"Ye're free to leave."
"I beg your pardon?" Ian asked, expecting something much worse.
"The mistress sent me to tell ye to go home."
She could not make herself any clearer. He had been dismissed. Ian jumped down from the log, less steady on his feet than he would have liked. "What about the training?"
" ‘Tis obvious ye find any trainin' a waste of yer time." She gave him a hard look.
Ian met her gaze. He deserved her contempt and more for acting the part of a brutish fool. He did not want to leave, he realized suddenly; not until he had completed what his foster father had set out before him. "I wish to train." He would not give up now, not when he had already suffered through humiliation and defeat.
The older woman's eyes narrowed. "My lady could send ye to yer maker before ye could even begin to defend yerself."
"Aye." He dipped his head in true remorse.
"She would not hesitate to do so if ye insult her thusly again."
"Agreed."
"I'll talk to her on yer account." She relaxed her rigid posture. "Life has been hard for Scotia since her mother's death many years ago. I beg ye not to make things any worse."
"I give you my word, I shall cause her no further trouble," Ian pledged in a solemn tone.
The woman nodded. "See that ye doona or ye'll have cause to regret it."
Chapter Five
Scotia sat at the head table in the great hall as the rest of her household gathered around her for their evening meal. The hum of voices usually calmed her. This eve it had no such effect. An empty trencher sat on the table beside her, an unnecessary reminder that her guest had chosen to remain in his chamber alone, despite the fact he had asked Maisie to stay so he could continue his training.
With a nod of her head, Scotia set the meal in motion. Burke shouted orders at the scullery maids. Moments later, the fragrance of roasted chickens and onions permeated the hall as serving trays were brought forth and trenchers were filled.
Scotia stared down at her chicken leg surrounded by turnips and onions and realized she had no stomach for food. No doubt due to the MacKinnon.
Her gaze shifted to the empty chair beside her. Your methods are arcane and ridiculous. The words still stung. She should be glad at his absence, and yet she could not argue that what he had said had a spark of truth. The training methods she had shown him earlier were arcane, but they were not ridiculous. She ripped off a section of bread from the corner of her trencher, reducing it to a pile of crumbs.
What would he think of the new techniques she had created over the last five years? Dexterity, she had found, was at least as important as strength when battling. For some time now she had wanted to share her newfound knowledge with someone other than the members of her own army, but no one from the clans had come to train.
Until the MacKinnon.
A murmur of noise brought her attention to the back of the room. He had decided to come down for supper after all. He strode toward her table as though her thoughts had summoned him forth. Unbidden pleasure rippled through her. He had changed his clothing to a simple muslin shirt that laced up the front of his broad chest. Fawn-colored trews encased his legs, revealing muscular thighs that had been hidden beneath the pleats of his plaid. Damp tendrils of pale blond hair fell forward across his brow.
"Forgive my tardiness." He greeted her with a slight nod of his head. "A bath seemed appropriate after our battles this day. May I join you?” he asked, his tone sincere.
Unable to reconcile the change in him, she nodded. His manners had been barbaric and gruff before, but no longer. He took his place beside her with the charm and refinement of a lord. Scotia could not wrestle her gaze from his clean-shaven cheeks or the sight of his damp hair as it curled against the nape of his muscular neck. He had bathed before joining her. Most men would not have bothered.
Oblivious to her appraisal, he filled his trencher with half a chicken, several helpings of vegetables, two apples, a generous slice of cheese and two fruit tarts. He spared her not a glance as he tore off a hunk of chicken and popped it into his mouth. His eyes drifted closed as he chewed. "All that training has left me famished," he managed between bites.
With an effort, Scotia forced herself to gaze out among the occupants of her hall. Why would he not meet her eyes? Did he harbor resentment that she had defeated him?
She bristled at the direction of her thoughts. Did she care if he did? Her responsibility was to train him, not care what he thought of her.
From beneath lowered lashes she studied him. The MacKinnon continued to eat his meal, at the exclusion of all else, appearing more like a man who had gone days without food than a warrior with wounded pride.
Scotia frowned. Never had she met such a complete puzzle of a man.
When only bones remained on his trencher, he gulped two mugs of wine, then pushed back from the table with a contented sigh.
"Are you quite done?" she could not help but ask, feeling somewhat irritated that he had bathed before coming to dine with her, then managed to ignore her entirely while he ate.
"It was delicious. Thank you." He offered her a smile that brought out a tiny dimple on the left side of his cheek.
Somehow that tiny indentation added to his allure and increased her irritation.
His gaze dropped to her food. "Are you not hungry?”
She eyed the demolished bread. "Nay."
His expression grew somber. "If I am the reason for your lack of appetite, I apologize. I had no right to say what I did."
She dismissed his apology with a gesture of her hand. "You were correct."
"About what?" He leaned toward her and her heart beat a little faster. He smelled of mint and musk, the combination fresh and complex.
Disconcerted, she shifted to the far side of her chair. "I trained you today the way my mother taught me. If you still wish to train, we will approach things differently. I have information about the Four Horsemen, their strengths and weaknesses, that I shall teach you. I also know less 'arcane' ways of training that I have yet to reveal."
"Information about the Four Horsemen?" A dark expression crossed his face, then vanished. "That is why I came to you."
Scotia did not know whether his response pleased or worried her.
"Then we shall get started right away." He pushed his chair back, but she stalled him with her hand.
"We have had enough of battles for one day."
He froze, and for a moment she thought he might refuse, but he relaxed. "Agreed. Besides, it seems your people have other plans for this evening's entertainment." He nodded to the musicians who entered the hall just then, sending a sparkling refrain of music through the murmur of voices. A hush settled across the room as a dulcimer, a bagpipe, a lute, and a harp chimed a steady beat. A cheer arose. In an instant, the tables were cleared and pushed back, making room for dancers.
Two lines formed. Men and women joined in pairs. Even Maisie reached for Burke, parading him into the fray. Scotia leaned back in her chair and watched, as she had for years, though she could not still the light tapping of her foot beneath the table. She liked to dance, had often done so as a small girl. But things were different now. She had an image to maintain as a warrior first and a woman last. She sighed at the falsehood. It was not that she should not dance, it was more a fact that she could not dance and still be on guard against those who would challenge her.
"Dance with me, Scotia." The MacKinnon held out his hand.
She shook her head. Such spontaneous adventures were not for her. She must keep her guard up, her defenses sharp.
"Then you cannot dance?"
"I can," she said, crossing her arms over her armored chest. "Armor tends to make things a bit more difficult."
"You could take it off." He offered her a smile that brought his dimple out once more.
Scotia scowled at him. "Never."
"Then you must learn to dance with it on."
Giving her no time to object, he
grasped her arm and hauled her from her chair and into the ring of dancers, locking his arm through hers. She knew she should dig in her heels and stop him, but she did not. Instead, she allowed him to pull her forward, sending her into a spin as though she were dressed in gossamer cloth instead of the heavy metal and boiled leather that gave her as much bulk as it did protection.
The men and women of her household stared at her with open grins and their faces lit up with surprise and merriment. Cook nodded her encouragement. Her huntsman clapped his hands and shouted a rousing "For the mistress!" that was soon taken up in a cheer by all.
Scotia's cheeks warmed, but she decided she did not care. For the moment she was dancing like all the other women of her household. She was dancing! And with the most handsome man in the great hall as her partner.
The room spun by in a whirl of colors. She closed her eyes and let joy flood her spirit. She felt the heat of the MacKinnon's presence as he took her arm in a promenade. It had been so long since she had experienced even a moment's pleasure. She let the rhythm of the music move through her swaying body. A swirl of air caused by the dancers brushed against her fevered cheeks. What other delights had she missed by sitting back and merely watching others live? She had spent the whole of her existence concentrating on warring and protecting the Stone.
The thought slowed her steps. She opened her eyes. Guarding the Stone was the reason for her existence. Training warriors came second. Her feet suddenly felt weighted.
It was then that she noticed Maisie hovering nearby, grinning at her with a calm, knowing smile. Scotia froze even as the dancers continued to swirl around her. The MacKinnon stopped dancing as well. A puzzled look crossed his face.
What had she done? She tugged down the edge of her brigandine with an unsteady hand, then winced as the metal cut into her shoulder. How could she have allowed this man to break through the barriers she had so carefully erected since her childhood? He made her think about things she did not want to consider.
She was a trainer of warriors. She had no right to enjoyment, or pleasure, or most of all romance. How could she have allowed her own ridiculous notions about dancing make her lose sight of her purpose? Her life was about fighting and warring, not about finding enjoyment in the arms of a man.
And she had enjoyed herself, she realized with a sinking heart—enjoyed this dance with the MacKinnon very much.
"Had your fill of dancing already he asked, joining her, somewhat breathless from the dance.
She dipped her head to avoid his gaze. "I must leave this room."
He nodded, and with a hand on her arm led her through the dancers, out of the castle, and into the bailey, where the soft strains of music followed. Silver streaks of moonlight spilled across the pebbled courtyard, providing the privacy Scotia needed to regain her composure. She pulled away from his touch and pressed her hands to her heated cheeks. Longings that she had kept trapped inside her for so long rushed forth as though she had never managed to suppress them at all. Why? Was the man standing before her the reason? Or had Maisie's reminder of her obligations bothered her more than she had thought?
Scotia drew in a measured breath and caught the heady scent of musk from the MacKinnon as it mingled with the night air.
"You dance well." His voice was light.
"Well enough for a trainer of warriors." She stepped away from him, putting some distance between herself and that intoxicating male scent. She must think like a warrior, be a warrior. She gripped the hilt of her sword until the corded metal bit into her flesh. Her sword always reminded her of her purpose.
"You might be a warrior, Scotia, but you are also a woman."
She rounded on him, sword drawn. "I am no woman."
"Nay?" He raised his brow in question. "That is not what I see. You are beautiful." The corner of his mouth drew up in a half smile. His dimple winked at her again.
"That matters not," she said, uncertain how to react. No one had ever told her she was anything other than a warrior. How could he think she was beautiful, dressed as she was in leather and iron? "What matters is your training."
She drew herself up. A new, even more lethal battle had taken hold of her, she realized with a start. The battle with herself against her own attraction to this man. Maisie was right after all. Mother Nature's lure was strong. In order to win this battle, her defenses must be stronger.
Scotia tightened her grasp, once again feeling the metal of her sword press into her palm. With a grunt of disgust at her behavior, she waved the tip of her weapon close to his chest.
He gave a harsh bark of laughter. "I am not afraid of you, Scotia."
"You should be." She glared at him in the darkness. "We will begin again at sunrise," she said before striding away.
Chapter Six
Ian leaned against the cold stone wall in Scotia's training chamber the next morning, hoping the chill would keep his mind on warring, on battle, and not on the beauty before him.
With surprise and alarm he watched Scotia brandish her sword against her imaginary partner. He had spent the better part of the night contemplating the ceiling of his bedchamber, seized by madness. It was the only explanation. Why else would he forget his purpose here at this castle? Because last night he had. He had seen the light tapping of her booted toe as the music started, had noted the look of longing that filled her eyes. And he had done the unthinkable. The moment he folded his hand around hers, all thoughts of revenge against the Four Horsemen had fled from his mind, replaced by the need to see her smile.
She had looked enchanting swirling about the hall. For a moment, the shadows that filled her gaze had disappeared. And although she had not smiled, a joy he felt certain she rarely experienced had radiated from her.
After the previous day's training, he now realized the woman's skills with a sword far exceeded his own. He had no choice but to accept the fact. He had claimed he would not humble himself before her again, but he already had—every time he found himself on his back staring up at her sword. He would do so again today in order to learn how to fight with the same agility she now displayed. He would do anything to gain the knowledge he needed to defeat the Four Horsemen.
Faint morning light forced its way through the windows above, spilling a hazy light about the room. "You are paying me no heed." Scotia scowled at him from inside the weblike network of ropes that made up her training cross.
"Aye, but I am." Ian tried to look away from the trap of her green eyes, tried to look anywhere but at her. Yet he could not. Her movements captivated him and held him in her grip. Like a lithe cat, she wove her body first over, then under the web of ropes arranged at different heights. Her sword rose and fell as she went through the training routine she had set forth for him.
Her movements were tightly controlled, graceful and elegant despite her heavy armor. Movements he had never seen before. Her actions held not only strength, but a power he had not witnessed in any other woman. He saw something else in her features this morning as well—something that had not been present last night. Loneliness.
Ian folded his arms over his chest and studied her closely. How long had she been in charge of this keep and in the role of Warrior Trainer? Maisie had said Scotia's mother had died many years ago. Had her father as well?
Scotia performed the intricate steps moving her way through a timeless dance. He could see the outline of the well-honed muscles in her arms and legs. And though she appeared stronger than any woman he had ever met, a softness, a suppleness, was evident in her body as well.
Feminine strength—an alluring combination. He found himself snagged by the sight before him, drawing in a breath with each lift and extension of her sword, then exhaling as her shoulders dipped, bringing the blade down, protecting her chest from exposure to an enemy sword. His heart pulsed as her blade flashed upward in a fluid, confident stroke better than any he'd seen. Her eyes showed no fear, betrayed no vulnerability. Yet what he glimpsed in their depths gave him pause. Her face looked a sc
ore and five but her eyes spoke of twice that age.
"How long have you been in charge here?"
She continued her movements, only a slight hesitation on her upswing proving she had heard his question. "We are here to train, not talk."
Her unwillingness to answer only brought more questions to mind. What in her past had left such a scar that she cut herself off from the people around her? The members of her household cared greatly for her. He had seen proof of that last night. She might have blocked out the encouraging looks others had thrown her way, but he had not. Had she once been free of responsibilities? Did the burdens of her role rest even more heavily upon her because she had once known the lightness of being free? Was that what brought the current shadows to her beautiful green eyes?
What was it about her that made him care? He had to admit he admired her dedication to her craft. But it was more than appreciation that drew his gaze to her lips over and over again. Lips that were generous and full. Kissable. The word formed in his mind before he could stop it, and an answering warmth flared in his loins. He would not mind kissing her at all.
Kissing her?
Ian shook his somewhat cloudy head and tried without success to pull his gaze from her mouth. He was here to train, to focus on his revenge, not to find pleasure.
Besides, the woman would most likely eat him alive before she allowed him the opportunity to kiss her. And yet, such an attempt might be worth the risk. For he was certain if she ever gave herself over to such emotion she would embrace it with the same intensity with which she fought.
At the thought, arousal roared through him. He gave up trying to look away and continued his exploration. The formed metal plates of her brigandine were no doubt meant to conceal the soft flare of her breasts and hips. They only accentuated them, though. Yet no one could say her soft curves lessened her image as a dangerous warrior. Nay, if anything she appeared even more powerful, leaving no doubt that her family carried a warrior's bloodline in its veins.
The Warrior Trainer Page 4
