The Warrior Trainer

by Gerri Russell

  A crease furrowed her brow. "Ian?"

  He set his jaw, remaining silent. She would want nothing to do with him when she learned he had withheld the truth. But what did it matter? Despite the fantasies and longings he had given free rein while she recovered, he had no future with this woman. His life had one purpose and one purpose alone: to kill the White Horseman.

  Since Malcolm's death it had seemed enough of a goal, finally giving the purpose of his life with the MacKinnons a focus. Revenge against the murderer of his brother seemed a fitting tribute to all Abbus MacKinnon had done for him. He had put his heart and soul into that end. Nothing else had mattered—until Scotia had entered his life and thoughts of warring had turned to thoughts of touching her, holding her, feeling the beat of her heart next to his.

  He turned his gaze away from her, away from the look of concern in her eyes. He clenched his fists, trying to control the twist of pain in his chest. God help him, with one simple look she could slice right through years of hardened resistance he had created around his heart.

  She touched a part of him he never knew existed, and wished now he had never discovered. It would make his destiny that much harder to fulfill. But he would do it; he had no other choice. He would stay only until he was certain she regained her strength, another day or two at the most.

  Scotia had her own obligations to fulfill. She needed to bear a female child to carry on her lineage. When he left, perhaps she would open herself and her heart to one of the new warriors he had brought with him. The twist in his chest tightened until he could bear it no longer. "I must go," he announced as he hastened from the room, leaving a startled Scotia in his wake.

  Once in the hallway he leaned against the stone wall, allowing the cold to seep inside him, praying it would act as a balm to the purgatory he had created in his own mind. He should not care if Scotia took another man into her arms. He should not care, but he did. Ian stared into the unlit corridor, seeing nothing but a depth of darkness that truly mirrored his soul. He could not remember a time when he had been more miserable, despite the torment of his childhood. That seemed a mere bump in his path compared to now.

  His destiny left him no choice but to leave. To think he had any other option would be disastrous for them all.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  "What are you hiding from me?' Scotia demanded. She sat on the edge of the bed, where she had been a prisoner to bouts of sleep and wakefulness for the past two days. She was feeling stronger now and ready to get back to training. "I can see that something is going on just by looking out my window. The men you brought are training with a force that speaks of some known peril."

  Something was wrong. She could see the evidence written into the very texture of Ian's face. His eyes bespoke danger, just as the tension in his shoulders and along his chin warned of a heaviness that threat brought to him, or herself, or her people.

  Maisie and Burke had both been to see her, yet she had been unable to wrest any information from them, either. "If Ian has somethin' to tell ye, he will do it in his own time," Maisie had said, to Scotia's growing irritation.

  She gritted her teeth, trying to hold on to the anger that offered her some safeguard against him. Why would he not confide in her? "Tell me or I shall leave this room to find out for myself. I would go now if I could but find my clothing."

  "You are still too weak."

  "That is your opinion." She straightened her shoulders and tried to show him how much stronger she felt. "Where are my armor and my sword? And why are there guards at my door?"

  "The guards are there for your protection," Ian said. "They are keeping unwanted visitors out. It is for your safety alone that they stand near."

  She knew he had posted the guards to keep her safe. That was not what had irritated her so. It was the knowledge that she could not defend herself if someone came to challenge her, or even help Ian against the unspoken dangers she read in his eyes. The Four Horsemen had to be the reason why he held back information from her. No doubt he thought he was protecting her, but her whole life had been spent training for the coming conflict with her enemy.

  "I shall not be confined to this bed forever." She started to stand, but thought better of it when her legs wobbled beneath her. Scotia sighed in frustration. Best to stay seated and argue her point.

  To her annoyance, Ian smiled. He had noticed her attempt to stand. "You may leave any time. No one is holding you here." He stood near the window, and occasionally shifted his gaze to the hills and vales beyond her land.

  She gritted her teeth and tried to gain her feet once again. If she tried hard enough, she might be able to overcome her fatigue and the trembling of her limbs. "I need my armor and my sword," she gasped as her legs weakened beneath her.

  Ian shot to her side. Two hands of strength wrapped about her, lowering her gently against the bed. "I shall give them back to you when you are ready to return to battle. You are making progress in your recovery. It will not be long now."

  The solid wall of his chest pressed against the softness of her own. Her pulse quickened; her senses heightened. After so many days of isolation and rest, his nearness overwhelmed her. Without her armor she felt vulnerable and weak. How she longed for a thin sheet of metal to separate her from the warm feel of his body against her own.

  "I am ready," she said, a bit more breathless than she had intended, but it was difficult to breathe when he stood so near.

  "Ready for what, Scotia?” She startled at the mix of sadness and regret in the timbre of his voice.

  She turned to look up into the depths of his eyes, trying to see in his gaze what she sensed in his voice. But any response she tried to make stilled on her tongue as her senses sharpened. The warmth of his body reached out to her, carrying with it the musky male scent that was only Ian's.

  With a will of its own, her body pressed closer against his, trying to identify this new sensation, experience it further, while her mind struggled to control it. "My ... armor," she said on a shaky breath, trying to fill her lungs not with air, but with the essence of this man who held her in his arms.

  A look of pained reluctance crept into his gaze. "To protect yourself against your enemies or me?" He slid one hand up her back, over the thin linen nightrail someone had dressed her in. One of her mother's, no doubt. Callused fingertips slipped over the softness of her skin, leaving his imprint on her in a trail of heated sensation.

  He knew her thoughts too well. Scotia began to tremble under the combined forces of pleasure and shock, and no amount of willpower could control the betraying tremors. She needed protection from herself as much as she needed it from him.

  That odd reflection of emotion vanished from his eyes as his fingers lightly caressed the wounds at her shoulder. Instead of pain, his touch brought an ease to the area. The wounds had healed over the last several days, thanks to his care.

  "I never thanked you—"

  Ian held a finger against her lips, bringing tingles of sensation along with his touch. "There is no need for words. I can see your feelings in your eyes."

  She lowered her lashes to hide her gaze from him. How could he read her thoughts so easily when she had been taught to shield her inner feelings all her life? What else did he see there? Could he see the war of emotions that tugged between her desire for him and her duty to remain strong, alert, untouched?

  She tried to form words that might express her thoughts when his fingers traced the curve of her chin, running across the sensitive nape of her neck as if he were trying to commit each nuance of her to memory.

  Then his fingers moved on, to delve further down until his hands cupped the fullness of her breasts. His thumbs brushed the hardened peak of her nipples. She gasped, but did not pull away. Instead, she shut her eyes and gave herself over to the pleasurable sensations he brought out in her, wondering if he would touch her breasts again and hoping she could bear it if he did. No one had touched her like this before. And, heaven help her, she liked it.


  No one had ever told her that a touch, this slow caress, could bring an empty ache to the apex of her thighs, or make her breasts feel tight, or fill her with sensations she had no right to feel but no desire to stop despite the fact she knew she should.

  Any protests died as she moved her hands down his back to his tight, trim waist, then further down, to his buttocks. The feel of muscle and strength beneath her bare palms made her bold. She cupped his buttocks as he had her breasts, pleased by the groan of pleasure that escaped his lips.

  "Is this an invitation?" In one fluid motion he pressed her back against the heather tick and the tumble of covers that made up her bed. "An invitation we can both remember after we ..." His words drifted off, but the look of sadness and regret came back to his eyes.

  What was he telling her? Her mind warred with her body to find a meaning, but her body won over all rational thought, pulling her into the moment, leaving all else behind.

  Scotia slid her hands up his back and into the silky texture of his hair, capturing him as surely as he pinned her beneath him. She gasped as her breasts brushed against his broad chest, at the possessive way he caught one of her legs between his own, at the rigid maleness pressed intimately against her thigh.

  Lightheaded and disoriented, she tried to control the passion that washed over her. But she could not hold back a moan of pleasure as he pulled her closer, trapping spirals of untamed heat between them. The sensation was both exquisite and consuming.

  She wanted more of it.

  "If there is to be more between us, you will have to say the words, Scotia." The warmth of his labored breath curled against her cheek in silent invitation. "You have not been well, and I shall not take advantage of that state unless you wish it."

  She looked into his eyes, eyes that held both infinite patience and heated desire. Her gaze moved to the lips that hovered above hers, ready to descend if she gave him one small sign of encouragement. She wanted him to continue, but the thought of what came next held her back. She had learned enough from her mother to know this was how babies were formed. Yet her mother had said she would find no pleasure in the deed. How could that be possible when she had found only pleasure in his arms up to now?

  A long moment stretched between them while Scotia stared at him mutely, unable to find her voice.

  His mouth drew closer until he was only a whisper away. "Say you want this," he said in a soft brogue made rough by the desire he held back.

  A mere movement of her body would bring his lips to hers, one movement and she would be lost to his kisses forever. But with those kisses came a deeper commitment. Was she willing to make herself even more vulnerable than she was now for the sake of an heir, someone to carry on her task as Warrior Trainer? All for the sake of a kiss?

  With an agonized cry she turned her head away, knowing that the shadows would return to his eyes, shadows she would have put there by her denying them both this moment.

  "I understand," he said from beside her. His voice was not hard or angry, but laced with acceptance. He rolled from her and rose from the bed. She did not look up until she heard the door close softly behind him.

  He said he understood. How could he when she barely comprehended what had passed between them herself?

  Scotia twisted into the tangle of bedding next to her with a soft cry of unspent longing. Instead of her thick down coverlet, a soft woolen fabric pressed against her cheek. She drew back to look at it. His plaid. A single sob filled her, rose, caught in her throat. She could not breathe around the pain as her soul shattered within her.

  Why could she not have said the words he had longed to hear, that she had longed to say? She pulled the length of cloth away from the other linens and held it against her cheek, hoping to find solace in the action. None came. She closed her eyes and drew in the scents of mint and musk from the fabric—scents that would forever remind her of him.

  For the next two days, Scotia forced herself to get out of bed each morning and afternoon to train in the privacy of her bedchamber. Regaining her strength grew in proportion to her desire to be in charge of her own destiny. Ian had not come to visit her since she had turned him away. She understood why, but that did not make his absence any easier to take. If he would not come to her, she would go to him. But not until she could stand before him as his equal on the battlefield once more.

  Each morning she put herself through a series of stretches, working muscle by muscle until the stiffness caused by her injury and inactivity gave way to strong, supple movements. She used her time alone to retrain her body and refocus her mind. In the afternoons, she put herself through a series of kicks and lunges, parries and rolls, using the iron candleholder as her makeshift sword until she fell onto her bed, too physically spent to go on. But even exhaustion could not block out the memories of the moments she had spent melting in Ian's arms. against the length of plaid he had given her, finding contentment in its presence beside her cheek.

  As light crept into her chamber on the third day of Ian's absence, Scotia awoke to find her armor lying atop the coverlet at the foot of her bed. Her shield, sword, brigandine, gauntlets, cuisses, cross-garters and boots. It was all there, freshly oiled and shined. Next to her armor lay new quilted padding and a pleated skirt in the colors of the MacKinnon.

  Scotia scrambled to her knees, searching the bed for the length of cloth Ian had left with her. She tossed the bed linens aside in a desperate scramble, knocking her armor to the floor in her haste. Panic gripped her as she threw the linens aside, one by one in her search. The cloth was gone. But who had taken it, and why? She jumped off the bed and stared at the shambles of her room, at the softly pleated skirt on the floor, near her feet.

  Someone had taken the cloth to sew her this garment. Maisie? Ian? Scotia bent down and scooped it up, allowing the fabric to rub against her fingers. Beneath the plaid lay her usual tired red skirt.

  A new skirt or her old? Someone had wanted her to make a choice.

  Scotia pressed her lips together as she clutched Ian's plaid in her hands. What should she do? If she put on the fabric of his clan, would she be marking herself his? She brought the fabric up to rest against her cheek as she had when it was merely a length of fabric. The scents of mint and musk still lingered there, penetrated her mind, bringing forth an image of Ian, his lips hovering above hers. A delicious warmth spread through her at the memory.

  It might be an act of lunacy to wear his colors so intimately, but then again she had been skirting the bounds of sanity since the day he had arrived. What was one more irrational action when added to the rest?

  She drew her nightrail over her head and tossed it down beside her old red skirt. With a slight tremble in her fingers, she dropped the skirt over her head, tying the drawstring at the side. The fabric settled around her hips in a cloud of softness. With her fingers, she smoothed the plaid into evenly spaced pleats and smiled. The garment shaped to her hips as her old skirt never had, revealing feminine curves she had only recently discovered.

  She smoothed her hands over her hips and across her womb. If she closed her eyes tightly enough, she could almost imagine a flicker of movement inside her, or the gentle swell of her belly beneath her hands. A child: a permanent mark upon her body as well as her heart; an everlasting memory of the passion she and Ian shared to cause a child to develop and form.

  She opened her eyes. Did she want a child with this man? Could she move past her own fears of motherhood and vulnerability to allow that to happen?

  The image of Lizbet came to mind. Dear, sweet Lizbet, whose gentle acceptance proved to her she could be loving despite their less than perfect start. Scotia drew in a slow, deep breath. There were ways to keep a child safe once it was born, as her mother had kept her safe. As all the Scotias before her had kept their children safe from attackers.

  Would she feel the same way if she ever carried Ian's child—despite the fact there would always be others like Haldane who would challenge her?

  Haldane. He h
ad almost defeated her. She brought her fingers up to the dark pink scars that stood out against the pale backdrop of her skin. Ribbons of color that looked so small and insignificant compared to the enormity of what had caused them. She had let down her guard for Ian and had been attacked when she was most vulnerable.

  Two wounds that marked her as a warrior, and two reminders of the moments of madness that she and Ian had shared.

  Her pulse quickened at the thought of him. Would she have done anything differently if she knew Haldane would attack her? The answer was immediate. Nay. She would have done almost anything for those moments in his arms.

  Why would she risk so much? She would risk everything for him, because she ... She let the sentiment drift away, not wanting to put a name to it. Yet even as she did, all the reasons for staying away from Ian, all the difficulties, were fading, losing their edges, becoming less clear.

  Scotia felt the awakenings of a smile come to her lips, joined by another odd, almost foreign sensation. Joy tumbled through her stomach, sending shivers of delight out across her bare arms and legs.

  She had to see Ian, had to somehow communicate that she was ready for a different kind of battle with him, ready to surrender to the force that pulled them together since the day they first met.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Feeling as light and airy as the fabric at her hips, Scotia swirled where she stood. A bubble of delight rose inside her as Ian's plaid came to rest against her thighs. She would gladly wear his plaid, his mark, if it meant that the rest of her desires would come to her as well.

  She raced back to the bed and slipped into her armor, eager now to leave her room and find the man who had changed her life for the better. Her fingers trembling with anticipation, Scotia plaited her hair. When she finished she picked up her sword and shield, then opened the door.