The Warrior Trainer

by Gerri Russell

  He drew himself up. His actions did not frighten her. Not anymore. In fact, his effort to make himself look more menacing only gave her a bigger target to strike.

  "Nothing and no one can stop me once I have the Stone. You will die, too, unless—"

  "Unless what?" she asked, edging closer to him.

  A spark of amusement entered his eerie eyes. "Unless you hear me out."

  "You choose to bargain with me now that my sword is pointed at your heartless chest?"

  He smiled. "I am not so heartless as that. Some say I can even be quite generous."

  "Forgive my distrust, but I find that hard to believe."

  He laughed, the sound more grating than pleased. "Give me a chance. Hear what I have to say. It might interest you."

  "What could you possibly have to say to me?"

  "Very good, my dear. I can see in your eyes that spark of anger. That anger can make you an even greater warrior than you are now. Let me take the Stone away from here, then join me. Fight at my side against your countrymen. I shall teach you the things your mother never did."

  Scotia could only stare in startled shock at the audacity of his words. "Join you? Bring more harm to my countrymen? Never."

  His smile slipped and a sneer took its place. "There is an edge to you, Scotia. A dark edge. Come with me, fight with me, and I shall help you find that darkness you try to hide from yourself and others."

  Scotia went still as memories from her youth came back to her. At first there had been sadness, but that soon shifted to rage, a rage that nearly consumed her after her mother's death. She had felt alone, abandoned, and inadequate because she had not been able to do anything to stop the man before her from killing her mother. Instead of fighting him, she had run to Maisie for comfort.

  Scotia felt that rage build inside her again, felt her fingers digging into the hilt of her sword, but a voice inside her whispered and she knew to heed its warning. With a long, deep breath, she forced the furious emotions deep inside her. Aye, she had felt rage, anger, even despair, but her training had saved her then as it would now. Through discipline and training, as her mother had taught her, she had learned to shift the dark emotions from bad to good.

  Scotia squared her shoulders and swung her sword before her. "There is no darkness in me. Not anymore."

  He charged forward, but Scotia was ready. Their swords collided with a clash. When they did she kicked out, catching the White Horseman in the stomach and sending him staggering backward. Twelve years of anger and frustration went into that kick, igniting her senses, consuming her fears.

  "We are so alike, you and I—angry and filled with hatred." His blade arched toward her in what would have been a disemboweling sweep. She blocked the move, then spun away.

  Scotia remained steady, her emotions in control. His words were meant to distract her. "There is nothing similar about us."

  "Oh, but there is." His gaze became oddly intent. "Had I known what an asset to my cause you would have been, I would have taken you with me years ago instead of leaving you for dead."

  "I never would have gone. Death would have been preferable." The intensity of his gaze made her uneasy. Something had suddenly given him more strength, energy, and prowess. Her hand tightened on her sword. She would kill him, by any means. She just needed an opening. Balancing on her feet lightly, she waited for the right moment to strike.

  That moment came a heartbeat later. He struck a blow with such force the momentum caused him to stumble to the left. She reacted, aiming for his extremities—his forearm, his knees, his upper arms, and his legs, darting in and out, sneaking past his guard, until she left slashes and nicks across every part of him.

  A blatant arrogance dominated the features of his harsh face. "You would have gone." His sword flashed again, high in the air, deadly, lethal, filled with his own rage.

  "What makes you so certain?” Before he could bring his blade down, Scotia sent all her strength and will to survive into her foot. It connected with the White Horseman's knee; she felt the bones smash beneath her boot.

  The White Horseman screamed in agony as his legs went out from under him. He hit the wooden timbers hard, forcing a rush of air from his lungs. His sword tumbled from his hand and clattered to a rest against the stones of the tower wall.

  In an instant, Scotia's blade was at his throat. She gripped the hilt of her sword with all her strength. Nothing would stop her from grasping this moment. From seeking justice for all the atrocities this man had forced on her country, on her mother, on herself. She lifted her sword, poised to strike.

  "You would have gone ...," he wheezed, "because you are my daughter."

  Scotia gazed at her enemy incredulously. "Nay." Her throat tightened in response to the White Horseman's confession while her grip loosened on her sword. Such a thing could not be possible. Her sword grew awkward and heavy in her hand. You are my daughter.

  The White Horseman took advantage of her momentary lapse and rolled away. He gained his feet with a grimace of pain, then drew his dagger. He did not come after her as she had expected. Instead, he turned toward the tower wall and began to hack at the mortar which secured the Stone of Destiny in place.

  "It is only too true," he panted. "Have you never seen your reflection? We are related, you and I. The color of our hair is the most obvious similarity, but there are others." He turned his back on her to scrape viciously at the mortar cementing the stone in the wall.

  He turned his back on her. Only an insanely confident man would do something so foolish. That act in itself lent credence to what he had said. Scotia shivered violently at the memory of her image in Ian's shield—reddish-brown hair, high cheekbones, a slightly rounded nose, full red lips. Features so similar to the man before her.

  The warrior in her told her to take advantage of the situation, to end this conflict for her people right now. Yet if she did, she would never have the answers to the questions she longed to know about her father. "How is that possible?" Her voice quavered, a sign of her restraint.

  He turned to study her with appreciative eyes. "In the usual way. Your mother and I—"

  "Enough." Scotia took a step back from him, trying to clear her head. The vile, disgusting man was her enemy. Nothing more. "You killed my mother." Aye, her mother. She had her mother's soft green eyes.

  "Such a nasty thing that was, but necessary." He shrugged and turned back to examine his progress in retrieving the Stone.

  She tensed. "You tried to kill me."

  "I thought I had." He paused his digging to cast her a caustic grin. "I should have predicted your survival. But I was still young, inexperienced in the arts of war." He spared her a mocking glance. "A mistake I shall not make again."

  Scotia ignored his threat. He wanted her fear and her confusion. She could see it in his eyes. "And when you learned I was alive—"

  He gave a soft laugh, interrupting her. "I came for you, but those two ancient retainers of yours lied to me. The woman has since paid for her deception." Any humor in his face faded.

  At the reminder of his abuse of Maisie, Lizbet, and Griffin, Scotia's anger started to rise again, but she forced herself to control it. Giving in to the need for revenge would accomplish nothing. She had to wait until the perfect opportunity presented itself. It would. It had to. Or she would make one of her own. "Why do you want the Stone so badly? You are English. It means nothing to you."

  His hand fell away from the Stone, but he remained hunched beside it. "It is the ultimate symbol of power and good fortune. I spent my youth studying ancient texts about the Stone of Destiny and learned that your mother's line had first possessed the artifact. It only made sense that she would somehow be its keeper."

  He shifted his position to face her. His dagger remained steady in his hand, but she was a painful pace outside his reach. She should kill him now, but for better or worse, she had to know more. "Go on."

  "Suddenly curious?”

  "Nay." She lied. "Just trying to learn how
your twisted mind works."

  "The same way as yours." He turned his back on her again and started digging at the edges of the Stone once more. Chunks of mortar fell away. "Which is why I know you are no threat to me until you hear what I have to say." He laughed in the silence that hung between them. "Want to hear more?"

  "Aye," she said tersely.

  The sound of his blade scraping the mortar hung in the background as he continued his tale. "I made my way to Glencarron Castle the first time to train with your mother. She accepted me as a student even though I was English. I spent the next several months trying to seduce her with my charms. But she was unimpressed."

  The sound ceased as he turned to face her again. "Why do women never know what is good for them?"

  Scotia frowned. "Why do men always tread down roads they should not?"

  He shrugged, though his face was wreathed in a smile. "I was angry with her one night. When I tried to get her to reveal the Stone's location, she refused. So I took something else instead. Her body."

  He paused, waiting for Scotia's reaction.

  She gave him none. "Continue," she said, though she had a sharp suspicion where his words would lead.

  "I took from her body what she readily denied me. At the peak of my pleasure she nearly skewered me with her sword, then tossed me into the night."

  Her mother's words flooded back to her: that distraction could cost her, that pleasure had no place in the Trainer's life, that love made a woman weak. It all made sense now. Her mother's own distraction had brought down her guard and had allowed this man to take something that had not been freely offered. Suddenly Scotia was ice-cold and numb, as she closed herself off to his mocking smile and the vindictive glint in his dark eyes.

  Forced joining. That was what her mother had based all her lessons upon. But her mother was wrong. So very wrong. Ian had proven that to her time and again with his gentle, sensual seduction. All her life Scotia had accepted what her mother had told her as the truth. All because of this man. The numbness began to recede, seared out by the anger possessing her soul.

  "I had no idea you were a product of that night until I returned to Glencarron Castle with a small contingent of men. We stormed the gate and made our way inside the great hall. I was prepared to force her to hand over the real Stone, not the fake one King Edward had taken back to England with him as a prize. I had thought to harm the members of her household until she gave me what I desired. But the moment I saw you, I knew you were the advantage I needed to make her change her mind."

  Chunks of mortar and sand sprinkled upon the floorboards as he rattled the Stone, trying to wrest it from its hiding place. Her grip on her sword became steady once again, as her intentions solidified in her mind. "You might have used me to your advantage once, but I am wiser and more experienced now."

  As the sound of the Stone scraping against the rocks that held it in place increased, so did the tension in the air between them. The White Horseman simultaneously pulled on the Stone while narrowing his gaze at Scotia. "Put that sword down. Does the fact I am your father mean nothing to you?"

  A momentary pang of regret crept through her resolve. The man was her father; but he was also vile and ruthless. And he had to die or no one in her country would ever be safe from him. She took a step forward. "You might have been responsible for my birth, but you are no father to me."

  Suddenly Scotia realized all too clearly what Ian had been trying to say to her on the night of their handfasting—the reason he wanted to bind himself to her, despite the fact he did not love her. To father a child was easy. To guide that child through life with discipline and love was the true measure of a man.

  "Scotia."

  Scotia closed her eyes against the sound of Ian's voice in her imagination. All she had to do was think of him and he appeared so vibrantly alive in the depths of her mind. She drew in a slow, even breath, trying to focus her thoughts.

  "Scotia."

  She half-turned toward the wall walk that connected this tower with the others. "Ian." A surge of tenderness swept through her. Framed by the doorway with his blond hair tousled, his muscles flexing, and his sword boldly before him, he looked like an ancient warrior rising out of the mists.

  "Isn't this touching?" The White Horseman's mouth curved into a lethal smile as he staggered to his feet with the heavy Stone clutched against him like a shield.

  Fear tightened Scotia's chest at the realization that she had just given away her feelings for Ian in her words, her actions.

  Ian looked to her, then the White Horseman. Scotia's muscles locked with tension. Did Ian see what she feared? A resemblance between them? Or did his speculative look mean something else entirely?

  The White Horseman pulled her from her thoughts. "Perhaps we are not so much alike after all, my dear. I learned long ago that attachments only get in the way." He turned to Ian. "Allow me to rid you of this handsome distraction." The White Horseman held the Stone of Destiny to his chest with one hand, his dagger poised to strike Ian in the other. Just a flick of his wrist and he could send the weapon arching toward Ian's chest before either of them could stop it. "Perhaps in your grief, you will decide to join me yet."

  A sudden cold sickness settled in the pit of her stomach. "Nay. Take the Stone. Do not harm him." The words were more challenge than plea.

  The White Horseman gravely studied Ian's face before he shook his head. "No," he said. "I think I shall enjoy killing this Scot far too much for even you to turn me away from the deed."

  Anger and hatred replaced her fear. "What will it take for you to spare his life? I shall do anything you ask, even go with you if that is what it takes."

  The White Horseman's brow wrinkled in thought. She used his hesitation against him. She cleared her mind of all thought until all that remained was her goal.

  Protect Ian.

  With the slightest effort, she shifted her weight to the balls of her feet. She let herself feel nothing as she prepared to kill her father.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Ian's skin grew clammy and wet. He had looked death in the eye before and had never been afraid. But now, a fear both hideous and painful gripped him. It was a fear not for himself, but for Scotia. He knew what she planned to do. He could see it in the positioning of her body. Her weight had shifted to her toes, ready to strike.

  Before he could stop her, she sprinted forward, a burst of energy set in motion.

  The White Horseman's eyes flared as his head snapped toward Scotia.

  In that beat of a moment, Ian surged forward. He was closer to their enemy. If he pushed himself to the limit, he might reach the target first. A cry began deep in the pit of his stomach. "MacccKinnnonnn." The war cry of his clan, a sound as old and untamed as the hills that gave it birth. The warning poured from his throat as his stride swallowed up the wooden planking beneath his boots. He hit the White Horseman hard, his momentum carrying him forward, pushing them toward an opening in the crenellations, toward certain death.

  Even death would be a welcome price for Scotia's safety.

  Ian's gaze moved to hers as he fell backward with the White Horseman. Her eyes filled with wild, panicked fear. Ian tried to reassure her, to let her see in his eyes a fraction of the peace and serenity that filled him now.

  The White Horseman screamed in rage as he tumbled through the open space with the Stone still clutched to his chest.

  "Ian!" Scotia cried. The word echoed all around them, filled with horror, grief, and longing. She pushed forward, the motion slow, slower than the rate at which he fell.

  "I love you," Ian said, the words filling him with an awesome sense of wonder, power, and satisfaction as he hit the edge of the tower and the vastness of the sky rose up to greet him. The emptiness at his core vanished, replaced with a fullness, a completeness he never dreamed possible.

  His gaze captured hers as he gave himself over to the pull of his destiny. And he wished he had kissed her one last time.

  His body lurch
ed to a stop.

  Blinding hot pain radiated across his midsection as his belt cut into his flesh. He sucked in a gasping breath and tried to fight the sudden dizziness that assailed him. He twisted toward the castle's ledge. Scotia, braced against the castle wall, clutched the leather of his belt in her bloodied hands.

  The White Horseman fell past Ian, past the castle wall to his death.

  Ian kept his gaze on Scotia. Tears rolled down her cheeks. "Don't you dare die on me, Ian MacKinnon." Purple veins stood out at the sides of her neck as she struggled to pull him back to safety.

  The muscles of her arms began to tremble beneath his weight. The pain in her injured shoulder must have been agonizing, yet she bore his weight. He loved her all the more for her efforts even though they were in vain. "Scotia, I am not afraid to die. Save yourself."

  "You cannot tell me you love me, then disappear from my life." She set her teeth and pulled, hard.

  His body inched toward her. He could not let her suffer on—he would do what he could to help her. He grasped her hands with his and planted his feet against the walls, giving her as much leverage as possible. As she drew him back, he walked up the wall, speaking words of encouragement and promise. But he doubted she heard anything, so intense was her concentration. His body inched upward with excruciating slowness, each moment bringing him back to the woman he loved.

  When the edge grew near, he stretched his fingers until they gripped solid rock. The rough texture bit into his palms as he hoisted himself over the tower's edge. He collapsed onto the floorboards, panting, trembling, and filled with relief. "We... did... it."

  Scotia dropped to the ground beside him, her body shaking. "Praise the saints. I thought—" Her voice clouded with tears.

  "As did I." He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close. "Thank you," he whispered, feeling his breathing slow and his heartbeat returning to normal.

  She remained silent. Curled against the warmth of his body, her tremors slowed, then stopped, as did his own.

  "Scotia?"

  She shifted in his arms to face him. "Hmm?"