Page 22 of Highlander Redeemed
“Will depend upon his keeping his oath,” Nicholas quickly answered. “If he does, he shall be free to leave here, with his head still upon his shoulders, when this business is done.” Nicholas stared at Conall a long moment, clearly making the lad uncomfortable once more. “If he keeps his oath,” Nicholas repeated.
Duncan forced himself to keep his face neutral, though he wanted to grin at Nicholas’s masterful way of putting the lad on notice. Nicholas suddenly pivoted and led the small group of alliesfurther into the camp. As Conall passed Duncan and the other two men, he put as many people between himself and Kenneth as he could, and only glanced quickly at Duncan, as he followed the other allies into the camp.
As Kenneth, Uilliam, and Duncan fell in behind the newcomers, the scant number of them sank in. Ten and three. Only ten and three had come to their aid, though Dermid said more skirmished with the English as they came, which, Duncan suddenly realized, gave proof to at least that part of what Scotiaknewof the English force. The MacAlpins must pray those skirmishes whittled away many of the English soldiers. Fifteen dead would give the MacAlpins a slim advantage. Ten dead English would bring them close to even numbers. Anything less would make the MacAlpins’ success in defending their home and the Highlands an uncertain undertaking at best.
Duncan realized that Nicholas had been about more than just putting Conall on notice that he had not emerged from the falling wall as unscathed as he might think. By making it clear he knew exactly who Conall was and what his position was with this clan, Nicholas had asserted his position as chief with the allies, with Conall, and with Kenneth, effectively telling Kenneth he could not touch the lad without the new chief’s assent.
But Duncan knew, despite Nicholas’s assertion of his position, if Conall so much as thought of breaking his oath, Duncan would make sure the young warrior never broke another one long before Kenneth could even raise a fist.
Duncan would make sure the lad never again touched Scotia.
CHAPTER NINE
SCOTIA WAS HUMILIATED. She wasn’t a Guardian. She would never be a Guardian.
Before today it had always been a possibility, slim but still there, that she might become one. Now it was a fact that she would not, and everyone, the entire clan and anyone she might meet in the future, would know of her failure. Everyone would know she would never be more than she was in this moment—the younger sister and cousin of two Guardians, one of whom wasn’t even a MacAlpin by blood!
She stormed down the ben, knowing she needed time to get her emotions under control, as Duncan had been teaching her, doing her best to think before acting, lest she make her humiliation even worse. But it was hard to think when she wanted to scream, to strike, to hit something. If only there were a battle now, where she could loose her anger. But Duncan said she must never go into battle fueled by her emotions. A warrior needed a clear mind and a steady arm. She slowed as she remembered the exercise Duncan had her do at the beginning of every training session, and how it aided her in calming her emotions and focusing her mind on the matter at hand.
She didn’t have her sword, but there were sticks aplenty all about her. She stepped into the wood and chose her weapon, then looked for an area open enough and relatively flat. When she found it, she took her position and slowly moved through the thrust, parry, turn, block, attack, fall back, parry, and thrust ofthe exercise. Then she did it again, this time concentrating on her breath as she repeated the sequence. And once more, making sure she had every move in sync with her breath.
And then she flew through the sequence, again and again and again until her sides were heaving with the effort, and her mind was focused only on the moment. This moment. This move. This breath. She dropped her stick and braced her hands on her knees, drawing the cool evening air deep into her lungs. She closed her eyes and continued to breathe, slowing her inhalations as her heart slowed its pounding.
“Better?”
Without thinking, Scotia grabbed her stick and whirled to face the voice, her body landing in the proper fighting stance without her consciously thinking about it. And then she realized it was Duncan’s voice. It was Duncan who stood not far away, his expression an odd combination of concern and pride.
She relaxed, letting the stick once more fall to the ground. She lifted her chin. “Aye. Better.”
DUNCAN TRIED TOact calm. Scotia’s passion always stirred him, but this—to watch as she controlled that passion, that emotion, funneling it into the movements of a warrior with a grace and lethal focus such as he’d never seen in her before—took his breath away.
“You were supposed to return to the caves with Rowan and Jeanette,” he finally said quietly. He did not move any closer to her. If he did he would take her in his arms, he would kiss her again. He drummed his fingers on his thighs and wished he could take up the drill where she left off, for he did not trust the emotions and the desire that pulsed through him.
So he kept his distance.
Scotia closed her eyes for a moment, then looked at him, her face composed, her eyes clear. “I needed to work off some anger before I returned. You have told me I need to think before I act, and I was not thinking, not thinking well, anyway. I feared I would do something or say something and would embarrass myself ... or you.” She smiled at him then, but it was not the happy glowing smile she usually wore during and after her training sessions with him. This was dimmed by disappointment.
“I failed, Duncan, as I am sure you ken. Rowan and Jeanette must have already reported my failure to the entire clan.”
“Nay, lass. They said nothing. In truth, I did not ken if I would find you elated or despondent, for they said nothing of what had transpired. Rowan just said I should find you.”
Scotia turned away from him, her face raised to the sky and her hands on her hips. There was something new about the way she held herself. Her back was straight and strong with her midnight hair cascading down it. It wasn’t the posture of Scotia angry. He was very familiar with that one—shoulders pulled up and forward, as if to defend her heart from attack. Nay, with her hands on her hips she stood strong, balanced, open ... determined.
That’s what he was seeing. Scotia determined.
“What are you thinking?” he asked.
She turned back to face him again, and he was pleased to see there were no tears, no glint of anger, just a calm he’d never seen upon her face before.
“Do not look so puzzled, Duncan,” she said with a little shake of her head. “I am not that hard to fathom, am I?”
He approached her slowly, taking in all the little ways she held herself that were different, learning this new Scotia in case she decided to stay this way.
“Aye. In this moment you are a new person but I dinna ken why or how this came to be so suddenly. Failure, as you put it, for I do not see it that way, usually makes you unpredictable, angry ... a brat,” he added with a smile meant to take the sting out of the word.
“I am not a Guardian. That is a failure,” she said. “That path is no longer in my future.” She stepped closer to him, shrinking the space between them so much he could easily reach out and touch her, but she reached out and took his hand first. “If I am not to be a Guardian, then I am determined to help defend my family and my home the only other way available to me. We must redouble my training, Duncan.”
She had his hand in both of hers, and her touch, her scent, carrying the slightly salty tang of her exertions as it wrapped around him, made it hard to think.
