Page 25 of Highlander Redeemed
He looked at her, a decision coming to him fully formed. “He should never have been killed, aye, and he would not have died that day in that way if you had done as your chief commanded, if you had stayed in the camp.”
“’Twas not my actions that killed him. ’Twas not my fault the English gutted him.”
Duncan looked up at the heavy clouds that seemed to scud just above the treetops, weighing the dangers of what he meant to do against the lessons that needed learning.
“Bring your weapons,” he said, turning to melt back into the wood.
CHAPTER TEN
SCOTIA TRAILED CLOSELYbehind Duncan, wishing she were a wood sprite so she could lift a tree root to trip him as he stepped over it, or she could shift a stone and cause him to fall into one of the many burns they had crossed this morn. She looked up, wondering if it were indeed still morn, but the tree cover was so thick little light made it to the forest floor, and ’twas impossible to see how far the sun had traveled in the sky. She tripped, and only just avoided stumbling into Duncan’s broad-shouldered back, thanks to her much improved balance from the training she had been doing.
“Do you need to rest?” he asked, but he did not slow.
“Nay,” she said, “I do not.”
“Good.”
And he continued on, his ground-eating pace never wavering. She knew he was angry with her ... or maybe just irritated. He hated it when she was right and he was wrong, but he’d never gone to such lengths to punish her for it. She wasn’t wrong when she talked of killing English soldiers. She had seen men die before, recently even. A full dozen English soldiers had died at the Story Stone ... At the thought of the stone she knew where they were headed, and it had nothing to do with theknowingof her gift. Duncan wanted to confront her with the battle, thinking it would change her mind about killing English bastards, but he was wrong.
She might not remember everything that had happened there, but she remembered enough and had the scar on her neckto remind her each and every day of what it meant to kill or be killed. Returning to the place would change nothing, but Duncan would not believe her, so she had no choice but to convince him by doing whatever he had planned for her.
However, as they drew nearer and nearer to the Story Stone meadow her stomach began to fill with the fluttering of dragonflies, and her heart started to pound in her ears. She let her heavy targe slip off her forearm, catching it by one of the sweat-damp leather straps that had chafed a raw spot on the inside of her arm.
Her targe banged into her anklebone and she must have made a sound, for Duncan looked back over his shoulder. He gave one slow shake of his head when he espied her shield, but said nothing.
The damn thing banged against her ankle again, and she quickly pulled it back onto her arm, wincing, but not letting a single sound free.
Bring your weapons.Hah. It was not as if she were going to use them on this venture, and this was the first day she’d had a real practice sword to work with. He’d said ’twould strengthen her arm. Ah, this trek with weapons was surely another of his ways of strengthening her as well as being a test of her resolve to do whatever he required for her training.
She felt like a fool for not understanding that immediately. Everything they did during their days together was part of her training ... well, except for that kiss. She pushed away the softness the memory of that kiss always brought on. She had no time for softness. The English would be upon them again soon, and she had little time to prove her worth as a warrior.
She stood straighter, bent her elbow so she could hold her targe firmly up where it would protect her torso, and picked up the pace of her steps. She would prove that she was strong—strong enough to wield a real sword, not just a weighted wooden blade, strong enough to be a real warrior, not just a lass in training—and if it took a long trek with weapons and returning to the site of the Story Stone Battle to prove that strength, then she was up to the task.
DUNCAN STRUGGLED NOTto drum his fingers on his thigh. Scotia was the one who had told him long ago that he did that when he was worried, and he did not want to give her any clue that he was having second thoughts about this lesson.
The bodies of the fallen had been buried, so the full loss of life would not be visible, but he knew there would be ghosts. The echoes of the battle would linger in the air just out of hearing. The fight would be all around them, like wraiths in the night. Anyone who had ever walked the ground where men died in battle would know what had happened here, would feel it in the prickles of their skin, would hear it in the unnatural silence that always blanketed such places. The Highlands were rife with battlefields, and even the animals tended to avoid them.
Scotia needed to understand that battle, that killing, should be her last choice, not her first. Killing was hard on the soul, even when it was justified, and certainly she was justified in her desire to protect and avenge her family and land. But Duncan could not bear to imagine how killing someone herself, looking into that person’s eyes as the life drained out of them, would either destroy her or harden her heart, as it did warriors. Despite what anyone believed, he knew Scotia’s heart was big and vulnerable, though she hid that with her rebellion and of late with her anger.
As they drew close, the muted light of the Story Stone meadow filtered through the dense wood. Duncan stopped, preparing himself for what came next.
“I ken well where we are, Duncan,” Scotia said from behind him. He glanced back, surprised to find her changed from the bedraggled, tired lass she had been when last he’d looked back at her.
She stood tall, her targe held firmly where it should be, rather than dangling from her fingertips. Determination had replaced theglow of irritation in her eyes, and her chin was raised just enough to make her look strong and sure of herself.
“I ken why you brought me here,” she said, but the words were not tinged with anger or disdain as he had expected, and there was something in the quiet of her voice that told him she was not as sure of herself as she tried to appear. The lesson had already begun.
“Do you?” he asked.
“Aye.”
But he didn’t think she really did.
“There is never good that comes of battle, Scotia. I ken you mean to fight the English, but do not fool yourself that any good will come of that. You will know the necessity of killing, but you will also know the torment of taking a life.”
Her dark brows arrowed down over pale eyes, lending sharp angles to her face that offset the full, sensuous mouth that distracted every male who had ever been in her company. Or at least it distracted him.
“I will know no torment when I kill an English soldier, and neither should you.” She took a deep breath. “They killed my mum. They killed Myles. I made a vow to avenge their deaths, and I will do that without torment or guilt.”
