Page 68 of My Scot, My Surrender
“I suppose you have a point.”
Aisla’s brows drew together into a slight frown. “Why do ye no’ have a brogue? Ye’re Scottish, aren’t ye?”
“My mother’s English, and insisted on English tutors.”
“Why?”
“Because I was to marry Ma—” Sorcha broke off and spat to the ground before continuing, “a disgusting, odious excuse for a man.”
“The marquess ye were speaking about at sup last night.”
She nodded. “Yes.”
They stopped at the top of the next small hill, which gave them a full view of the men who were training with swords and bows and arrows. Sorcha’s fingers itched for the chance to practice with her bow or even her sword. The only weapons she carried were the dirks lodged in each boot beneath her skirts. She counted about several dozen soldiers on the field and frowned. At Maclaren, they had four times that number.
“Where are the rest of your men?” she asked.
Aisla shrugged. “Most of them left for work in Inverness and Glasgow in the last handful of years, but Montgomery is well protected, if that’s what ye’re worried about.”
Sorcha scanned the surroundings, and once more, marveled at Montgomery’s defensible position. No attack from an outside enemy could come without adequate warning. And the pass from which they had entered was well guarded. But it wasn’t an outside attack Sorcha was worried about—it was one from inside. She did not trust Rodric. While she enjoyed Aisla’s company and would have liked to get to know the duchess better, it was not worth the risk to outstay their welcome.
“Do you train?” she asked Aisla, who was watching the exercises with a wistful look.
Her copper eyes widened. “With the men? Nae, ’tis no’ proper.”
“Who says?” Sorcha tossed back. “I trained with Maclaren soldiers from the age of three. It’s a fact that I can fight better than most of them. How else will you be able to defend yourself?” She eyed the lass. “You can’t wait for a man to come to your rescue. If I had, I would have been dead.”
“Is that how ye got those?” Aisla asked, her eyes darting to her scars.
“Yes.” She raised a self-conscious hand and then dropped it. “I’m sure you’ve heard the story, and it’s true. I fought off a very angry and very hungry mother wolf with two daggers.” Sorcha bent to retrieve one from her boot. “Much like this one.”
Aisla reached for the dirk and ran her thumb gently along its razor-honed edge. “’Tis sharp.”
“I keep them oiled and ready, so that they can pierce through leather and hide,” she said. “I used to be able to snare a rabbit at forty paces, though I’m far better with the bow now. I can teach you to throw the dagger, if you like.”
Aisla’s eyes lit up. “Truly?”
Sorcha faltered, realizing that they would be leaving within the next two days, but she nodded firmly. “Here, why don’t we start with your first lesson? See, you grip the blade like this with your thumb and forefinger, nice and tight.” She demonstrated, being careful not to touch the edge. “Pull back and then throw. You can also toss from the hilt, but you don’t get the same heft.” Drawing her arm back, she let the dirk fly a few feet away to sink into the dirt.
She retrieved the dagger and handed it to Aisla. The dagger skidded across the grass on her first few tries, but by the third, it sank blade first into the soil. Sorcha cleaned the dirk on the grass and then gave it a wipe with the hem of her dress. She held it out. “You can keep it.”
“But ’tis yers,” Aisla stammered, staring at the dagger with a comical combination of longing and restraint. “I cannae possibly accept it.”
“I want you to have it.” She reached down for the second, matching dirk. “And I’ll keep its twin. That way we will always know the other is safe.”
Sorcha was unprepared when the girl flung her arms around her neck and nearly didn’t get the blades out of the way in time. Though she had two older sisters, they had both married and left Maclaren by the time she’d been old enough to appreciate having female siblings. Embarrassed, Sorcha flushed with pleasure as Aisla pulled away to examine her new gift, holding it up to the light and marveling at the intricately etched designs in its jeweled hilt.
“I promise I will keep it clean and practice every day.”
Sorcha smiled. “What we really need is a proper target like the ones down there.” She indicated the thatched human-sized targets that some of the men were shooting at with bows, and started down the hill, only to stop when Aisla grabbed her arm.
“We cannae,” she blurted out, fear clouding her expression. “’Tis no’ allowed.”
“What’s not allowed?”
“Lasses on the training fields,” she said. “’Tis too dangerous.”
Sorcha’s laughter drew the attention of several soldiers, but she didn’t care. It was the most ridiculous thing she’d ever heard. Then again, such a rule did not surprise her from the way the laird treated his own wife and daughter, as if they were nothing but glass pawns to be moved and abused at his whim. She rolled her eyes and shook her head. From what she was seeing happening down on that field, the men could do with a proper lesson.
