Leather cross-garters held her cuisses against her legs and peeked out from beneath the hem of a red skirt that skimmed the tops of her shapely thighs. An image of smooth, creamy thighs filled his mind. Underneath all that armor existed a woman who had no idea how enticing she was.
Ian bit back a groan and tore his gaze away. What was he thinking? Perhaps that bash he had taken on the head had rattled his brains more than he had realized.
He could appreciate her looks all he wanted as long as he did so from afar—from the end of a sword, preferably. That would at least remind him of why he was here. The last thing he needed was to complicate his life. It was best if he kept his fantasies to himself, focused on his training, then left to exact his revenge on the Four Horsemen, who had altered his life for the last time.
Scotia felt Ian's gaze upon her. He was supposed to observe her motions, then join her in the training cross. But his gaze was nowhere near her sword, and he had yet to imitate what she had shown him thus far.
"Have you finished watching me practice, or would you care to rest some more before you begin?" She could not hide the touch of irritation that laced her voice. His blatant observation left her off-balance and uncomfortable.
Ian drew his sword. "I could watch you forever."
The husky baritone of his voice warmed her. She knew he meant he could watch her wield a sword forever. "You will do fifteen repetitions through the ropes, advancing, then retreating."
"With no opponent?" He offered her an innocent smile.
"Use your imagination. That is, if you have one."
His smile shifted from innocent to playful. "I assure you I do." He lunged forward against his unseen enemy, but his gaze remained on her, assessing her as he moved.
She turned away from his verbal sparring and those distracting eyes. She drew a slow, shaky breath, trying to still the rapid beat of her heart. What was happening to her? Before Ian had come to Loch Glencarron she had cared not a whit how people looked at her or spoke to her. She rarely exchanged a civil word with her challengers before they attacked. As the Warrior Trainer, she expected nothing more.
Yet when she was around Ian, the sound of his voice did things to her insides, and his gaze made her feel...soft. Nay, that was not it exactly. He made her feel feminine and more aware of her own sexuality than she ever had before.
That realization struck terror in her heart such as no warrior ever had before. Her only purpose as a female was to breed the next descendant in her lineage. And as her mother always told her, it was an act that would give her no pleasure.
Her hand flared across her womb. A moment of longing pulled at her. What would it be like to feel a child growing inside her? To be free to raise that child with no destiny or obligations to fulfill? Her hand fell to her side. That kind of freedom was not to be for her or for any daughter she might produce. Scotia pulled the edge of her brigandine back into place. With a sigh, she turned to face her student, for she must only think of him as such.
Ian stilled, allowing the tip of his sword to dip to the ground. Concern flooded his gaze. He left the training cross and came toward her. "Are you ill?"
His genuine concern caught her off guard. None but Maisie had ever thought she might require care or gentleness. She managed to absorb the odd sensations that knotted her stomach. "It is time to battle. If you can apply the skills I taught you this morn, who knows?" She shrugged, forcing a nonchalance she did not feel. "Perhaps you will best me this day." She could feel his focus intensify.
"And when I do finally best you?" he prompted softly.
"It is highly unlikely." She opened her mouth to continue, but he laid one callused finger against her lips.
"I do love a challenge." He traced the sensitive outline of her lips with his finger, moving slowly across the top, then the bottom.
Her mouth tingled. She fought the urge to press against his touch. No man had ever touched her thusly. Saints alive, it was a pleasurable feeling indeed. One she was not certain she wanted to stop.
"Shall we begin?" he asked as he drew his finger away. "Aye," she breathed and brought up her sword, suddenly determined to win this fight at all costs.
"Did ye see the way he touched her lips? Did ye?" Burke whispered from behind the doorway to Scotia's training chamber. "Ye were right, old girl. Our betrayal of Scotia's existence and location seems tae have worked. It prompted Abbus MacKinnon tae do as Scotia's mother bid him so many years ago."
"Aye." Maisie clutched Burke's shoulder affectionately. "He's sent Scotia a man worthy of fathering her child."
Scotia would give herself over to the man. Of that, Maisie was certain.
What the young couple needed was time, and a little encouragement to set in motion the event neither of them could deny. And Maisie knew just how to accomplish that Herculean task.
"Come, Burke. There's work to be done."
Chapter Seven
The sword came within an inch of separating Ian from his right ear. But he shifted his stance just in time. Scotia grinned, pleased that he was doing so well.
Over the last five days, Ian and Scotia had developed a routine. Scotia worked with him individually in the morning hours. After the midday meal and a short rest, she tossed him into the lists with her men to practice what he had learned.
Scotia stood a short distance away from her pupil as he engaged her best warrior in a rigorous session of sword- play. Richard had just returned to the keep that morning with news of the Four Horsemen's latest conquest in the village of Banavie. He reported that he and his troops had interceded in the battle fray, sparing many lives with their efforts.
A small blessing among so much destruction. Yet it was one blessing she was grateful for if it kept her people alive. If only they would come to her to train, as they used to during her mother's reign as the Trainer.
Scotia pulled the edge of her brigandine down with a sharp tug. That line of thinking would accomplish nothing. With an effort, she turned her thoughts to the two warriors before her.
Richard charged Ian again. A clash of metal reverberated through the air as Ian met the thrust with one of his own, then twisted upwards and sideways, taking his opponent off-balance, then down to the ground. It was a move she had taught him. "Well done," she said.
Ian responded with a smile. Not just any smile. An arresting smile. A disarming smile. One that made her legs feel less than steady. No one had ever smiled at her like that before.
Ian offered Richard a hand up, then strode to Scotia, his smile shifting to something less about mirth and more about... what? She had no word for it, but some part of her admitted she was intrigued. She tried to look away, but failed. Saints alive, he unsettled her.
"Who am I to battle next? Or will I be subject to more of your abuse instead?" he teased.
"The abuse would be against me, I fear... you and your barbaric thrusts."
The look in his eyes shifted from playful to something more intense. "I can be gentle when needed, Scotia. I promise you that."
The intensity of his gaze mixed with the subtlety of his words and brought a slight trembling to her hands. She fumbled for the hilt of her sword, not intending to use it, merely needing the security of the smooth cold metal beneath her palms. Her sword steadied her. "We are done here today."
"With which battle, Scotia?" he asked, his brow rising in question. "The one with swords or the one with words?"
Heat flooded her cheeks. Again, he caught her off guard. "Maisie has prepared a surprise for us all in celebration of Beltaine Eve," she said, trying to change the subject.
He took a step closer. "We used to call Beltaine Eve the 'fire madness' in our clan."
She forced herself to remain where she stood despite the fact his nearness played havoc with her concentration. She gripped her sword all the harder. She needed to think about warfare, not the taut muscles she could see through his sweat-dampened linen shirt.
She tried to look away, but failed. Aye, it was madness indeed
that had her in its grip. Why could she not control herself around him? Things like this had never happened to her before he had arrived. With an effort, she ripped her gaze from his chest. Distractions could cost you your life, came her mother's admonishing whisper in her head.
Scotia took two steps back, putting some distance between them. And for the first time, she considered her mother might have been wrong about one thing. It was not her life she was in jeopardy of losing to this man. It was her sanity.
"I shall see you this eve." Then, without another word, she strode for the safety of the keep, knowing as she did that he had won the battle of words between them this day.
As Scotia gazed upon the enormous Beltaine Eve fire that had been set in a pit in the inner bailey, she could not help but agree that this was indeed ‘fire madness.’ Darkness mixed with moonlight, bathing the celebration area in a silver glow broken only by the red-gold fingers of flame that danced toward the sky. The wind carried the musical strains of the bagpipes across the night, blending the sound of music with voices. The kitchen maids and stable hands mingled about the fire alongside the warriors and their squires, the archers and hunters. Nearby tables groaned beneath the abundance of ale, oat cakes, cheese, and creamy custard.
Pennants atop poles draped with long ribbons and garlands of mountain ash transformed the area where she usually trained her warriors into a haven of magic. And Beltaine Eve was magical—a night where all who participated could forget who they were as they welcomed the arrival of summer along with the hope of a good harvest and prosperity for all.
For a moment her spirits dampened. Their prosperity— their very future—depended on her plans to outmaneuver the Four Horsemen, but she forced the somber thought away. Tonight nothing mattered but Beltaine Eve. Their country was in chaos because of the Four Horsemen. Festivities such as Beltaine Eve bonded her people to their heritage and made the struggles of life seem a little more bearable.
Scotia closed her eyes and drew a deep breath of the heavy night air, allowing the music and the magic of the evening to bewitch her, swaying with the rhythm and cadence of the pipers' song. She opened her eyes and gazed upon the Beltaine Eve fire.
She caught his scent a second before he slid silently next to her with that oddly dizzying aroma of mint and musk. "Welcome to the madness," he said as he placed a wreath of mountain ash atop her head. "Perfect. Now the Queen of the May looks the part."
Scotia steeled herself against her instinct to reach up and pull the flowers down. Having flowers in the place where a helmet should be felt wrong. The soft petals caressed her skin, taunting her own perception as a hardened warrior. Warriors did not wreath themselves in flowers. Did they?
Her people seemed to think so, for they gave a raucous cheer, "Long live Queen Scotia." The pipers took the cheer as a cue to play a lively tune that set the crowd to dancing about the fire.
Scotia took a step back, moving out of the way as the crowd circled the fire, first dancing to the left, then shifting to the right. Ian remained beside her, pulling her into the intimacy of the shadows.
"Care to join in?" Ian asked.
She shook her head, the flowers shifting, threatening to slide from their perch. Ian was there, his hand caressing the side of her head as he repositioned the wreath.
His hand trailed along the curve of her cheek down to her chin, then up, until his fingers caressed her lower lip.
His hand stilled there and the light in his eyes shifted. To what? Boldness? Desire?
Beneath his scrutiny her mouth went dry—as dry as the kindling that snapped in the fire before them. Or was the fire inside her now? For she was suddenly too warm beneath her heavy armor.
"I need some cool air." She spun away, using any excuse to escape her own response to his presence. She could feel Ian's gaze follow her away from the fire.
Scotia watched Maisie dance with Burke, and her kitchen maid, Mary, swirl flirtatiously around a stable boy named Jacob. Nearby, Richard and several of the other warriors drank from mugs of ale as they cheered on the dancers, laughing at the revelry displayed by the others.
For Scotia, safety existed in the shadows. In the shadows she might somehow hide the unsettling sensations her new student brought out in her. She drew in a deep breath of the night air and allowed the skirl of the bagpipes to wrap her in sound, feeling more at ease.
After several songs, the pipers took a break and the dancing subsided. "Time to decide who will jump the Beltaine Eve flames," one of her warriors called. To leap across the fire three times was a custom as old as Beltaine Eve itself.
Maisie moved to the food table and carefully broke the oat cakes into as many portions as there were people to celebrate. She placed the portions in a bonnet.
Burke carried one portion to the fire and set it amongst the coals until it burned black. When the task was complete, he removed it with an iron spoon, then waited for it to cool before placing it in the bonnet with the other pieces.
The revelers surged toward Maisie and Burke, eager to play the game. One by one they plunged their hands into the bonnet. Each unburned cake that came forth drew either a relieved sigh or a groan of disappointment.
Ian stepped forward to draw his lot—the black cake. For a moment he stared down at the black coal in his hand, tension vibrating in his lean figure.
"I shall accept the black cake," Scotia said, emerging from the shadows. Last year's celebration had badly burned one of her warrior's legs. Ian did not deserve such a dangerous fate. "As a visitor, Ian should not be subjected to our Beltaine Eve customs."
His expression betrayed a momentary flash of insult. "I am up to the challenge."
Before Scotia could say more, the crowd cheered, "To the King of the May."
They lifted Ian onto their shoulders and paraded him around the fire. A moment later she found herself hoisted aloft as well, joining the parade. "To our king and queen.” The cheer was met with laughter as the wild, spirited strains of the pipers began again.
A warm exhilaration came over Scotia as she and Ian found themselves parted by the merrymakers, then thrust side-by-side. Excitement bubbled up, but not just from the frolicking. Nay, it was the way Ian looked at her. The way the stiffness slipped from his gaze to be replaced by something darker, more sensual. And a responding honeyed heat flared within her. And for the second time in two days, Scotia wanted to participate, to indulge the urge to relax, to be free to experience this moment as fully as others might.
Ian reached for her hand, and before she could consider what she did, his fingers wrapped around hers. The warmth of his palm burned through the leather of her gauntlet as though she wore no protection at all.
She and Ian were twirled about by the crowd, hands joined. The flames of the bonfire blurred before her eyes and the sounds of the pipers echoed not only in her ears but also in her heart and body until the sound of the crowd and the music died away as her senses focused only on Ian.
They were lowered to the ground, standing before the fire. For one long second he looked down at her, the moonlight outlining the planes of his face, of his lean muscular body, before he took a step closer, creating a startling intimacy.
He was so close, too close, and yet not close enough. What was it about this man that captivated her so? Was it the liberties he took with her that no one else did? He had placed the flowers on her head when no one else would have dared. He had touched her lips. He had taken her hand, not in battle, but with a gentleness she had not experienced before.
With his large hand wrapped around her smaller one, she felt no loss of strength, but there was a shift, a shift she could not quite name.
As if reading her thoughts, his gaze moved to her hand and his fingers folded around the leather encasing her palm. "Your hands are warm."
Not just warm, for suddenly they felt as though they were melting at his touch. She could only watch as he lifted her hand, turning it palm up. He stroked his thumb across the well-worn leather. She inhaled sharply.
He stopped, his gaze searching her face. "May I take it off?"
"I never ...," she said quickly, seizing wildly at the excuse she had always given before, but the words died in her throat at the return of his sensuous smile.
"Never?" His fingers unbuckled her gauntlet, then let it fall to the ground. Calloused flesh covered her palm and scars of abuse lined the back of her hand from all her years of training. They were the hands of a warrior, proving she was no real Queen of the May. She tensed as the thought. "So strong yet so feminine," Ian said with a touch of awe, as if not seeing what was truly there.
Scotia swallowed against the sudden tightness in her throat. Feminine. There was nothing feminine about her. But the way Ian smoothed his fingers over the roughened texture of her palm, as though her skin were as smooth and unmarred as other women's flesh, made her feel soft. Soft?
She tried to pull away, but he held tight. "It was not an insult, only an observation."
An observation she had never allowed herself to pursue. Ian's fingers stroked her palm, her wrist, her forearm. She watched, fascinated by the strangely seductive exploration of her flesh.
His touch brought excitement, heat, hunger.
A chant of "jump, jump, jump," mirrored the beating of her heartbeat. And in that moment the crowd pulled him away, turning him toward the ravenous flames. "Show us how it's done, mighty King of the May."
Ian shooed the crowd away, gaining himself some space as he took several steps back. His body coiled, but before he ran toward the flames he spared one last glance for her—a glance that said he did this for her and her alone.
Scotia held her breath as he leapt over the enormous fire, high above the flames. A second jump, then a third, and a cheer broke out from the crowd. "The king is triumphant!"
The Warrior Trainer Page 5
