Page 16 of The Laird's Vengeful Desire
“Thank ye.”
“Ye’re welcome. ‘Tis the least I can dae. And please, call me Ian.”
Then he left, closing the door softly. In the corridor, he leaned against the cold stone wall, scrubbing his face with his fingers.
What a mess. He was in possession of a MacAlpin daughter whose very presence could spark war. His Council wanted a forced marriage, while his conscience demanded honor.
God help me,she’s like a splinter in me sword hand – small and sharp, diggin’ in exactly where I cannae afford the distraction.
CHAPTER FIVE
“They look like lambs before the slaughter…”
Rhona’s voice was barely a whisper as she watched from her chamber window, though no one could hear her. Below in the courtyard, Ian moved among a group of young men who looked more like village farmers than warriors. Their faces were pale with fear, their hands shaking as they attempted to grip swords that seemed too heavy for their inexperienced limbs.
The morning sun caught the auburn highlights in Ian’s dark hair as he paused to examine a collection of weapons laid out on rough wooden tables. Even from that distance, she could see the furrow in his brow, the way his shoulders carried the weight of responsibility he’d never asked for. He was trying to rebuild an army from nothing, and the task seemed impossible.
He’d never done that before, Rhona realized, watching him pick up a sword and test its balance with the practiced ease of a born warrior.
For all his skill with a blade, he’s never had tae build and command an entire army.
One of the young recruits stumbled during a basic drill, dropping his weapon with a clatter that echoed off the stone walls. His face flushed crimson as the other lads laughed nervously, and Rhona could see the shame in his posture from her perch above.
Ian’s head snapped up at the sound, and for a moment, Rhona thought he might bark orders like the drill sergeants she’d heard tales of. Instead, he set down the sword he’d been examining, and walked over to the fallen boy with measured seps.
She pressed closer to the window, fascinated despite herself by what she was witnessing. This was leadership – not the kind that came from birthright or title, but the kind that emerged from an instinctual understanding of what his men needed.
“Pick it up, lad,” Ian’s voice carried clearly in the crisp morning air, though his tone was firm rather than harsh. “A dropped sword is a dead warrior.”
The boy scrambled for his weapon, his face burning with embarrassment. “Sorry, me laird. I’ll dae better.”
“Aye, ye will.” Ian took a sword from one of the weapon tables, testing its weight. “But first, ye need tae learn why ye dropped it.”
What followed was a transformation that left Rhona breathless. Ian didn’t just yell out instructions from the sidelines – he stepped into the training circle, demonstrating proper stance, showing the recruits how to balance their weight, how to grip a blade without exhausting their muscles within minutes.
“Yer sword is nae yer enemy,” his voice rang across the courtyard as he moved among the young men. “’Tis an extension of yer arm. If ye fight it, it’ll betray ye. Work with it, and it’ll save yer life.”
The change in the recruits was instantaneous. Where moments before there had been awkward fumbling, now there was focused attention. These weren’t seasoned warriors – far from it – but under Ian’s guidance, they began to look less like lambs and more like men who might one day defend their homeland.
Rhona found herself leaning against the window frame, captivated by the sight of Ian in his element. The way he moved was pure poetry in motion – graceful despite his brawn, every gesture purposeful and controlled. When he demonstrated a defensive maneuver, the fluid power in his movements made her pulse quicken in ways that had nothing to do with fear.
Heaven help me,she thought, watching as he corrected a young man’s stance with patient, steady hands.
There was something about seeing him like that – not as her captor or even as the conflicted laird struggling with impossible choices, but as a natural leader inspiring confidencein frightened boys – that was what made her chest tighten with unwanted admiration.
“That’s it, exactly,” Ian called out with a lopsided grin as one of the recruits executed a proper parry. “Now ye look like a warrior instead of a scarecrow.”
The laughter that rippled through the group was no longer nervous, but mirthful, and Rhona could see the way the young men’s shoulders straightened with pride. Ian had given them training and he had given them hope.
As the morning progressed, she found herself unable to look away, even for a second. The sun climbed higher in the Highland sky, and Ian’s shirt began to cling to his chest with sweat from the exertion of demonstrating techniques. When he pushed his sleeves up to his elbows, revealing the corded muscle of his forearms, Rhona felt heat pool low in her belly despite the cool air coming through the window.
Stop it!He’s still yer captor, nay matter how attractive he looks playin’ teacher.
But even as the thought formed, she couldn’t deny the way her body responded to the sight of him. The confident way he handled his sword, the gentle patience he showed with the struggling recruits, the natural authority that seemed to radiate from him like warmth from a fire – all combined with his god-like good looks, created a picture of masculine appeal that left her irritatingly breathless.
A commotion near the castle entrance drew her attention away from Ian. A familiar figure approached across the courtyard – Tristan, the man who had been present when Ian had found her in the dungeon. He waited respectfully at the edge of the training area until Ian dismissed the recruits for their midday meal.
Rhona watched as the two men spoke, their voices not audible. But she could read the tension in their postures, the way Ian’s jaw tightened at whatever Tristan was telling him. After several minutes, Ian nodded curtly and the guard departed, leaving the laird standing alone in the empty courtyard.
