"He could be here to deceive us, like the last one who came askin' for trainin'." Burke shuddered as he set the iron kettle on the ground and knelt beside their prize. "I say we throw him out."
"Faugh! This young man is here to help us, not harm us, ye fool. He'll do just fine. Or have ye forgotten how many moons have passed since our girl came into her twenty-fifth year? She must fulfill her duty and produce a girl-child soon to follow her as the Warrior Trainer, or we'll have failed her mother and all of Scotland."
Burke released a heavy sigh. "The man who fathers her child should be her choice, Maisie, not ours, and not her mother's." A look of regret settled in his tired gray eyes. "We have manipulated her life for far too long. She deserves the freedom tae make her own decisions."
"Doona ye have even a wee bit of the Scottish soul in ye? 'Tis not her choice, but her duty to continue the line of trainers as her ancestors did before her. Scotia must submit to this man as 'twas arranged by their parents years ago. And to ensure she takes this lad to her bed, we will help her." She rubbed her gnarled hands together in excitement. "We must plan carefully."
"Ye're a daft woman, ye are. When has Scotia submitted tae anyone? Or are ye forgettin' the fits she gave us while growin' up? Ach!" A smile of fondness undercut Burke's words. With an effort he got to his feet, cursing his ancient bones as he did so. "I say we let the bloody fool go before Scotia learns of our plan and has our hides as well as his.”
Maisie ignored Burke's ramblings and grasped the fallen warrior by his arms, attempting to drag him across the flagstone floor. Long ago her strength had been great enough to easily move the large man, but now she was older and weaker. "Ye could quit yer blatherin' and help an old girl," she gasped as she continued to slide the man toward the bedchamber on the right. "I'm not as young as I used to be and he's a lot heavier than he looks."
Burke offered her a toothless smile and remained where he stood. "Serves ye right for messin' in other people's business, Maisie, old girl."
Ian woke to a throbbing in his temple. He tried to flex his shoulders, but found his hands were secured behind his back. He frowned, then regretted it when the movement brought a sharp pain to his head. It was bad enough that he, a formidable warrior in his own village, had been defeated by two antiquated biddies. But did they have to restrain him as well? Such things never happened to him. He was far too careful and clever for that. At least he had thought so until now.
He pulled at the ropes that bound his wrists together. They gave ever so slightly. He tugged again. The binding separated more, giving him the room he needed to wiggle his hands free. His captors might be sly, but they could learn a thing or two about tying knots. A moment later he released the bindings at his feet, then made his way to the door of what appeared in the darkness to be a bedchamber.
He should have been grateful they had not taken him to the dungeon. Ian allowed himself a sly grin. He knew now that neither of the ancients could be the Warrior Trainer. For some reason they were protecting their mistress. And Ian wanted to know why.
He opened the door cautiously, peering into the corridor beyond. Shadows lurked in the unguarded hallway, creating pockets of darkness along the gray stone walls. He stepped out of the room, then paused while he willed the throbbing in his head to subside.
Since the pain was not obedient to his wishes, he ignored it and crept quietly along in the shadows toward the staircase. He could see no one.
It would be easy to descend the stairs, head for the door, and leave. Leave. The thought grated more than he expected it to. If he left now, he would have to accept defeat. The Four Horsemen would go unpunished, perhaps even return to his village to destroy his clansmen. Worst of all, how would he face his foster father again, knowing he had failed to do as he asked? He must stay to fulfill his duty.
Ian set his jaw. To start, he would find the real Trainer. He slipped down the stairs, then paused, taking time to survey the unfamiliar surroundings. His plan was simple. Find her, demand her help, learn whatever secrets she harbored about fighting, then return to his clan. Time was of the essence if he was to avenge Malcolm's death and save his people.
Using the shadows as a shield, Ian crept into the great hall on the left. The room was neat and orderly, with the chairs pushed against the wall, tables free from clutter, and the rushes freshly laid. Here was evidence of a well- kept home.
Four young women stood near the hearth, one of them stoking the fire. Their backs were to him, and for that Ian was grateful as he picked his way across the hall, heading toward the corridor on the other side. Once inside the corridor, two doorways flanked the right and left side. He checked them both and found them empty before moving on to the doors farther down. After he checked the sixth chamber and found nothing, a stab of irritation shot through him. How many more rooms could there be in the main part of the keep? Already he had turned three corners, leaving only one side of the castle left to explore.
He continued down the corridor until he came to yet another doorway. He tried the latch and the door opened easily to reveal a much larger space than the others. This room stretched upward, topped off by an elaborate vaulted ceiling that gave the chamber an open, airy feeling similar to the church near his village. But this was no church. Swords, axes, pikes, daggers, and various pieces of armor lined the walls, their highly polished metal gleaming beneath the light cast from a series of arched windows at both sides of the room.
So many dangerous weapons—military strength worthy of any warrior. Except this warrior was female. He tensed at the thought. Women were meant to hold babes in their delicate and nurturing arms, not weapons of destruction. Perhaps she had not yet met a man who incited her to change?
Ian smiled at the thought, but he was not here to pursue anything other than training. Once his commitment to his foster father had been satisfied, he would leave this castle and its mysteries behind.
He strode to the wall of swords and reached for a lethal-looking blade. But the touch of cold, sharp steel against the front of his throat stilled him.
"Move and I shall give you a wound you shall wear to your grave," a husky voice threatened from behind.
Ian inclined his head only enough to communicate his agreement. He let his arm drop from the sword, cursing himself for not grabbing it sooner. "Are all the residents in this castle as friendly as those I have met so far?"
A second dagger pricked the flesh just below his ribs, causing a sharp pain. So much for humor.
His irritation quickly shifted to intrigue. What kind of woman was this trainer of warriors? No woman had ever spoken to him with such authority before. And there was no denying she was a woman. Her body pressed against his back—a combination of strength and hard metal wrapped in the soft scent of heather.
"If you release me, I shall do as you ask," he said.
The blade against his chest disappeared and the one at his throat eased. In that instant, he twisted out of her grasp. He meant to move away, but the sight of her held him captive just as tightly as her arms had done. Aye, she was definitely female. Even though her upper body was concealed behind a brigandine covered in faded red velvet, the plated armor did little to hide her curves. Her lower half was concealed by an assortment of leather and metal armor, yet the curve of her hips teased the soft red fabric of her skirt. But none of those things entranced him as much as the sight of her long, thick, sleep-tossed hair. It appeared dark in the uncertain light, perhaps red, perhaps brown. Locks of untamed curls spilled over her shoulders, teasing the edge of her chest armor as she returned her dagger to a sheath at her waist. An odd combination, that wild, feminine hair against the cold, masculine armor.
"You are the Trainer?" Ian asked, trying to conceal the slight breathlessness that stirred in his chest.
"I should be the one to ask who you are, trespasser." She drew a long, thin length of leather with two small weights at each end from her belt.
"Ian MacKinnon of the clan MacKinnon." He kept his gaze on her
weapon—a weapon that had the capability to render him immobile if he chose to attack. But would she use it? Or was she playing some sort of game?
"Why are you here, Ian MacKinnon?"
A devilish part of him wanted to find out if she was half as tough as she appeared. He took two steps toward her.
She swung the two ends of the leather in a circle at her side, filling the distance between them with a threatening burst of air.
A false move on his part and he was certain she would wrap those leather strands about his neck before she let him anywhere near her. So much for testing her. Ian paused. "I seek the Trainer."
She snorted inelegantly. "You are a poor liar. If you had come to see the Trainer then why would I find you in this chamber stealing a sword instead of in the great hall preparing to make your introductions?"
"I was not given a choice," he said, suddenly feeling impatient at the time he wasted sparring verbally with this woman. If she was the Trainer, why did she not just acknowledge it and they could move forward with the training? Ian folded his arms over his chest. "Had I the choice I would beg pardon and ask to speak with you."
"And you think that would have gained you an audience?" She swung her weapon in a slow, methodical circle.
"I had hoped it would serve my purpose as well as anything else."
"If your only purpose is to fight me, then you are a fool."
In an instant the leather strands snaked around his arms. Two heavy weights struck his chest, forcing the air from his lungs. The powerful throw sent him off balance. He tried to move sideways, to twist himself free of the bonds, but she was too quick. She caught him in the stomach with her foot and sent him sprawling on his backside.
Slowly she stalked toward him, a tigress on the prowl. She straddled him with her leather-covered legs, then sat on his chest. She stared at him calmly, her face still and strangely sad, her mouth unsmiling, her green eyes so solemn he wondered if she ever smiled.
"You wanted to meet the Trainer?" she asked. "Consider yourself introduced. Now that the pleasantries have been observed, you may leave."
Chapter Three
"I shall not leave until I get what I came for," the MacKinnon said. "Release me."
The blond man gazed at Scotia with a calm, unnerving stare. Despite the fact she sat atop his chest, something about his gaze pinned her there even as a surge of warmth flooded her cheeks.
Unnerved, she stood, then stepped back from him, hoping the distance would hide her fluster. He was only a man. She drew a slow, even breath in an effort to regain her composure. Since she could first wield a sword, she had battled and trained a hundred men. What made this one different from the others? What about him made her blush?
She studied him, measuring and appraising. An air of barely suppressed danger surrounded him. She saw it in the taut line of his shoulders and the grim line of his mouth. He had the look of a man prepared to take on the world and bend it to his will, no matter the consequences. Yet she sensed a vulnerability in him as well, something she could not quite define.
"There will be no battles today," she said impatiently, suddenly angry at herself for having such ridiculous thoughts about a stranger who had entered her keep, a man who was still a threat.
He untangled himself from the cords of her weapon and stood, neither approaching nor withdrawing. "I have not come to do battle with you, but to train with you."
Scotia started at the words before she caught herself and masked her reaction. She could not allow herself to hope. To train with you. The words played over in her mind despite her efforts. It had been twelve of the longest and most difficult years of her life since she had heard anyone outside her castle utter those words.
The last warriors, a father and a son, had come to train with her mother and herself when she was thirteen. The son, a youth of fifteen, had been resentful of her age back then. But he soon learned that skill mattered more than age. The father had taken his knowledge and had joined forces fighting the English. The son had remained with her. And over the years had become her most valued warrior, Richard.
But what of this warrior before her? What were his true intentions?
Fleeting emotion, subtle and reserved, flickered over his aquiline features. Fear? Desperation? Scotia studied him, searching his gaze for some clue of his true intentions. Could she believe him? Or was this some new ploy devised to get her to lower her guard, then strike when she was more vulnerable? It was a deception none of the challengers who had come to battle her for her title had tried yet. "Why should I believe you?”
"I give you my word. I am here only to train."
Again, the unexpected. Why did he not just draw some hidden weapon from his person like all the others? "What good is your word?"
"As good as the MacKinnon name," he said with a confidence that belied the sudden shadows in his brown eyes.
Hope started to unfurl within her, but she stopped it before it could flutter into full array. She had to be certain. So much was at stake—things even more precious than her honor or her life. She searched through her memories and recalled hearing from one of her scouting parties of the recent devastation many clans had suffered. Was his clan one of those who had been affected? Could what he claimed be true? And if so, was Ian MacKinnon's presence here a sign that some small measure of faith in the Warrior Trainer's ability to help them had returned to the clans? "Why come to me?"
His gaze remained focused, intense, determined. "My foster father is convinced our clan needs your help to save our people from the Four Horsemen."
"Your foster father. But not you." Perhaps he was not so different after all.
A flicker of challenge ignited in the cool depths of his dark eyes. "I... need your help." A silent moment passed between them. "Please."
The simple word hit her like a blow through her armor. Others who had come to challenge her had bullied, leered and demanded her help, but none had said please. She took a step back, retreating from sudden vulnerability, then froze as he dropped to one knee before her and bowed his head.
"I beseech you." Though his face remained impassive, his words sounded thick, as though spoken with some of the same deep emotion that flowed through her. "I humbly beg to be taught by the Warrior Trainer. I swear on the life of my foster father and the honor of my clan that I speak the truth."
Scotia looked away. She no longer deserved such respect, had not since her mother's failure to help the country fend off Edward I's invasion of Scotland. It was a time the Scottish people had yet to recover from, and the reason she believed her countrymen stopped coming to train with her. And perhaps why only challengers came to greet her now—challengers eager to steal from her the only thing she had left: her title as the best fighter in all the land.
At least no one had yet discovered her true secret. The Stone was safe, hidden away, the connection between the Warrior Trainer and Guardian of the Stone lost in the obscurity of the past twelve years.
Slowly, carefully, she met his gaze. It was her duty to train warriors, as her ancestors had done before her. Mindful of her true obligations, Scotia nervously pulled down the edge of her brigandine, then stifled a wince of pain from the gash her latest challenger had inflicted on her shoulder. Refusing to give in to the injury, she adjusted the leather gauntlets at her wrists. Shoulders back, assuming her warrior stance, she said, "I shall train you, MacKinnon."
"Ian." Relief filled his gaze, but so did pride as he stood. "I am here to learn. But I shall warn you now, this is the only time I humble myself before you."
Scotia bristled. She had not asked him to kneel before her. No one ever had before. "There is more than one way to be humbled." Turning her back on him and the odd jumble of emotions he set off in her, she pulled the hemp cord near the door. The bell had barely begun to chime before Maisie and Burke stumbled into the room. It was obvious by the chagrined looks on their faces they had been listening at the door.
"The MacKinnon will be staying with us for a w
hile."
He interrupted. "I shall learn quickly."
Scotia ignored him. "Please show him to the back chamber." She turned around, grateful that her usual control had settled over her once more. "We begin on the morrow."
"We begin now." He took two steps toward her, then stopped when her hand moved to her sword.
"We train when I am ready, or we do not train at all."
Incredulity flared in his expression, then it was gone. His gaze hardened, but he offered her a small bow. "As you wish."
"Come with me." Burke motioned toward the door.
The MacKinnon spared her one last searching glance before he turned and followed Burke from the room.
Scotia kept her spine stiff and straight as her mother had taught her, as she taught her own men. Meet your enemy with fearlessness. Never show your feelings. She thought about her own advice. Nothing about her had changed physically in the last few moments, but inside something felt different.
She only wished she knew what it was.
"At last someone has come to train, not battle ye for yer title as the best fighter in the land." Maisie picked up the weapon the MacKinnon had disentangled himself from, then handed it back to Scotia. "Is it not a day to celebrate?"
"Not yet," Scotia answered, finally allowing herself to relax as she wound the weapon into a loop and attached it to the belt at her waist. "I do not trust him yet."
Maisie frowned. "Ye would refuse to train him?"
"Nay, I cannot and stay true to my name. But there is something about him, Maisie, something I do not yet understand. He seems overly impatient to learn. Does he not understand these matters take time, patience, and practice. "
The Warrior Trainer Page 2
