" 'Tis his age and his desperate situation, I fear. They used to send the young 'uns to yer mother for a reason. They were easier to mold, easier to tame." Her gaze moved toward the door. "This one has already tasted success on the battlefield. 'Tis a wound to his pride that he is here."
Scotia moved to the wall where she had found the MacKinnon. With a sigh she reached out and removed her mother's sword from its mount—the sword he had almost taken. "Then why did he come? He said his father sent him, but there has to be more than that."
"I'm certain he has his reasons," Maisie said as she joined Scotia near the wall. "Just as ye have reasons to rejoice in his presence here."
Scotia spun to face her castellan. "Just what do you mean by that?"
"Do ye not find him handsome?”
"He is as handsome as any other man." Even as she said the words she knew they were a lie. The image of his brown eyes—hardened and knowing one moment, the next searching and troubled—tugged at her in a most disturbing way. She shook her head in disgust, willing the feeling away.
" 'Tis providence that brought this man to yer door, love."
Scotia stilled, as did her heart. "What are you saying, Maisie?"
"That he is here to father yer child. That ye should take advantage of this situation that may never present itself again."
Scotia refused to allow her face to reveal her shock, though it reverberated through her entire body. Summoning a composure that had been ingrained in her since childhood, she replaced the sword on the wall without even the tiniest betraying clink of the metal.
Produce a child to continue the line. She knew her obligations. The words alone had the power to slice right through her, raising up the guilt that had festered inside her since she had come of age. How could she bear a child? How could she willingly open herself up to the vulnerability pregnancy would demand? Her body could never support a child when the whole of her life was filled with conflict and aggression that was even more violent than her predecessors had experienced. Nor did she possess the warmth and patience necessary in a mother. Apart from all of that, she could never force a child to endure the same aloof and loveless existence in which she had grown up.
Yet sometimes she longed for a babe to hold, wished her life could have another purpose besides training. At the thought, she stilled. Such desires were not for her.
"How can I have a child, Maisie? What kind of destiny would I leave to her?" Scotia asked with a hitch in her voice. The armor that shielded her emotions slipped, leaving the usual hollow, desolate sensation that always followed.
Maisie's gaze filled with compassion, and quite suddenly her age sat heavy on the features of her usually carefree face, deepening the lines that shadowed her eyes and forehead. She had weathered many changes since the reign of Scotia's mother as the Warrior Trainer. Now, in this uncertain age, Maisie had slowly fallen victim to the inexorable crush of time.
"A girl-child must be conceived. The legacy of Scotia must continue with ye bearin' a female child just as yer mother did and her mother before her. The Stone must have a new guardian, or the soul of Scotland will crumble beneath us all," Maisie said with a mixture of sadness and exasperation.
Scotia longed to turn away, to ignore the plea as she always did. Yet she forced herself to remain strong as she boldly met Maisie's gaze. How could she communicate all the uncertainties she had about her inability to love or be loved by another? "Give birth to a child only to have her slain by those who challenge me? Nay. I could never be so cruel."
The old woman's gaze softened. "I understand yer fears, love. But doona ye realize ye have no choice? Scotland is dependin' on ye."
Scotia closed her eyes, willing the darkness to erase the hurt the words brought. She had spent her whole life performing her duties for her country. Her love for Scotland was the one emotion she had never been forced to block. Knowing her obligations, yet knowing just as well she could never fulfill them, was a slow-bleeding wound.
Yet somehow she had managed to continue on despite the incredible burden of her own sense of failure. Even so, her efforts had cost her much. Gone was the curious, mischievous girl of her youth. In her place was a cool, remote warrior who never lost her temper and rarely smiled. But control and bravery could not keep the despair at bay. Hope for the future—a future where she could once again be for Scotland all that her ancestors had been before her—seemed lost. She could not bring a child into her world with its heavy responsibilities and loneliness. But if she did not, who would carry on as the Warrior Trainer?
Refusing to bow to despair, she spent her days continuing to hone her already flawless skills. She forced herself to train harder, building muscle in her arms and legs that would help her outmatch her male opponents. She had learned how to hide herself and her femininity behind the plated armor she always wore, never removing her battle gear even for sleeping, even for bathing. It was the protection, the edge she must keep. If challengers caught her unprepared, it could be the end of her.
All because of the Stone. Perhaps it was time to reveal the Stone's location and let the entire country take over the responsibility of protecting the priceless artifact. Scotia opened her eyes. That kind of thinking would only cause further warring with England.
A better choice for the safety of the clans might be to hide the Stone in some secret cache unknown by even Burke or Maisie so that when she died the location would disappear along with her.
Scotia groaned. Why did everything have to be so complicated? "A tempest rages inside me, Maisie. I need more time to consider the possibilities."
Pain flickered across Maisie's face. "That young man may not stay long. Besides, I promised yer mother—"
Scotia held up her hand, cutting Maisie off. "Some promises are meant to be broken."
Maisie shook her head. "Nay, child," she said in a stern yet gentle voice. "In this ye are wrong. The forces of Mother Nature are stronger than ye can imagine, claimin' her victims no matter how hard they resist."
Scotia released a heartfelt groan. "I shall never be such a victim, of that you can be sure. I can protect myself against anyone and anything. Forces of nature ... Truly, Maisie, do you not understand me at all?"
A hint of a smile sparkled in Maisie's tired gray eyes. "At times, I know ye, love, better than ye know yourself."
Scotia crossed her arms over the plated metal of her brigandine and winced at the pain the motion brought. "I came down here to try to loosen the muscles in my shoulder, not to discuss a baby." She extended her arm, then rotated it in small circles forward. "Your herbs helped the bleeding, but the stiffness remains. That challenge against Brodie Haldane cost me some of my agility."
" 'Twas the wound he inflicted upon yer shoulder that did that."
"Aye, but I cannot let it slow me down."
Maisie's smile faded. "Are ye certain 'tis the new wound and not the old one that bothers ye, love?"
The muscles in Scotia's shoulder tensed despite her efforts to control them. After all these years, the mere mention of the arrow in her back had the power to overcome all her training. He had almost killed her. The White Horseman had nearly won. Her current injury was nothing compared to the wound he had inflicted on her that night.
She forced her muscles to relax despite the memory, and tried to steady the wild cadence of her heart. She drew a deep breath, feeling a peacefulness flow into her again, banishing the tumult, blurring the memories she wanted desperately to forget. "Only new injuries can hurt me now, Maisie."
"We could try a wrap of setewall to ease the pain," Maisie said gently.
Scotia shook her head. "If I am to train our impatient visitor on the morrow, I need to strengthen my arm, not dull the pain."
Maisie opened her mouth to speak, but Scotia silenced her with a look. "I shall train him, Maisie, but I have no more use for him than that."
Chapter Four
In her training chamber the next morning, Scotia studied her student. He stood with his feet a
part, balanced on the balls of his feet, his sword in hand, his eyes watchful. Good traits for a warrior. Yet he carried his weight more on his right foot than his left and his broad shoulders pushed forward, obvious weaknesses. He would attack like a charging bull, all muscle and force, and she would best him. Scotia hid the satisfaction she could feel creeping up inside her. He would learn his mistakes before their session was through.
"Are you ready?" Impatience flashed in his eyes.
They were always so impatient to begin. The battles she had fought outside the castle walls in her youth had taught her that men on the verge of war often surged into a fight without thinking, planning, or anticipating their foe. The MacKinnon seemed eager to follow that same pattern.
Scotia nodded, then offered the MacKinnon a brief salute with her sword. "Alba gu brath," she said in Gaelic: Scotland forever.
As she had predicted, he rushed forward, cutting and slashing as he advanced. Scotia parried his blade, then with a jab from her uninjured shoulder sent him to the ground.
He hit the stone floor with a soft thud, quickly rolled to his feet, and lashed out again.
The man fought well, but not well enough to best her. Scotia leapt sideways. She sent her blade whistling past his head, avoiding injury, but taking a few wisps of hair as it sailed by.
The MacKinnon's eyes went wide. "Are you trying to kill me?" he said, his tone filled with both irritation and surprise.
"Nay. I am trying to teach you. Just like I taught all the others."
Their blades clashed again and again, the clink of steel creating rhythmic sounds that reverberated through her training chamber. It was a sound she used to hear often in this room when she trained the young boys of the castle. Those men had grown up over the last twelve years. Some had left to help protect their countrymen, and others she had trained as scouts to gather information about the Four Horsemen.
As her sword cut through the air, a pulse entered her blood, bringing a renewed sense of purpose to her soul. The man before her had not lied. A warrior had come to train.
She allowed the MacKinnon one last pass at her before she turned to advance, putting her newfound invigoration into her attack. One swipe of her sword, a twist of her arm, a nudge with her knee and he lay at her feet.
Conquered.
Ian stared up at the blade of the sword against his chest. Foolishly, he lay like a helpless babe, his back pressed into the cold stone floor. For the second time in his score and seven years he felt like an utter failure. The first being when he had been unable to protect Malcolm from the Four Horsemen.
Barely accepted by his clan, always taunted as the "bastard orphan," he had toughened up early. He'd had to fight his way out of squabbles since he had learned to walk. Throughout his life he'd had to prove himself to his clan by being stronger, faster, smarter than everyone else. He had taken down men three times his size in hand-to-hand battle as well as on horseback. And he had never backed away from a challenge. It wasn't in him to do so.
It wasn't in him now. He glared at the redheaded beauty staring down at him. "I dare you to do that again." He gained his feet. Retrieving his sword, he stepped back into the battle.
Over and over he found himself on that hard cold floor, vowing each time she would never send him there again.
"What is the matter, can you not defend yourself?" she asked, tossing her tightly plaited hair over her shoulder.
His irritation sparked anew. The women of his clan had made him feel as though they needed his protection, his strength to keep them out of harm's way. This woman evoked no such response. Ian gripped the hilt of his sword in his hands. There had to be some way to beat this woman at her own game.
With a triumphant cry, he challenged her again. Pass after pass she bested him, until his muscles screamed at the abuse. No matter what kind of combat he engaged her in, she defeated him, sparing him nothing. Not even his pride.
"I should have trained harder," he muttered, starting up at her from his position on the floor. He searched her face for some small hint of humor. But no mischief or laughter lit her eyes.
Nay, instead there was only sadness and a vibrant energy that seemed to move around her even while she remained still. It was as if someone had stolen her soul and given her body an excess of power to compensate her loss.
He had never met anyone like her. He prayed he never would again as he waved away her sword, then sat up. "I shall succeed, eventually."
The corner of her mouth quirked as though she would smile, then thought better of it. "An appropriate attitude for a warrior." A leather-encased hand reached out to him, offering assistance. He grasped it and allowed her to haul him to his feet. She did so with little effort, then turned away, walking toward the far side of the chamber from where they had met the previous evening. "Come with me."
As he followed her, Ian studied the woman years of legend had created. She was tough. That part of the legend someone had gotten right. Ruthless in battle. Perhaps, if the battles he'd experienced today were any indication. Protector of her people. He frowned. That was where legend and reality parted ways.
Her people suffered terribly at the hands of the Four Horsemen. Why had the rumors of her survival only started recently? It was as if an announcement had gone out, informing the country of her existence once again.
The Warrior Trainer existed. He knew the truth now. So why did she not intervene in the terror the Four Horsemen caused? Ian opened his mouth to ask her, then closed it. He had not come all this way to involve himself in her choices. Nay, he was here to learn her training secrets, nothing more. He could handle the Four Horsemen himself.
She stopped walking, moving aside to reveal a large area roped off from the rest of the room. A Celtic cross had been painted on the floor. Ropes went everywhere, crisscrossing the area of the cross. Posts connected by ropes stood in the center of each crossing, forming what looked like the inner workings of a spider's web.
"What is this?" he asked.
"You will learn the answer quickly enough." She stepped into the center and pulled the stump of a log with her. "Follow me."
He ducked under the ropes to join her, wondering just how the log fit into their training. Perhaps she had grown tired of besting him with her sword and now meant to whack him with a tree trunk instead. He stifled a smile. He would not put it past her.
Ian raked a hand through his hair. Had his father known what awaited him here? If so, why subject him to this humiliation? Had he not endured enough of that growing up in the shadows of his foster brothers, Malcolm and Griffin? Or was the first secret to learn that he was not as good a warrior as he thought?
"Step on the stump and balance on one foot," she said in a stern tone as she patted the wooden center.
With only a slight hesitation he tried it, thankful the log was to stay on the ground this time. Following her directions, he found his balance by holding his arms away from his sides. "Pray tell me why I am doing this? I feel more like a bird perched on a branch than a warrior preparing for battle."
"That is exactly why. Sometimes a warrior must perch and listen to the sounds around him and be comfortable with himself before he charges forth."
Her words nearly felled him. For a moment he wondered if she teased him, then he remembered she was not the teasing sort. Nay, she was more the sort to torture a man just to see him break than to lighten a situation with humor. Ian scowled at her for what must have been the hundredth time that day. She would not break him—now or ever.
She moved outside the ropes and started for the door. "I shall return when the shadows pass to the opposite side of the chamber. You may switch which foot you balance yourself on, but you may not get down from the log."
"What kind of game is this?"
"It is no game, I assure you."
"I am here to train, not—"
She held up her hand, stopping his words, but not the frustration and fury coiling through him. If the need for revenge did not consume him, and th
e safety of his clan were not so dire, he would leave.
But if he left without her special training, how could he hope to defeat the Four Horsemen and their army? How many others would die? The thought kept his booted foot on the log. But it did not still his tongue. "You have a very strange way of training a warrior."
She looked at him blankly. "This method has worked well over the centuries."
"Your methods are arcane and ridiculous," Ian snapped, his voice hard and flat with frustration. "Perhaps that is why the Four Horsemen have not yet been defeated."
She recoiled as if he had slapped her. Her face paled and pain crept into her wide green eyes. Yet a moment later, she drew a shell of aloofness around her. Without saying a word, she left the room. The click of her bootheels upon the stone floor faded as she went, until only a heavy silence remained.
His words had hurt her, he realized too late. He found no pleasure in the thought.
Ian studied the shadows of the training chamber, trying to ignore the deep ache that had settled in his shaking legs. He had never realized how difficult it was to remain in one position for so long. As Scotia had said, he had become more aware of the silence that surrounded him, accentuating the beat of his own heart. He'd also had plenty of time to consider his cruel statements. She might have bested him with her sword, but he had annihilated her with his words.
The shadows had reached the opposite side of the chamber a while ago, and still she did not come for him. He would have no one to blame but himself if she left him atop the log forever, proving what he had thought all along. His foster father should have ordered Griffin here instead. His foster brother would have been the better choice to lead their clan and save them from the dangers the Four Horsemen posed.
Just then, the soft echo of footsteps sounded and he straightened, intending to prove he had done as she had asked without revealing the strain it had put on his muscles. Ian looked up in expectation as a figure appeared. Only it was not Scotia, he realized with disappointment. It was the stout old woman he had met upon his arrival. Her crusty expression was enough to make him wish Scotia had come back for him instead. Another battle where he ended up on his back he could survive. A lecture from this woman he was not so certain.
The Warrior Trainer Page 3
