Highlander Redeemed (Guardians of the Targe Book 3)

by Laurin Wittig

  Duncan would make sure the lad never again touched Scotia.

  CHAPTER NINE

  SCOTIA WAS HUMILIATED. She wasn’t a Guardian. She would never be a Guardian.

  Before today it had always been a possibility, slim but still there, that she might become one. Now it was a fact that she would not, and everyone, the entire clan and anyone she might meet in the future, would know of her failure. Everyone would know she would never be more than she was in this moment—the younger sister and cousin of two Guardians, one of whom wasn’t even a MacAlpin by blood!

  She stormed down the ben, knowing she needed time to get her emotions under control, as Duncan had been teaching her, doing her best to think before acting, lest she make her humiliation even worse. But it was hard to think when she wanted to scream, to strike, to hit something. If only there were a battle now, where she could loose her anger. But Duncan said she must never go into battle fueled by her emotions. A warrior needed a clear mind and a steady arm. She slowed as she remembered the exercise Duncan had her do at the beginning of every training session, and how it aided her in calming her emotions and focusing her mind on the matter at hand.

  She didn’t have her sword, but there were sticks aplenty all about her. She stepped into the wood and chose her weapon, then looked for an area open enough and relatively flat. When she found it, she took her position and slowly moved through the thrust, parry, turn, block, attack, fall back, parry, and thrust of the exercise. Then she did it again, this time concentrating on her breath as she repeated the sequence. And once more, making sure she had every move in sync with her breath.

  And then she flew through the sequence, again and again and again until her sides were heaving with the effort, and her mind was focused only on the moment. This moment. This move. This breath. She dropped her stick and braced her hands on her knees, drawing the cool evening air deep into her lungs. She closed her eyes and continued to breathe, slowing her inhalations as her heart slowed its pounding.

  “Better?”

  Without thinking, Scotia grabbed her stick and whirled to face the voice, her body landing in the proper fighting stance without her consciously thinking about it. And then she realized it was Duncan’s voice. It was Duncan who stood not far away, his expression an odd combination of concern and pride.

  She relaxed, letting the stick once more fall to the ground. She lifted her chin. “Aye. Better.”

  DUNCAN TRIED TO act calm. Scotia’s passion always stirred him, but this—to watch as she controlled that passion, that emotion, funneling it into the movements of a warrior with a grace and lethal focus such as he’d never seen in her before—took his breath away.

  “You were supposed to return to the caves with Rowan and Jeanette,” he finally said quietly. He did not move any closer to her. If he did he would take her in his arms, he would kiss her again. He drummed his fingers on his thighs and wished he could take up the drill where she left off, for he did not trust the emotions and the desire that pulsed through him.

  So he kept his distance.

  Scotia closed her eyes for a moment, then looked at him, her face composed, her eyes clear. “I needed to work off some anger before I returned. You have told me I need to think before I act, and I was not thinking, not thinking well, anyway. I feared I would do something or say something and would embarrass myself . . . or you.” She smiled at him then, but it was not the happy glowing smile she usually wore during and after her training sessions with him. This was dimmed by disappointment.

  “I failed, Duncan, as I am sure you ken. Rowan and Jeanette must have already reported my failure to the entire clan.”

  “Nay, lass. They said nothing. In truth, I did not ken if I would find you elated or despondent, for they said nothing of what had transpired. Rowan just said I should find you.”

  Scotia turned away from him, her face raised to the sky and her hands on her hips. There was something new about the way she held herself. Her back was straight and strong with her midnight hair cascading down it. It wasn’t the posture of Scotia angry. He was very familiar with that one—shoulders pulled up and forward, as if to defend her heart from attack. Nay, with her hands on her hips she stood strong, balanced, open . . . determined.

  That’s what he was seeing. Scotia determined.

  “What are you thinking?” he asked.

  She turned back to face him again, and he was pleased to see there were no tears, no glint of anger, just a calm he’d never seen upon her face before.

  “Do not look so puzzled, Duncan,” she said with a little shake of her head. “I am not that hard to fathom, am I?”

  He approached her slowly, taking in all the little ways she held herself that were different, learning this new Scotia in case she decided to stay this way.

  “Aye. In this moment you are a new person but I dinna ken why or how this came to be so suddenly. Failure, as you put it, for I do not see it that way, usually makes you unpredictable, angry . . . a brat,” he added with a smile meant to take the sting out of the word.

  “I am not a Guardian. That is a failure,” she said. “That path is no longer in my future.” She stepped closer to him, shrinking the space between them so much he could easily reach out and touch her, but she reached out and took his hand first. “If I am not to be a Guardian, then I am determined to help defend my family and my home the only other way available to me. We must redouble my training, Duncan.”

  She had his hand in both of hers, and her touch, her scent, carrying the slightly salty tang of her exertions as it wrapped around him, made it hard to think.

  Scotia tugged on his hand. “Do you not agree?”

  “Agree?” He had to think hard to remember what she was referring to. Her training . . . it came back to him . . . redoubling her training. “Aye. Agreed, and after what I have seen today”—now he took her hands in both of his—“you have handled yourself well all through this long, tiring day—I think you are ready for something a bit more difficult to master than the exercises and drills we have been working on.”

  Her impish smile returned. “What will that be?”

  He could not help but smile back at her. “That is for tomorrow. Are you not hungry, lass? I am famished.” He wrapped one of her hands in his, unwilling to release her just yet, and led her back to the trail. He was surprised to find himself very hungry . . . and not just for his dinner.

  They did not speak as they made their way back to the caves, but he noticed she did not make any effort to let go of his hand. As they got close the sound of voices threaded through the trees, Scotia stopped, pulling him to a stop, too.

  “Was I right?” she asked. “Allies?”

  It was only then that Duncan remembered what . . . who . . . awaited them in the clearing.

  “Aye, Scotia, you were right. ’Tis the MacGregor clan. Thirteen men arrived.” He could not decide whether to warn her of Conall’s arrival or to see how she reacted when she discovered him in the camp, but he did not want to test her new resolve so soon. “Conall MacGregor is among them.”

  She pressed her lips together and narrowed her eyes, but she did not take her hand from his . “I was wondering when he would turn up. Da did not skin him on the spot?”

  “Nay.” Duncan tried not to hold his breath as he waited to see if she was pleased or displeased that the lad had arrived. “Nicholas did not let him.”

  Scotia’s brows shot up. “Did not let him? Nicholas, not Uilliam?”

  “Nicholas, but he has gained a new oath from Conall. Will you make him break it? Will you help put the lad’s life in danger again now that he is here?”

  “Nay!” Indignation resonated in the single word as she stepped back from him quickly as if he’d slapped her.

  “Why not?” he couldn’t help but ask.

  She huffed, but her shoulders did not rise. If anything, she stood taller, her shoulders down and back, like a warrior. “Because everything is different now. I am different now. Can you not see that? I have
no time for trysting with a lad.”

  “Trysting?”

  She stared at him, but did not answer the question that hung heavy in the air between them. Duncan found himself wanting to throttle Conall at just the idea that perhaps there was more than a few stolen kisses between him and Scotia. He should have kept a closer eye on Scotia, kept her away from Conall, away from that damned wall that could easily have killed both her and Rowan, and now it would seem Conall as well. He should have . . .

  “Duncan,” she said, her eyes narrowed, “you’ll not hurt him.”

  “Why not?”

  “We need every warrior we can get—”

  “He is no—”

  “Aye, he is. Not a good one yet, but he is a warrior. Do you think I would let just any lad kiss me?”

  The minx taunted him, and he knew she saw that he was concerned for more than her behavior with Conall in the past. He was certain she saw the slash of possessiveness that gripped him, a possessiveness that was heightened by the implication that she might let him kiss her again in spite of what she had said just a few hours ago.

  “I have no intention of taking up with Conall again, Duncan.” Her voice was softer now, low and soft, as if she wished to gentle his emotions, though her voice, her scent, and her hesitant touch on his arm did anything but calm him. “But I will not allow you or Da or Nicholas to harm him for what has happened in the past. The past is done and cannot be changed.” She sighed and closed her eyes for a moment. When she opened them she said, “We must focus only on the future,” as if she said the words as much to herself as to him.

  Duncan’s stomach chose that instant to growl, breaking the solemn moment. Scotia snorted, and quirked one finely arched eyebrow at him. “Perhaps we can think about the present, too.” She hooked her arm through his and pulled him along. “At least until have we have supped!”

  THE NEXT MORNING Duncan followed Scotia just far enough to find where she had left the trail for her daily task of disguising her destination with a circuitous, hard even for Duncan to follow, route. He looked around to make sure no one would see as he slipped silently into the thick wood on the opposite side of the trail and waited, hidden by the bracken, just long enough to determine that no one followed either of them. Once he was sure, he headed through the wood, taking care that no one could easily follow him, either, and before long came to the training area in the bottom of the glen where either Malcolm or Uilliam drilled the lads each day.

  Two of Malcolm’s kin were there, sparring with such determination that the clash of sword on shield and the clang of sword on sword rang out through the clearing as if there were many more warriors battling. They did not seem to notice Duncan as he made his way over to a cone-shaped tent where the practice weapons were stored. He pulled a flap up, grabbed one of the wooden swords that was weighted with bits of lead wrapped in bands around the “blade” and pommel to better simulate the heft of a real sword. Scotia needed to strengthen her arm and her grip, and her sticks were not ever going to do that.

  Her reaction to not becoming a Guardian yesterday had convinced him that she was ready to move forward in her training. She recognized the strength of her emotions and took action to manage them before she loosed her temper on anyone. ’Twas quite a milestone for the lass.

  Of course he knew she would greet the practice weapon with a grin, or a smile, or a teasing comment, and he had to admit that was as much motivation for him rewarding her with the wooden weapon as were the needs of her training.

  He left the training ground as if he had nowhere particular to be, then slipped back into the wood, took more time than he wanted to cover his trail, and finally arrived in the tiny open area in the forest where Scotia kept her weapons. He held the practice sword behind his back as he stepped from between two large oaks.

  “There you are,” she said without even turning to see him. She finished the drill he had her start each day with, a drill that was complicated enough to demand her complete attention and which allowed no room for wandering thoughts. “I thought perhaps you had returned to your sleeping blankets,” she said as she held the final position for just long enough to check that her feet were where they should be, another thing he had her do at the end of every drill and exercise. He said nothing, letting her complete this warm-up. She turned, and a look of surprise lit her face, her dark brows arched like bird’s wings over her sparkling eyes.

  “What are you about?” she asked, closing the short distance between them. “What have you behind your back?”

  He slowly pulled the wooden sword from behind him, then held it out to her, hilt first. She looked from it to him and back to the weapon.

  “This is for me?” she asked.

  “Nay, ’tis for wee Ian,” he replied. “Do you think he will like it?” He tried to hold his smile in, but could not. “Take it, Scotia. You have earned it.”

  She tossed her stick into the wood, then wrapped her hand around the handle, lifting it from his hands. She immediately went into a fighting stance, moved through one drill, then another.

  “Raise your arm,” he said as she moved into a third. “You must increase your strength in order to keep the sword up where it will best serve you.”

  She did as he said, moving into a fourth and fifth drill before dropping her arm and letting the sword tip rest on the ground. She turned to face him, a huge grin on her face.

  “’Tis very different than fighting with a stick.”

  “Aye.”

  “Heavier, so it moves differently. I move differently with it.”

  “Yet your body kens the movements, so you do not have to focus on your feet, or whether ’tis a parry or a thrust that comes next. Now you can strengthen your arm, your back, your . . .” He patted his stomach with his hand.

  “And when I do that, I will get a real sword, aye? Then I will be ready to go into battle, to kill my first Sassenach.” She lifted the practice sword and made as if to stab a man in the stomach, twisting her sword and lifting upward, to gut him. She spun and widened her eyes at him, clearly asking him what he thought of that.

  The look of gleeful expectation saddened but did not surprise him.

  “You will get a real sword when I deem you prepared, physically and mentally, for battle, Scotia. I do not think you understand the brutality of battle, the blood, the stench, the noise, and the harsh necessity to kill or be killed. Your life will be at risk every moment of a battle. Your skill and your kinsmen will be your only true defense against the skill of soldiers who are far taller, far heavier, and far more experienced than you. Do you really think you can stay focused on what you have to do to survive with all of that going on?”

  To her credit she took a moment to consider what he said.

  “I witnessed battle firsthand not long ago, at the Story Stone. I ken well what to expect, what it will be like.”

  “Really? What do you remember of that battle?”

  “I remember relief when I found my clan had come for me. I remember fierce anger at the gap-toothed Sassenach who held a dagger at my throat. I remember the roar of the barrier Jeanette and Rowan created as it passed by me. I remember Gaptooth writhing on the ground, his life’s blood pouring from the stump of his arm after you sliced off his hand.”

  “’Twas Malcolm who sliced off his hand. And you were shivering from the shock of it all, your eyes glassy, mute. I took you back to the burn where the Guardians and Nicholas awaited us, and we waited for the battle to end before we ventured forth from there. You saw little of the battle, and what you saw, I doubt you remember clearly.”

  “Nay, ’tis not true,” she said, but he could hear the doubt in her voice and see it as she looked into the distance over his shoulder as if she sought to look into the past. “I was there. I remember.”

  “Do you? Are you certain you remember it just as it happened?”

  She pressed her lips together and shook her head. “Nay.” The word came out on a whisper. “’Tis a blur of images, sounds, the
smell of blood, but then almost nothing until a day or two later when I realized that no one would speak to me. No one would even look at me.” She swallowed. “Not even you.”

  “Once I learned how Myles had died, and why . . . nay, I could not look at you.”

  “What changed?” she asked, and he could almost feel her trembling again, as she had when he’d grabbed her hand and dragged her to the shelter of the wood and the protection of the Guardians that horrible day.

  “I saw you training yourself. I saw a lass determined to do what was right in any way she could.”

  “And that is why I intend to go into battle, to kill as many Sassenach soldiers as I can, to avenge what they did to my mother, and what they did to Myles. To protect my home and my family.”

  He sighed at her continued adamance that she would kill English soldiers. In spite of what he had promised her, he did not think she would survive such a battle.

  “Your intentions are good, but I still do not think you comprehend exactly what battle is like. There is no feeling of glory when you have brutally killed men with your own hands, even if you win the day. ’Tis brutal and terrible and should be avoided whenever possible. ’Tis why the battle at the Story Stone was particularly wrenching—it was not necessary until you became their hostage.”

  “But they killed Myles, too,” she said. “We had to answer that heinous act decisively.”

  He looked at her, a decision coming to him fully formed. “He should never have been killed, aye, and he would not have died that day in that way if you had done as your chief commanded, if you had stayed in the camp.”

  “’Twas not my actions that killed him. ’Twas not my fault the English gutted him.”

  Duncan looked up at the heavy clouds that seemed to scud just above the treetops, weighing the dangers of what he meant to do against the lessons that needed learning.

  “Bring your weapons,” he said, turning to melt back into the wood.