Page 6 of Highlander Redeemed
He could see the argument gathering within her so he raised his brows at her, daring her with a look that he knew would spur her to respond, but she surprised him. Instead of a sharp retort,she pressed her lips together, trapping whatever she had been preparing to say in her mouth, and took up her beginning stance once more.
’Twas time for another lesson.
“Hold there,” he said before she could move. He walked around her slowly, assessing her position, then came up behind, so close he could feel the heat of her body on his though he tried, and failed, to ignore it. He put both hands on her shapely hips, turning her just a little more to the side, then cupped her shoulders and lined them up with her hips. He slid his hand along the underside of her sword arm, working hard not to think about how soft her skin might be beneath the sleeve of her kirtle, as he adjusted the angle upward, touching the inside of her elbow with his fingertips so she would soften it. He moved her targe arm just a little more to the left so it would still protect but not hamper the swing of her sword.
“Do not drop your sword arm,” he said quietly as he circled around her once more. He stepped close again, though he had not meant to, and tucked that ever-errant tendril of her hair behind her ear. He told himself to leave it, to step away, even as he remembered tucking that same silky tendril behind her ear when she was a wee lass with hair that was always tangled, no matter how often her mother tried to contain it in a braid.
“You should get back in the habit of braiding your hair as you did when you were little, or at least secure the sides like the warriors sometimes do,” he said, finally stepping away. He wondered when he had ceased breathing.
“That would only serve to draw attention to what we do here,” she said, her voice unusually whispery. Her breath was as fast as it had been during their duel but now it was shallow. “Everyone kens I hate braiding my hair.” Her voice was a little stronger, with a familiar snap in it.
“Aye, you always have, but now it might serve you well. You have never avoided changing your mind about things before. ’Twould be a believable explanation.” And it would keep him frombeing tempted to touch it again. “Your sword arm ...” He made a lifting motion with his hand, and she raised it back to where he had positioned it. “Do not let anything distract you from your purpose in a battle. The mind and the body must stay focused at all times, aware of what goes on around you, but focused on the immediate danger whether ’tis in front of you, behind you, or charging at you on a caparisoned courser from across the battlefield.”
He watched and waited until her arm, still firmly in the position he had required, started to tremble. She gripped the stick tighter, her knuckles going white and the blue veins in the back of her hand standing out starkly against her pale skin, but to his surprise, she did not complain. An unexpected and unfamiliar respect for her tenacity took hold within him. She was serious about this training and that was a very good thing.
“Loosen your grip, Scotia. The trembling is from muscle fatigue. I can see we have more than swordplay and a battle-ready mind to master. Now, move!”
He lifted his stick and lunged for her, fast and agile, moving out of the way of her offensive moves before she could even finish them, moving in on her, poking her in the ribs when she forgot and let her targe drop, smacking her across the upper back when she did not spin quickly enough to defend herself. A little pain and bruising often reinforced a lesson, though he hated the thought of doing that to her. But he had promised not to go easy on her, to train her as the lads were trained, and so he did.
Again and again he attacked, running her through the exercises over and over and over until her breath rasped and her arms surely screamed for rest.
“Enough,” he said. “’Tis enough for our first day.”
“You do not look the least fatigued,” she said to him, still struggling to hold her weapons up.
“Scotia, lassie, we are finished for this day. Lower your weapons. Give your arms a rest. You did well.”
Still she did not drop her guard. Stubborn, untrusting lass.
“I am serious. We are done. Put your weapons away. We do not want your da sending out a search party for both of us.”
“He would not—” Her stomach rumbled loudly enough to interrupt her. Puzzled, she looked up at the small circle of sky above them. “How long have we been at this?”
Duncan judged the change from where the sun hit the forest floor when he had arrived and now and was surprised to find the sun must be low in the western sky.
“Most of the day, ’twould seem. It cannot be long before the evening meal is ready.”
“The whole of the day? Nay, ’tis not possible.” She did finally let her arms drop limply to her side, the heavy wooden shield staying in place only because of the sweat-soaked leather straps.
“We will meet here again tomorrow,” he said, letting his stick drop to the ground. He waited for a complaint, a grumble, even an irritated stare, but none of that came.
“Good. I will be ready.” She stashed her weapons in the bole of a hollowed-out tree and left without so much as a hand raised in farewell.
Duncan stared after her, pleased that she had passed every test he had set her this day. He was equally pleased that he had kept her from causing any trouble to vex her family. If he was any judge, she would return to the caves, eat a larger than usual meal, then sleep the sleep of the dead. She would rise tomorrow stiff and sore, with bruises from blows she wouldn’t remember receiving. Even so, he rather thought she would return to train with him, out of sheer stubbornness if nothing else.
The true test of her pledge lay not in the physical training, though. He had witnessed her determination to perfect that today. The true test was to see if she could change her way of acting and thinking, to see if she could change her heart and her mind from those of a selfish lass to those of a battle-ready warrior.
He had his doubts, but he also had his hopes. If she could master this and prove the change was real and lasting, she might bewelcomed back into the clan with open arms. She might be able to redeem herself.
DUNCAN FOLLOWEDSCOTIAas she made her way first to a burn where she drank and washed her hands and face. She brushed dirt and bits of leaves and twigs from her clothes, then headed back to the caves. The closer she got the more he could see the change in her. Her stride grew stiffer, her shoulders drew up, and her pace slowed.
He let her enter the clearing outside the caves first, giving her a few moments before he entered so that the council, and anyone else nosy enough to pay close attention, would think he only followed her. He did not know how any of them would react to the promise he had made to her, but it did not really matter since he had also promised to keep her training a secret for now.
When he stepped into the gloaming of the clearing Peigi was already berating Scotia for leaving her duties behind for a full day. All the women and lasses who were nearby preparing the evening meal were averting their eyes, or even turning their backs, as if they did not want to so much as look at Scotia.
The brittle anger he could see clearly in the way Scotia held herself was such a contrast to the easy, dare he say happy, lassie he had spent the day with, that it made him all the more aware of how the clan subtly shunned her. Each dismissive gesture seemed to push Scotia deeper and deeper into that pit of anger she had lived in since the day of the fire, the day her mother was slain. Did he shun her, too? Aye, he did, when he wasn’t tracking her like an escaped prisoner.
He had thought ’twas Scotia isolating herself in her anger and grief, but he realized ’twas more than that. The lassie who everyone for so long had shaken their heads over and smiled at herantics when she landed in yet another bucket of trouble was now treated as if she did not exist, except by Peigi, who condemned her to forever scrubbing pots.
