who condemned her to forever scrubbing pots.
That Scotia had not lashed out with more than angry words of late, that she had slipped away to the forest instead, was interesting, though he did not understand why she did that . . . but he would.
Not long after they returned, Duncan sat in the gloom of the darkening evening eating the stew that somehow Peigi and the other women had managed to make savory in spite of the small number of rabbits the lads had managed to trap this day. Scotia also sat in the gloom, upon the flat-topped boulder just outside the main cave. She was as far away from the clan as she could get without retreating into the cave itself.
He was glad she had gone back for a second bowl of stew. She had earned it with her hard training. Though his stomach still felt hollow, he had not gone back for more, letting her take his share. There was little enough to go around thanks to the fire that had destroyed most everything in the storage areas under the great hall. And the game was nearly hunted out in this small glen after just a few weeks of hunting and trapping. The lads would need to extend their trapping into other glens soon. It did not bode well for the clan if they had to remain here into the winter.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw Scotia rise and take her bowl to the wash station, then she quickly made for the cave. Peigi started to call out to her, one hand in the air, but then cocked her head as she watched the shadow that was Scotia in the gathering gloom, and let her hand drop.
Duncan placed his bowl on a towering pile by the washbasins. He wished he could sit qu
ietly near the fire with a cup of ale or a dram of whiskey, though they had neither after the great hall burned. But even if they did, he could feel Rowan and Jeanette watching him, and he did not want to have to walk that fine line between keeping Scotia’s secret as he had pledged and not lying to them. They were the Guardians. He would never lie to them.
He gathered his bedding and carried it toward the council circle where he slept when there were still people gathered near the cookfire. He only slept in one of the caves when it rained, and then near the mouth. He slept far better in the open than in the dank confines of their temporary shelters. At least he hoped it was temporary.
As he crossed the clearing, skirting the circle of light thrown by the cookfire into the darkness that rapidly deepened to night, he could feel Jeanette and Rowan’s eyes upon him. They had yet to come right out and ask him anything about Scotia, but he could feel their need to gathering strength within them, and he found himself reluctant to tell them anything of the determined, driven, dare he say compliant lass he had spent the day with.
Before he had laid his bedding out Rowan appeared at his left elbow, Jeanette at the right.
“Where did she go?” Rowan asked, pitching her voice low.
“Aye, where did she go and what was she about?” Jeanette added.
“She was wandering the wood,” Duncan said. “She’s angry, and grieving, and embarrassed.” He wasn’t so sure about that last one, but she should be. “Can you blame her for wanting to get away from all the judging looks and whispers?”
“Aye,” Rowan said, “I can. She was told to stay near the caves. She kens well that every time she hares off into the wood someone has to follow her. Today it was you and we could have used your counsel. It is high time she grew up and took responsibility for her actions like the rest of us.”
Rowan’s tone and accusation irritated Duncan, and though he did all he could not to show it, he wasn’t entirely successful.
Highlander Redeemed (Guardians of the Targe Book 3) Page 3
