The Warrior Trainer

by Gerri Russell

  The man stood statue-still, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword as the early afternoon sun washed the air in gold and gray.

  Scotia drew her sword. A challenger. The telltale glint of victory in his eyes revealed all she needed to know.

  "Are you the mighty Warrior Trainer?” the man asked with a definite French accent.

  "Aye."

  The challenger strode forward onto the castle grounds.

  The whisper of Ian's sword as he released it from the scabbard drew Scotia's gaze. "Halt, Ian. You will not interfere."

  "I shall not allow this challenge to continue."

  "You were leaving last I remember." Scotia brought her gaze back to the foreigner. Beneath the rugged animal pelts he wore as a cloak and laced up over his lower legs she could see he was tall and well-muscled. Strength would give him an advantage, but she still had speed and agility on her side.

  Scotia raised her broadsword in salute. The challenger smiled a gruesome smile and did the same.

  "Are you ready to die so that I may be known as the man who brought the woman warrior down?"

  "Scotia, please." Ian's raw tone cut through the silence.

  Her gaze shifted from her challenger to Ian. His normal reserve had vanished. His eyes pleaded to allow him to help.

  Anger washed over her. He had no right to interfere, not when he had made the decision go. She wished he would turn away and leave the fragile pieces of her resolve intact. "Go, MacKinnon." She let anger fill her voice. She welcomed it; it was a safer emotion than grief.

  "I shall not leave you like this." He nudged his horse forward.

  "You cannot decide my fate any more than I can decide yours." With a nod of her head she signaled for the gatekeeper to lower the portcullis, closing Ian out.

  The rattling of chains broke through the heavy silence.

  Scotia did not have time to watch Ian's reaction as her challenger lunged toward her.

  Maisie held on to one of the little girl's hands and signaled Burke to take the other as they entered the great hall. "Our Scotia may bluster and blow about not needin' a man in her life, but there be no deny in' that nature be takin' its course twixt those two," she said smugly.

  Burke's smiled, but it soon faltered. "Aye. I am glad we were able tae keep Scotia safe, but I wish our people dinna have tae pay the price for that deception."

  "We needed time to allow Scotia to grow up. The clan council understood that. They willingly accepted the devastation the Horsemen would bring to the country in order to keep the Stone of Destiny and Scotia safe."

  Burke's shoulders sagged with weariness. "She would not be pleased with us if she knew."

  "She can never know," Maisie said as a chill raced across her arms. "Deceptions lie down that path that need never be revealed."

  "Tae be sure. And with Ian here now, all will be well," Burke agreed.

  "Ian is leaving," Lizbet broke in abruptly.

  Burke bent at the waist to address her. "What makes ye say that?”

  Lizbet's lower lip began to tremble. "His eyes have the same look my da's did when he left me and ma."

  Maisie shot Burke a startled look. "Leavin'? He canna go." Maisie turned them all around, their hands still clasped together, and pulled them back toward the outside. "We must do somethin'."

  Burke dug in his heels, pulling her back. "Maisie, gather yer wits. Ye know we canna just walk out there and tell him tae stay. Besides, Lizbet could be wrong. We must trust those looks we saw a few moments ago tae bring them back together if he does leave. A man does not look at a woman like that without a reason." Burke's brow came up, and he offered Maisie an engaging smile.

  Maisie felt her cheeks heat at the reminder of the passions that had drawn her and Burke together. Still she hesitated before releasing a heavy sigh. "Yer right," she conceded. " 'Tis just that we've waited so long for this man to come."

  " 'Tis true. But the destiny we've waited for is theirs, not ours. We can help them find each other, but they must make the commitment alone."

  "Ye always were the practical one." She sent Burke an affectionate smile.

  "'Bout time ye admitted that, old girl." He grinned back, and for a moment she could see a trace of the younger man with whom she had fallen in love so many years ago.

  "Best we be off to ask Cook for an apple pastie or two for our young friend here," Maisie said.

  Lizbet frowned. "No pastie. Scotia promised to play with me again after I rested."

  "Are ye certain ye would not rather have a pastie?" Burke worked his lips as though tasting a bittersweet pie already. "Cook's pies are ever so delicious."

  The young girl shook her head. "I want to learn more." Her voice held firm.

  Maisie smiled to herself. "Scotia would've made the same choice at yer age. Let us get ye settled near the hearth for a bit of a nap then."

  But as they went, Maisie's thoughts turned from sword play to sword fights. A sense of foreboding erased any joy she had felt by seeing Ian and Scotia together. Burke was right. Ian would return for Scotia. Then she and Burke could make certain Scotia continued the Warrior Trainer line before the White Horseman discovered that she and the Stone had never left the safety of Glencarron Castle at all, as he had been led to believe.

  A stab of guilt settled in Maisie's breast. There was nothing to be done about what had to happen, guilt or no. She and Burke had to protect Scotia and any future Warrior Trainer, even if that meant forcing her to go into hiding or letting the entire country assume she had died. Twas the only way the Stone would be safe and Scotia's destiny preserved.

  And what of Ian? her guilty conscience asked. Maisie stumbled at the thought, then caught herself, forcing her steps into a slow, steady pattern. 'Twas the destiny Scotia's mother had set up with Abbus MacKinnon. Abbus would send a man who would father Scotia's child by her twenty-fifth year, a man who would willingly sacrifice himself for the protection of his family.

  Maisie's steps grew heavy as she continued on to the hearth, wishing for a sigh, a whisper, a laugh to break the silence that moved all around her and in her heart. How many years had they waited for Ian to come? She pushed away the thought that he had arrived too late. She and Burke had to succeed in their goal, despite the obstacles of the Four Horsemen, Scotia's reluctance to accept her birthright, or Ian's own acceptance of his fate.

  They had to succeed. Or die trying.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The challenging warrior's pompous laugh echoed around Ian as he watched through the iron portcullis, Scotia battle yet another male for her title and her land.

  The scene unfolded before him like a surreal drama. The man had appeared out of nowhere and strode into Scotia's castle as if he had every right to do so. With a wave of his sword, he set a stage where Scotia fought for what was hers by birth.

  Ian's heart thudded as the iron bars clanged into place. Separate and alone, he could only stand by and watch the battle progress. To defend her honor, Scotia would insist on fighting without aid.

  The warrior advanced, dropping his shoulder in an attempt to trick Scotia. The action worked. His sword flicked the top of her wrist above her gauntlets as she parried. A crimson stain spread across her ivory skin.

  Fearing for her safety, Ian kept his gaze riveted on Scotia as he slid off his horse and ran to the gate, clasping the bars between his hands. "Let me in!" He rattled the iron barrier, not bothering to hide the desperation he could feel eating away at his resolve to leave this woman behind him.

  The warrior's sword flashed toward Scotia once more with deadly force. This time she easily parried the move, then spun to the right.

  The warrior countered with a sideways sweep. Again, Scotia anticipated the move. Her broadsword arched up and back, blocking the deadly slice.

  "Haldane was right to send me here. You are a worthy opponent if ever there was one." The warrior grinned.

  Scotia did not respond. She kept her stance low, appraising the warrior's movements. Ian knew from
his own training that she searched for subtle signs of weakness.

  The warrior struck. His shoulder dropped once more. She countered the move even before it registered in Ian's thoughts. She parried and spun away, but this time her sword cut deeply into the upper portion of the warrior's sword arm.

  He gasped in pain, and the smile slipped from his lips. "I shall have your lands and your title." The warrior reacted, his pain and humiliation driving him on. His blade arched toward Scotia in a disemboweling sweep, the thin metal blade whistling a deadly melody.

  Scotia rolled and came to her feet instantly. After three quarters of an hour of intense swordplay, a sheen of perspiration had broken out on her forehead and cheeks. She was tiring. It did not help that she had expended so much energy on the training field that morning.

  Ian noted the slight tipping of her sword with each successive parry. The fight went on endlessly, each warrior looking for an opening, each blocking the other's advance. It was only a matter of time before one of them made a mistake. The blows were mere breaths apart. Metal to metal, life to death.

  Ian had barely finished the thought when the warrior's blade swung wide. Scotia moved inside the opening. With an upward cut she drew her sword across the warrior's lower arm, chest, and cheek.

  The warrior's sword dropped to the ground with a sickening thud. He staggered, then fell in a crumpled heap near his blade.

  Scotia swayed on her feet, but remained standing. The battle was finished. An unreasonable rush of relief shot through Ian. "Scotia," he said through the iron bars that separated them. "You fought well."

  Her gaze lifted to his. Sorrow etched itself across her features and tears pooled in her eyes. "Go away, Ian." She clutched her shoulder as she visibly struggled to keep her composure.

  The sight of her, tired, worn, battered, and miserable, brought an ache to his chest. She hated these challenges, hated them as much as he hated to leave her. "Open the gate, Scotia."

  Ignoring him, she knelt beside her challenger, placing her bloody fingers alongside the man's neck. Poppie shuffled to her side. "He lives," Scotia proclaimed, then stood.

  "What do ye want me to do with the lad?" Poppie asked.

  Scotia turned away from the gate. "Toss him out of my castle along with anyone else who refuses to respect me." She kept her head high, her body tense and erect as she walked away. "I need to rest now, before the next challenger arrives."

  The next challenger. There would be others. He had blinded himself to Scotia's problems in his quest for revenge.

  With a frown, Ian stared after her retreating back. Could he stay and protect her? Did he want to?

  She had made her wishes perfectly clear. Her stiff posture only reinforced what he already knew.

  It was time for him to go.

  Ian spent the rest of the afternoon hoping the distance he put between himself and Scotia would help him forget the naked vulnerability he had seen in her eyes.

  Somehow, it only made him feel worse.

  She was only one woman. Even with her extraordinary talents, how long could she hold off the countless challengers who would come to face her?

  The sense of foreboding he had tried to deny gripped him with full force. He tensed, every nerve raw and exposed. He had allowed his own feelings of unworthiness to color his actions. He had deserted Scotia before she could see into the true nature of his heart—the part of him so many others had found lacking and unlovable.

  Ian reined in his horse at the top of a ridge. He stared unseeing into the distance. If he had been honest with himself, he would have seen before now that the more vulnerable she appeared to him, the more desperate he became to seek his own goals. Ian closed his eyes. Perhaps Griffin had been right during their youth to call Ian a selfish, unfeeling bastard. Because only a heartless man would leave Scotia alone when he knew her life was in as much of a crisis as his own.

  Her confidence had faltered. He had witnessed that painful truth in her eyes when he had found her in her training chamber the day Lizbet had arrived. He had seen the look again later in the chapel. And today, there was no mistaking Scotia's vulnerability after her battle with the foreigner.

  But how could he help? How could he get her to once again embrace the destiny she had been born to? Give her what she needed—men outside her own household to train. Provide her with faithful warriors, and her confidence would reemerge of its own volition.

  Ian looked around. Before him stretched two trails. The southeastern route led to Glenfinnan and the Four Horsemen. The other path led to the western shoreline. From the top of the ridge he could see the small Isle of Rum. His father had always told him if he ever needed help, the Ranald clan of Rum would assist the MacKinnons with their very lives if necessary.

  Ian touched his heels to his horse's side and loped off in the direction of the shoreline. The time had come to put his father's claims to the test.

  For only when he was freed from the pull of Scotia's destiny could he leave her once again to follow his own.

  The late afternoon sun hung low in the sky, lengthening the shadows and casting a warm, spring freshness over the shore and the hills beyond. Ian grasped the edge of the boat he had borrowed to cross the Cullin Sound, then pulled the vessel to rest upon the shore. After tucking the oars inside the boat, he hoisted a boiled leather pouch filled with provisions over his shoulder and set out on foot for the trail leading away from the beach.

  He had no time to waste; the sun would set within the hour. Now that he had made the decision to go back to Scotia, it seemed he had already been gone too long. Not knowing how she fared, or if she remained safe during his absence, stretched each moment into an eternity. Ian wondered whether he would be able to leave her for good after he returned with warriors. For he must. His own goals could wait no longer.

  The men he sought now would provide her sufficient protection, see she remained unharmed regardless of the Four Horsemen's presence in their land. As the sun started to fade into early evening, Ian had almost convinced himself of that.

  He paused to survey his surroundings. He had walked through a sparsely forested area for a time now and had yet to see any signs of a village. A chill rushed through the trees, teasing the exposed skin of his hands and neck and knees. A sure sign that when the sun went down the night would turn cold. Regardless, he would continue on until he found the Ranalds.

  He set off through the trees for a slight rise in the terrain to his left. As evening descended, the noises around him stilled until only the whisper of his footsteps sounded on the soft earth beneath his feet. It was only a brief pause between day and night.

  A branch snapped. Ian froze. The sound came again. He searched the hazy dusk with a growing sense of unease. Something was not quite right. He reached for his sword.

  Looming figures came out of the shadows of the trees to surround him. There were eighteen men to his one. Ian tensed, but did not draw his sword.

  "Are you so eager to die that you refuse to draw your weapon?" the biggest of the men taunted as he swung his sword easily, round and round.

  "I come in peace in search of Douglas Ranald."

  The man's weapon stilled, and a frown came to his face.

  "Who wants to speak to the Ranald?” a gray-haired man asked from behind the others. The men blocking him stepped back, revealing an older man dressed in a mantle of green. His bright blue eyes searched Ian's face with interest.

  "Ian MacKinnon. Son of Abbus MacKinnon. Friend of the Ranalds."

  "How do I know ye speak the truth?" The old man's brows came up as he regarded Ian with a mixture of intrigue and suspicion. "How do we know ye aren't one of the Four Horsemen who's got the mainland up in a fury?"

  "For one thing," Ian said, "I have no horse." He'd left his horse on the mainland, at the shore.

  "Aye," the older man admitted with a bit of a smile.

  "I am here to find men to help fight the Four Horsemen alongside the Warrior Trainer if they should attack her castle."


  "The Warrior Trainer? She is dead."

  "Nay, she is very much alive. I have seen her and trained with her myself."

  "Praise the saints." Relief filled the old man's face for a brief moment before the look shifted, appraising Ian critically. "So yer a MacKinnon." He shook his head. "Ye doona look like a MacKinnon."

  The barb pierced his skin, but Ian clamped his jaw against the slight. He had been treated that way all his life. "Perhaps not, but I am just the same."

  "And ye have proof of yer claim, have ye?"

  Ian's restraint snapped. He needed to get to the Ranald and he would get there through all of these men if he must. He drew his sword, the sound sharp and lethal.

  Instead of fear, amusement reflected in the old man's eyes. "Aye, yer a MacKinnon all right." With a wave of his hand he signaled for the others to drop their swords. "I am the Ranald. Happy I am to greet ye after years of waiting for yer arrival."

  Ian frowned. "What do you mean? How could you know of my purpose here?"

  The man stepped forward to clap Ian on the shoulder. "Yer father warned me years ago there might come a day when ye would need my help."

  Ian narrowed his gaze on the man. "I did not know I would come here myself until a short while ago."

  The Ranald's smile deepened to a grin. " 'Twas foretold by a prophet years past that a MacKinnon would help bring the Warrior Trainer's importance back to Scotland. 'Tis ye who was sent to fulfill that destiny."

  Ian did not understand. "But I am not a MacKinnon by blood."

  "Ye will be what ye want to be, laddie. Yer blood matters little. All men have their calls to duty, just as my clan does now. 'Twould be to our honor and glory to serve the Warrior Trainer with ye." He turned to his men. "And since there'll be no warring this eve, come back to the village with us. We would gladly share all we have with ye this night, then send ye off with men and supplies in the morn."

  "Thank you," Ian said humbly.

  The Ranald turned back to Ian. "Doona thank me yet. Not till we scour our country of these vandals who invade us. Agreed?" The old man held out his hand.