by Aileen Adams
His heart slowed from the racing she’d inspired. “What brings ye out here? Is something amiss?”
“No. I simply wished to watch. I understand if you would rather I left you alone.” She took a step back, biting into her lower lip, as she did whenever uncertainty gripped her.
The fact that he’d begun to recognize her habits was not lost on him.
“Nay, nay, I dinna wish for ye to leave,” he found himself replying, though he had only just blessed his solitude. “Truly. Stay.”
Then, Fergus’s story came back to him. He had spent two days questioning himself, watching her at every opportunity for some sign of who she truly was. Nothing she did gave away her hidden skill. She might as well have been any of the lasses in the house.
That was likely what she wished him to believe. He would do the same in her place.
Was there perhaps a way to draw her out?
“Can ye lift a sword, lass?”
Her brows knitted together. “A sword.”
“Aye, what did ye think I said?” He turned the weapon around in his hand, holding it out to her that she might take it by the handle.
She looked as though she believed this to be the height of foolishness, but that did not stop her from reaching out. “I merely thought it strange for you to ask such a question.”
“Not very strange. I believe women ought to know how to defend themselves.”
“Oh, yes,” she murmured, holding the sword across her body, looking at it from hilt to tip. “We spoke of Moira, and you admired her fierceness.”
“I would not like to know the man who did not admire her,” he replied, and he meant it. “Ye must have noticed the way some of the men begrudged her skill at the festival.”
“I did, indeed.” She swung the sword, testing it, seemingly lost in her examination of the thing. Perhaps forgetting how inexperienced she’d claimed to be.
If the lass were truly as Fergus and Moira described, she would take pride in her skill. He kept this in mind. “I’m certain she would be pleased to teach ye her ways. If ye wished to learn.”
Margaret was not looking at him, but he took note of her furrowed brow just the same. “You believe so?” she murmured.
“Aye. I’ll grant ye, it would take a great deal of effort to become half as strong and quick as she, but I believe it would be a worthwhile endeavor.”
Yes, he was striking at her pride. Her cheeks colored a deep red as her head lifted. “What do you wish for me to do with this?” she asked, holding it as though she’d been born to it.
As he had expected.
“I wish for ye to attack me, while I use my shield to block the blows.” Indeed, this was a risk, but the sword’s blade was dull. The worst she could do was bruise him if she managed to strike.
“You are certain of this?”
“Aye. Ye wish to be of service to me? This is what I ask of ye at the moment. Unless ye feel yourself unable to challenge me.”
That was all he’d needed to say. In fact, judging from the strength of her first swing and the shock which rippled through him when metal hit wood, he’d said too much.
She swung. He lifted the shield to take the blow. She swung again, this time bringing the sword low. He blocked, then used the shield to thrust her hand away.
Her eyes narrowed. She sensed the challenge as an animal would, as though this were part of her very self. Yet when she struck another blow, then another, her movements were not the wild, crazed swinging he would expect from an inexperienced fighter.
Indeed, she controlled every step, every swing. Though her cheeks flared red and her eyes flashed fire, she remained in control of her body.
Perhaps this was the most telling thing of all, and even a bit discomforting. Padraig realized he was not merely training. He was defending himself.
“Margaret!” he grunted, raising the shield to protect his head. “Margaret, enough!”
She let out a mighty roar, choosing to take advantage of the shield in front of his eyes and place a foot against his stomach. With one sudden kick, she left him on his back.
“I said enough, lass!” he called out once he could take a breath, as her kick had knocked the air from his lungs.
She stood above him, still holding the sword, barely winded.
“Who are ye?” he asked, looking up at one who might be a warrior goddess, like in the tales of old—or who might be the death of him, should she decided to turn her skill against the clan. He had still clung to the hope that Fergus and Moira were wrong about her, he realized, but there was no lying to himself then.
Before she could answer, he asked a second question. “What did ye do after the festival?” He had to know if she would choose to tell the truth of it.
She froze in place, still as a piece of stone. This was certainly not what she had expected to hear. “I returned with the others, of course,” she replied once she’d taken hold of herself and her color began to return to normal.
“Before ye did, lass. What did ye do before ye returned?” He sat up, hating the fact that she’d knocked him on his back but almost certain that she could have done much worse if she’d decided to.
Her shoulders fell, as did the hand holding the sword. She dropped it onto the ground, tossing it away as though it mattered not. Perhaps because it truly did not matter. “Why are you asking me this? What do you know?”
It was too late to take back his question. There was nothing to do but see it through. “I saw ye,” he lied. Fergus would never forgive him if he revealed the truth—nor would Moira, he would wager. “I saw ye coming out from behind the stall with blood on your hands. I heard ye threaten a man.”
She stood straight and tall, her chin tilting upward. “What is it to you?”
“It is a matter of my knowing who lives beneath my roof, lass, and ye know it. Who are ye? What are ye all about?”
To his surprise, she sank to the ground with a sigh, arranging her skirts around herself with great care before speaking. “This is not easy for me to speak about. You must understand there was a reason for my not being more forthcoming with you. I am not certain any woman would find it easy.”
His breath caught. What was she trying to say?
“The day Sorcha and Moira found me in the village, I was… being attacked. There were three men. One of them was worst, the one who held me in place and threatened me. I vowed to myself that if I ever saw him again, and he was alone—without his friends, so I would not be outnumbered—I would do to him what he did to me.”
“How is it even possible?” Padraig asked, still uncomprehending. “Ye beat a man?”
“Like Moira, I know how to fight. Not as you men do—not as a soldier fights—but as a woman with a need to protect herself. I did not wish to tell you of it because I felt it would mean explaining how I learned, why I learned. As I said, I do not wish to speak of it.”
He wanted badly for her to speak of it, for he wished to know who he would have to kill for touching her.
At the same time, he could not bear the idea of imagining anyone bringing her pain. The less he knew, the better off he might be.
He would not be able to keep from embracing her, holding her close and vowing to never allow anyone to hurt her ever again.
“Ye saw him, then. At the festival.”
“I did.” She looked down at her hands. How could hands such as those, strong but small, beat a man such as the one she described?
“Ye ought to have told me, lass. If not me, one of the other men.”
“Why?” Her head snapped up, eyes blazing. “I did very well on my own, I would have you know.”
“I’m certain ye did, judging from what ye showed me here, but that does not mean I would not rather have ye safe. Nothing would have given me more pleasure than to dispatch with that bastard myself.”
She favored him with a slight smile.
“I’m glad ye said what ye said before ye left him,” he added. “I never could have thought of it on my o
wn.”
She chuckled this time. “I suppose one man would not threaten another man’s… private bits.”
“It would be rather difficult to say without grimacing and covering myself,” he agreed.
She laughed, which started him laughing as well. That they could laugh over something so grim made him laugh all the harder.
Yet there was still a sense of her holding back. For the woman wielding that sword was not merely skilled in defending herself. There was a line between that and fighting, and he knew it. She knew it, too, he would wager.
She was a fighter. Who had she fought, and why?
16
There was one sight Margaret was certain she’d never grow tired of, and she had seen a great many things in her travels. Many majestic sights, many wondrous ones. But the Grampians, framed as they were by billowing clouds which the setting sun painted gold and pink and purple? It was enough to still her heart.
An evening ride astride an old, gray mare which Moira’s brother, Iain, had recommended was quickly becoming her favorite activity. She looked forward to moments of quiet, especially after busy days filled with work—cheerful work, but work nonetheless. Chattering women, laughter, gossip. It was pleasant enough, but there was no substitute for peace and solitude.
And she could not have imagined a more fitting setting in which to take her ride. The River Nevis flowed in the distance, a shining ribbon cutting through the tall grass. She brought the mare up to the bank, allowing it to drink deep of the cold, fresh water before bringing it about to follow the river’s course.
This place, this land, was as close to Heaven as someone like herself could ever be allowed. She would find nothing better, not after her many terrible deeds. Perhaps she might live out her days here as a mere household worker, but perhaps that was all she was worth.
She’d never given such thought to herself before then. It brought her discomfort and caused her to question how others lived this way. Questioning themselves, their actions. She’d never considered anything but the good of the Order and her sisters, and living had been… if not easier, at least less fraught with indecision and guilt.
So deep was she in her dark, questioning thoughts that she did not take notice of the approaching rider until he was nearly on top of her. Had her instincts and senses dulled so in the weeks since she had arrived in Andershire?
“Good evening to ye,” Padraig grinned. “Having a ride, then?”
She warmed at his pleasant smile, at his friendly tone. He was quite an agreeable man when he wasn’t behaving like a spoiled, headstrong child. It seemed that her confession of a few days hence, only half-true though it might have been, had built a deeper understanding between them. She was glad for it, glad to know he did not think her wrong for having beaten that man.
Were it not for the esteem in which she held the clan, she would have taken his life that day behind the market stall. It would have been so simple, the work of a moment. And she’d longed to do so, all of the old ways coming to the surface and crowding her thoughts until it seemed impossible to avoid doing so.
Yet she had not, for to do so would have led to questions and suspicion which Padraig did not need or deserve.
The sunset’s warm light set off the auburn in his hair, making her think of glowing embers in the middle of a dying fire. He was quite handsome, more so every day in her eyes. Soon she would not be able to look upon him without showing him in either word or manner what his presence did to her.
She’d never given much thought to men outside of their value to her—or the threat they posed. Padraig was certainly no threat, and he was not someone who’d been assigned to her. This gave her the chance to look at him through new eyes.
“I enjoy riding very much at this time of day,” she confessed, the two of them bringing their mounts in step, riding abreast along the river’s edge.
“I prefer sunrise, but this is bonny as well.”
She nodded. “I’m certain I would enjoy that, but you give me so much to do in the morning…”
He laughed, shaking his head. “Fair enough.”
They rode in silence for a stretch, the ground becoming rocky and requiring their attention to avoid leading the horses to harm. It occurred to her that she did not mind the silence. It was pleasant, just as the silence between them in his study was pleasant and not complicated.
“Did you ever imagine yourself as the laird? As the man who would manage all of this?” In her heart, she knew the prospect would leave her frozen with fear, like a hare in the presence of a predator.
“Truly?” he asked.
“Truly.”
“I was concerned—nay, even scared—when Alan died.”
She gaped at him. “The way I’ve heard it told, you stepped into his place and took control and set things to right. Granted, it took a great deal of hard work, but you were born to it.” She chuckled then, looking down at her hands. “So I’ve heard.”
“That is quite kind, but it was not that simple for me. Aye, I learned a great deal about managing the clan’s fortunes because my brother could not be bothered with such affairs. But that was nothing when compared to being laird. I could always go to him and have my ideas and plans approved. Even he at times brought up solid arguments. I can admit it. When he was gone… I feared I would make too many mistakes. That I would be the downfall of our clan, drive it into the dust.”
“I find that difficult to believe.”
“That I ever questioned whether I could lead?”
She nodded.
“I did, quite a bit. I’d only ever witnessed my older brother’s way of leading, ye ken. He was a brute. He loved nothing more than a fight, especially if it was one he was certain he’d win.”
“What of your father?”
“He was rather a bit of both of us, I suppose. He was a fierce fighter, no doubt. His face bore the scars of many a battle. But while he had nothing to fear from other men, he knew well when to use might and when not to. Not every situation required a fight. In fact, he preferred to avoid going to war unless there was no other choice. Sometimes, though the laird of another clan would prove impossible to reach with words.”
He laughed then. “Such as my brother Alan, who never wished to solve a problem with words which could be solved with a fist or, better yet, a sword. Woe to the man who tried to negotiate with him.”
“While you use your mind,” she observed.
He gave her a sharp look then but found her smiling, which seemed to relax him.
She nodded. “I find that far preferable to using force.”
“Ye do?”
“I do.”
“Ye did not seem to feel that way at the festival.”
Her laughter was loud and sincere, and perhaps a bit embarrassed. She’d not expected him to take note of her admiration.
“That was not the same, and you know it. That was a time for might to win out over reason, and you managed it. You were quite impressive that day. I meant to tell you as much but never had the chance until now.”
The man all but glowed when she said it, as though the admiration he had received until then—she knew he had, for she’d heard the girls whispering and giggling among themselves for days—meant little. Her opinion, on the other hand, meant a great deal to him.
“At any other time, however, using one’s mind to solve a problem is far better than using a sword,” she asserted. “Truly. I believe this. I realize that war has its place, but only as a final option when nothing else works. Why risk the lives of men with no choice but to fight when problems might be solved with words instead?”
“I strongly agree. I ask myself at times how my father would react to hear me say it.”
“Your father would be proud, I’d wager,” she suggested. “I’ve heard of nothing but the wonders you managed in the months after Alan’s passing. I do not mean to speak ill of the dead, truly, but it seems as though you are much better suited to being the laird than he ever was.”
/> He all but swelled with pride again. To her surprise, this pleased her. Not in the way it had pleased her in the past when flattery had affected the man to whom she had been assigned, the man she’d been tasked with pulling under her spell. That had been the pleasure of a job well done, the satisfaction of knowing she’d been successful. That the Order had been well served.
This? This was… a deeper feeling, something more personal, something which made her turn her face from his that he might not see the pleasure in her smile. She was glad that her words carried such a weight, that he thought highly of her opinion. Not because she wanted anything from him. Simply because he desired her praise.
“Why do you train as you do, then?” she asked, turning back to him.
“Do ye not see?” he asked, his gaze grazing the distant peaks of the Grampians. “I wonder not, as I had not seen until now. You’ve helped me understand my need to prove myself, and I can admit it to ye that I wish to do so. I wish to be more like my father, I suppose. To protect what is mine both with my mind and with my sword, if need be. A man can do both, can be both. He proved it to me. Perhaps I never wished to avail myself as a warrior because both of my brothers did. I could stand apart from them in other ways.”
She made an understanding sort of noise as she nodded. “It makes sense. I can see how you would work as hard as you do. But you have already done so much. Perhaps you only need to be yourself. Padraig. Not your father. You have most assuredly set yourself apart from the others. If I were you, I would be proud of myself.”
He laughed, but not unkindly. “Ye need not praise me overmuch. I do not require it, as I believe I told ye the day we met.”
“You did, but I am not being insincere. Do I seem as though I am?”
“Nay, lass. Ye dinna.”
She smiled in relief. He’d caused her to doubt herself for a moment. “Then, you ought to believe me when I say I believe you were born to be laird. You were simply born in the wrong order. You ought to have come first.”
“’Tis a good thing Alan is no longer here to hear ye say it, lass. He would have quite a bit to say in argument, and none of it ought to fall upon the ears of a nice lass such as yourself.”
