"Why do you pause?" she asked in a tight voice.
"It is difficult to be the one to inflict pain on someone you care about." Yet in order to heal her he must hurt her first.
"You truly care for me?" The shadows that usually haunted her eyes slipped away and radiance filled her. The first true moment of happiness he had seen in her face.
Her fingers crept up the back of his hand, until she wrapped them around the hilt of his dagger. Her touch was both comforting and reassuring. She understood how difficult this was for him. He could see it in her eyes.
She thrust against the dagger.
Ian drew a startled breath at the unexpected motion.
The knife went in. Blood spilled across the tip of the knife, down the blade, until it mingled with their joined fingertips. A surge of gratitude erupted inside him. She had done what he could not. "Thank you," he said with a catch in his voice.
Her hands left his to settle at her sides once more. "Make it quick, Ian." Her voice was barely a whisper. "If I must lose this battle ... at least allow me to keep my wits about me. I feel them ... slipping away."
She closed her eyes and her head lolled against the back of the chair. "Must stay ... in control of my destiny."
Chapter Twenty
Ian sat in a chair near Scotia's bedside in the overly warm room. He had stoked the fire into an intense blaze to keep away the chill that usually hung about the castle. The light of the fire illuminated the woman and small child who slept within a tangle of bed linens. After he had finished sewing Scotia's wounds, she had fallen into a fitful slumber. It was not until Lizbet came to snuggle beside her that Scotia grew calm and relaxed.
Like mother and daughter, they appeared so at ease together. For that one miracle, Ian was grateful. Because Scotia seemed happier now that she had allowed someone other than Maisie and Burke into her heart. Would she allow him the same access? Ian frowned at the thought. He had never been worthy of anyone's love before. What made him think he deserved such a precious gift now, especially from Scotia?
Ian tore his gaze away from her, shifting his attention to the length of cloth in his lap—a gift from the weaver in his village. A plaid of red and green and blue and white. The colors of the MacKinnon, designed by the weaver herself. Almost against his better judgment, his gaze drifted back to Scotia. He should have given the gift to her upon his first arrival, but her dismissal of him had held him back. Why it suddenly seemed urgent he give the gift to her now, he did not know. But it did.
Most likely it was his own guilt over her injuries that made the effort seem vital. At least that was what he told himself as he moved to the bed and spread the cloth across her, tucking the top ends near her face. He brushed his hand against her cheek and allowed his fingers to linger there. Within moments, his tenderness slipped into unease. He pressed his hand closer against her skin. Saints! She burned, and not from the warmth of the room.
"Maisie," he yelled as he reached for a cool wet cloth near the bedside. He kicked off his boots and sat above her in the bed, cradling her head in his lap. Methodically, he sponged her face and neck with his other hand to draw away the heat, leaving a trail of coolness behind.
The door burst open. Maisie panted to a halt at the bedside, her face contorted with worry. "A fever?"
"Aye," he replied without a break in his duty. With gentle fingers, he smoothed the hair back from Scotia's brow. "Please take Lizbet from the room. Then I need you to make me a mixture of peppermint, chamomile, and elder flowers to cool her. It was one of my foster mother's most successful remedies."
Without hesitation Maisie nodded, scooped up the sleeping girl, then hurried out.
Ian returned his gaze to Scotia. As he did, an odd pang flashed through him with such force that he was not even certain what it was.
She appeared so pale and weak wrapped in the cocoon of his plaid. He could see the outline of her slim body beneath the woolen fabric. Soft curves barely hidden from view were so at odds with the well-defined muscles of her legs, arms, and shoulders. This mighty warrior had a fragility not obvious beneath her armor. The thought might have made him smile had it not been for his next observation. Her usually creamy skin was the ashen gray of the dying.
Ian pushed aside his fear. He had no time for such emotions. Not until he knew whether she would live or die. "I shall not lose you, Scotia. I cannot."
The words were spoken with such force that she flinched, as though hearing his plea.
"You will not die," he informed her as desperation gripped him with more brutal force than Scotia's fiercest attack. "Stay with me. Scotland needs you. I need you."
Scotia thrashed against the coverlet. She thrust her arms out, as if holding her sword, fending off the silent attacker she had conjured in her fevered mind.
Ian took her hands in his and brought them to rest on her chest, holding them gently with one hand while he wiped her forehead with the other. "You are safe with me, Scotia. I shall protect you," he crooned near her ear. A brush of his lips grazed the side of her cheek, her forehead, while he continued to whisper soft words and bathe her fever away.
Barely aware of where she was or how she came to be there, Scotia shoved the feather coverlet down to her feet. Her body was on fire. "Water," she moaned through parched lips. The sound was no more than a whisper. She tried again, but no sound came forth, only the heat that left her bathed in sweat. She pushed at the damp ends of her hair, trying to find some coolness anywhere on her overheated flesh.
This is what it must feel like to not make it over the Beltaine Eve fire when leaping the flames—to burn alive. Trapped among the blankets, overwhelming heat coursed from her ankles, over her torso, to her brow in a wave of intensity. Flames licked their way across her injured shoulder, consuming her as they went.
"Water," she tried to speak. When nothing came out, she thrashed against the soft heather tick beneath her, hoping and praying someone would hear her.
A cool, wet cloth pressed against her lips. She sucked at it greedily, relishing the sweetness that bathed her dry throat. The cloth left her lips. She tried to cry out at the loss, but was soon rewarded by its return to her brow as it stroked her fevered skin in a wash of blessed coolness.
The heat lessened, and she found herself relaxing against the damp sheets. The scent of mint pervaded her senses, as did the soft brogue whispering at her ear, gentle words, calming words, words spoken by Ian to quiet her turmoil.
"Hush, sweet warrior. All will be well." He stroked her brow with the cool cloth.
At the tender sound of Ian's voice, a rush of gratitude swept through her. She struggled to open her eyes against the heaviness that invaded her. He brought his head down and kissed her cheeks, first one, then the other. In her whole life no one had ever cared for her with such exquisite tenderness, not even Maisie.
Scotia's eyes drifted shut, seeking respite from her own emotions. But instead of release, memories filled her mind—images of being held by Ian, wrapped in arms of protection and comfort. His voice calling to her over and over, commanding her to stay with him, to fight. Whispering words of encouragement and ... what? What else had he said? She tried to remember, but could not.
She relaxed against the bed. Perhaps if she slept she might remember. And then she wondered why. Why were the words he had spoken important?
If only she could remember.
The purple-black haze of dusk shadowed the land as the White Horseman gave the signal to attack. The Four Horsemen led the charge on their horses while their army followed on foot, spears raised with a fervor that left the very air around them trembling. Over the ridge, they advanced on the unsuspecting village of Inverlochy.
The White Horseman lit his torch. A familiar surge of power raced through his body as he set fire to the first small house, then another, and watched the thatch go up in flames almost instantly. Smoke began to fill the air, and the thunder of footsteps surrounded the village. The cries of terror and rage that sent a thrill throu
gh his blood would come any time now.
He raised his bow, ready to strike at anything that scrambled from within the burning structures, but no one came forth. In fact, no cries of torment sounded from the village at all.
"My lord." One of the foot soldiers ran up to his horse and stopped, pausing to gather his breath before he spoke. "There be no one here."
Anger flared and anticipation faded. "What do you mean?"
The ragged and dirty soldier he had promoted to lieutenant mere days before dropped his gaze to the ground, refusing to meet his superior's eyes. "They are gone, my lord. Abandoned the village."
The White Horseman lowered his crossbow and frowned as night crept across the village now rimmed in a fiery glow. So they think to outsmart us "Check the buildings again," the Horseman growled, disgusted he had been so easily duped by the heathens he sought to destroy. "They must be hiding somewhere."
The lieutenant scurried away to do his bidding. The Horseman pulled back on the reins, sending his horse's front hooves into the air, using the added height to inspect the surroundings for the wretched betrayers.
Nothing.
His horse came back down before prancing in a circle, releasing its agitation at being sorely used. The villagers' absence could mean only one thing: they had known the Four Horsemen were coming. They'd had time to prepare, and instead of fighting, they had chosen to flee.
"Burn the entire village to the ground," the White Horseman bellowed, sending the soldiers near him running to do as he bade.
From the other side of the village, three horsemen appeared from amongst the ash and smoke that drifted heavily about the village.
"This is the third village we have found empty." The Red Horseman halted his horse and sheathed his sword before his battle companions.
"There is nothing here to plunder," the Black Horseman interrupted as he joined the group.
The Green Horseman reined in and turned an accusing eye upon their self-appointed leader. "You are wasting our time. For what purpose? Saving the plum pickings for yourself?"
"Quiet," the White Horseman snarled. "I had nothing to do with these events."
"Why should we believe you?" the Green Horseman countered, his face contorting with anger.
An answering rage flared within the White Horseman as he raised his loaded crossbow, fixing each of his fellow warriors with a gaze that left no doubt about how he would handle such insolence again.
Instead of fear, boredom shone in their faces at the unspoken threat.
"I have had my fill of your threats." The Green Horseman narrowed his gaze. "I have had my fill of your empty promises as well. I do not need you."
"You think you'll succeed in finding the Stone without me?" The White Horseman lowered his bow to rest atop his thigh, reigning in his anger in the face of his men's mutiny.
"Aye." The Green Horseman turned his gaze to the Red and Black Horsemen. "Either of you wish to come with me and head south in search of a village to loot?"
"I'm with you," the Black Horseman replied as he reined his horse alongside the Green Horseman, creating a divide between the four of them. Two stood on the left, two on the right.
The White Horseman shifted his attention to the Red Horseman. "Where does your allegiance fall, with them or with me?"
His gaze darted between the two groups before it came to rest on the White Horseman once more. "With you, as always."
"We shall head north then," the White Horseman replied, barely managing to contain his fury. He clenched his bow in his hand, feeling the wood itch against his palm as he fought the urge to lift and shoot. How dare they break away from him? Forcing the Stone from these lawless heathens had been his idea. The Scots did not deserve such a priceless treasure. The queen of old might have brought it with her to this land, but she was a mere carrier, a transporter of sorts. Only England merited the crowning stone of Scotland's rulers.
And he would be the one to find the Stone. A foul curse left his mouth to mix with the night air now laden with smoke and ash. He should have taken the Stone all those years ago when there had been no doubt about where it had resided. But he had let his lust for a woman override his thinking.
Never again. He hardened his heart against memories of the past. All that mattered was finding the Stone so England could dominate Scotland forever.
Candlelight spilled a golden glow about Scotia's chamber. Ian stretched in his chair next to her bedside, then groaned as every muscle in his body protested the movement. He needed to walk, or to pick up his sword and train. But fear had kept him at Scotia's side through the last three endless and terrifying days.
Leaning forward, he put his hand to her forehead. The fever had abated early yesterday. And still she slept. Ian frowned. He had done everything his foster mother had taught him. Scotia had to do the rest.
He stood and began to pace the room, finding it difficult to contain the restlessness that had overcome him during the night. He would do anything to see that she healed, including stay by her side for three more days, or longer if need be. All that mattered was her recovery. What would he do without her?
He forced the thought deep inside himself. He could not think of that now. She merely needed sleep. She would wake when she was ready, and they would continue their training as usual. He released a dismissive laugh at the thought. "Nothing is ever usual with you, Scotia."
"Ian." Her eyelids fluttered open.
At the sound of her hoarse voice, relief surged through him and he forced back a lump that formed in his throat. He strode to her side. "Scotia," he whispered. He could hardly breathe, his heart pounded so violently. He drew her fingers against his rough cheek. He needed a shave and a bath, but even that had not been enough to lure him away from her side.
She took a deep breath, as if exhausted. "Water."
He reached for the cup that sat near her bedside and helped bring it to her lips. She drank until the cup was empty. "Would you like more?"
She shook her head. "How long have I been asleep?"
"Three days."
Her gaze studied his face. He wished he could hide the weariness that must surely show there. She needed no one else's burdens. She had enough of her own. "Have you been here the whole time?" Her words were slurred.
"Aye." He dragged a hand through his hair, trying to bring it into some sort of order.
She groaned and tried to sit up. "I am feeling better now."
Ian put his hand on her uninjured shoulder and pressed her back down, alarmed at how little effort it took to do so. "Not so fast."
"I am merely tired," she said with a touch of irritation.
She sounded more like her usual self. A smile came to his lips despite the terror that had held him in its grasp and was only now beginning to subside. "Getting out of this bed will only make things worse. Please, just this once, trust me and lie still."
She sighed impatiently. "All right, but I want my armor. All of it."
"Nay." He steeled himself for her reaction. "Not until I am certain your fever has passed and your wounds have healed."
With a frown she tried once again to sit up. This time he let her. He pulled his hand away, but kept it near in case she should falter. Scotia would not believe she could not do something until she tried. One attempt from her would be worth him arguing all day.
She eased herself up on trembling elbows and her face drained of color. Her gaze grew disoriented, then panicked. Her eyes widened and her breathing grew sharp before she collapsed back onto the fluffy heather tick beneath her. "How will I battle like this?" The question sounded as though it had been ripped from the depths of her soul.
"You cannot." Ian took her icy fingers in his once more and held them up to his chest. Even now, the fight had not left her, despite being injured and weak.
Good. That spirit would serve her well as she recovered. The more determined she was to leave this bed, the sooner she would be back to training.
And the sooner he could seek his rev
enge against the Four Horsemen. He had been trying not to think about his need to leave as she lay sick, nearly dying. But now that it appeared she would recover, he could no longer deny his duty to free the country of the villains that threatened them. Maisie would happily tend Scotia. The older woman had tried to relieve him during the three long days of Scotia's recovery, but Ian had refused, wanting to stay near should she need him. Lizbet would be thrilled to have her playmate back. Even Griffin had shown his concern as he checked on Scotia's progress each morning before leading the new men in several of her training routines.
"The others will be pleased to know you are awake."
Ian let go of her hand. He avoided her gaze as he moved to the window to stare out at the moonless night. Should he tell her about the report he had received from her scouts early this morning? The Four Horsemen had changed their advance. Instead of progressing north in their usual fashion, they had done what he had feared most—turned their attack to the south, back toward his village of Kilninian. Back toward his father, his clan, and his home.
His body tensed, muscle by muscle, in a combination of fury and pain. He would have to leave soon if he were to stop the Four Horsemen before they endangered his clan. But leaving Glencarron Castle would mean leaving Scotia, possibly forever if the battle did not go in his favor.
"Ian," she called from the bed in a weak voice. "What is wrong?"
He drew a steadying breath, then turned to face her, offering her a reassuring smile he did not feel. He should tell her the truth. She deserved to know what had happened. He studied her face. Exhaustion clouded her eyes, but did not hide the spark of vibrancy that always seemed to shimmer just beneath the surface of her being. She would fight them even now, despite her own weakened state. If he told her about the Horsemen, she would leave this chamber to fight them. And without a doubt, she would die.
The Warrior Trainer Page 15
