The Warrior Trainer (20 page)

   Her confidence had faltered. He had witnessed that painful truth in her eyes when he had found her in her training chamber the day Lizbet had arrived. He had seen the look again later in the chapel. And today, there was no mistaking Scotia's vulnerability after her battle with the foreigner.

   But how could he help? How could he get her to once again embrace the destiny she had been born to? Give her what she needed—men outside her own household to train. Provide her with faithful warriors, and her confidence would reemerge of its own volition.

   Ian looked around. Before him stretched two trails. The southeastern route led to Glenfinnan and the Four Horsemen. The other path led to the western shoreline. From the top of the ridge he could see the small Isle of Rum. His father had always told him if he ever needed help, the Ranald clan of Rum would assist the MacKinnons with their very lives if necessary.

   Ian touched his heels to his horse's side and loped off in the direction of the shoreline. The time had come to put his father's claims to the test.

   For only when he was freed from the pull of Scotia's destiny could he leave her once again to follow his own.

   The late afternoon sun hung low in the sky, lengthening the shadows and casting a warm, spring freshness over the shore and the hills beyond. Ian grasped the edge of the boat he had borrowed to cross the Cullin Sound, then pulled the vessel to rest upon the shore. After tucking the oars inside the boat, he hoisted a boiled leather pouch filled with provisions over his shoulder and set out on foot for the trail leading away from the beach.

   He had no time to waste; the sun would set within the hour. Now that he had made the decision to go back to Scotia, it seemed he had already been gone too long. Not knowing how she fared, or if she remained safe during his absence, stretched each moment into an eternity. Ian wondered whether he would be able to leave her for good after he returned with warriors. For he must. His own goals could wait no longer.

   The men he sought now would provide her sufficient protection, see she remained unharmed regardless of the Four Horsemen's presence in their land. As the sun started to fade into early evening, Ian had almost convinced himself of that.

   He paused to survey his surroundings. He had walked through a sparsely forested area for a time now and had yet to see any signs of a village. A chill rushed through the trees, teasing the exposed skin of his hands and neck and knees. A sure sign that when the sun went down the night would turn cold. Regardless, he would continue on until he found the Ranalds.

   He set off through the trees for a slight rise in the terrain to his left. As evening descended, the noises around him stilled until only the whisper of his footsteps sounded on the soft earth beneath his feet. It was only a brief pause between day and night.

   A branch snapped. Ian froze. The sound came again. He searched the hazy dusk with a growing sense of unease. Something was not quite right. He reached for his sword.

   Looming figures came out of the shadows of the trees to surround him. There were eighteen men to his one. Ian tensed, but did not draw his sword.

   "Are you so eager to die that you refuse to draw your weapon?" the biggest of the men taunted as he swung his sword easily, round and round.

   "I come in peace in search of Douglas Ranald."

   The man's weapon stilled, and a frown came to his face.

   "Who wants to speak to the Ranald
?”
a gray-haired man asked from behind the others. The men blocking him stepped back, revealing an older man dressed in a mantle of green. His bright blue eyes searched Ian's face with interest.

   "Ian MacKinnon. Son of Abbus MacKinnon. Friend of the Ranalds."

   "How do I know ye speak the truth?" The old man's brows came up as he regarded Ian with a mixture of intrigue and suspicion. "How do we know ye aren't one of the Four Horsemen who's got the mainland up in a fury?"

   "For one thing," Ian said, "I have no horse." He'd left his horse on the mainland, at the shore.

   "Aye," the older man admitted with a bit of a smile.

   "I am here to find men to help fight the Four Horsemen alongside the Warrior Trainer if they should attack her castle."

   "The Warrior Trainer? She is dead."

   "Nay, she is very much alive. I have seen her and trained with her myself."

   "Praise the saints." Relief filled the old man's face for a brief moment before the look shifted, appraising Ian critically. "So yer a MacKinnon." He shook his head. "Ye doona look like a MacKinnon."

   The barb pierced his skin, but Ian clamped his jaw against the slight. He had been treated that way all his life. "Perhaps not, but I am just the same."

   "And ye have proof of yer claim, have ye?"

   Ian's restraint snapped. He needed to get to the Ranald and he would get there through all of these men if he must. He drew his sword, the sound sharp and lethal.

   Instead of fear, amusement reflected in the old man's eyes. "Aye, yer a MacKinnon all right." With a wave of his hand he signaled for the others to drop their swords. "I am the Ranald. Happy I am to greet ye after years of waiting for yer arrival."

   Ian frowned. "What do you mean? How could you know of my purpose here?"

   The man stepped forward to clap Ian on the shoulder. "Yer father warned me years ago there might come a day when ye would need my help."

   Ian narrowed his gaze on the man. "I did not know I would come here myself until a short while ago."

   The Ranald's smile deepened to a grin. " 'Twas foretold by a prophet years past that a MacKinnon would help bring the Warrior Trainer's importance back to Scotland. 'Tis ye who was sent to fulfill that destiny."

   Ian did not understand. "But I am not a MacKinnon by blood."

   "Ye will be what ye want to be, laddie. Yer blood matters little. All men have their calls to duty, just as my clan does now. 'Twould be to our honor and glory to serve the Warrior Trainer with ye." He turned to his men. "And since there'll be no warring this eve, come back to the village with us. We would gladly share all we have with ye this night, then send ye off with men and supplies in the morn."

   "Thank you," Ian said humbly.

   The Ranald turned back to Ian. "Doona thank me yet. Not till we scour our country of these vandals who invade us. Agreed?" The old man held out his hand.

   Ian clasped his hand with his own. "Agreed."

Chapter Eighteen

   Scotia stood in the lists surrounded by her students. Half the young warriors of the castle began their daily exercises, while the other half had left earlier on patrol. Two new students joined them today—one eager for her knowledge, the other resentful. Lizbet and Griffin trained a distance from the others, practicing basic defense.

   A slight afternoon breeze sent wisps of hair to tease her cheeks, reminding her of the featherlight caress Ian had placed there before he left. Two days had passed and still she could not put Ian from her mind. She missed him. She missed his presence in her castle. She missed the easy banter when they talked. But most of all she missed his sensual smile—the one that brought out that irresistible dimple at the corner of his lips.

   But Ian was gone, quite possibly forever. Her sanity and her concentration would improve if she accepted that fact. And despite all the logic that told her to let go, she still held out hope that something would draw him back to her.

   And then what? What would she do if he did return? The thought brought an ache to the center of her chest.

   Scotia straightened, then tugged down the bottom of her brigandine, as if doing so would force away the emptiness Ian's absence created. Duty called for her to live in the moment, not the recesses of her mind.

   Griffin's lips curled up in an arrogant smile as he glared at his sparring partner. He lifted his weapon high over his head and swung at Lizbet. The girl saw the blow coming and did nothing to counter the move. Instead she stepped back, allowing Griffin to swing at only air. He stumbled sideways with the force of his movements.

   "You must strike your blows with less force and more control," Scotia said, grateful for the much needed redirection of her thoughts.

   He lowered his sword and gave her a long measuring look. "This is no sword, but a stick. And I am no warrior to fight with an infant."

   "It matters not whether you hold a sword, a stick, or use only your hands. Skillful manipulation is the key to mastery."

   Griffin tossed his weapon on the ground. "A stick is a stick."

   Lizbet charged forward, stick in hand, and whacked him across the knees, garnering a yelp of pain from her opponent.

   "I won," Lizbet shouted, waving her stick in the air. "My sword and I won."

   Griffin dropped into a sitting position and hugged his stinging knees to his chest. "I am going to kill that child if she does not stop hitting me," he grumbled as he cast a dark glare at Lizbet.

   "Then do not drop your weapon, and she will have no chance. As you said, she is only a child." A child with much talent and promise, Scotia mused as she picked up the stick and handed it back to Griffin. "Let us try that again, shall we?"

   Lizbet immediately sobered and assumed the fighting stance Scotia had taught her. The child's blond curls bobbed about her face as she tried to contain her excitement at this new challenge.

   The image reminded Scotia of herself at that age— how she hungered for her mother's knowledge, and how she would have done anything to gain the approval that her mother never gave to her. "You did well, Lizbet," Scotia said.

   A smile reflected in Lizbet's eyes at the compliment, but she did not take her gaze from her opponent.

   Griffin shook his head. "Nay. I have had enough child's play this day. Until a more worthy partner can be found, count me out of the training."

   "I would be willing to step into that role," a familiar male voice said from the far side of the lists.

   Ian.

   A rush of joy made Scotia's knees weak. She turned toward him, her gaze filled with both relief and joy. He was safe. His face was shadowed with both fatigue and a day's growth of beard, but the smile on his lips told her what she wanted to know. He had returned and he was glad to see her.

   Scotia swallowed against the sudden thickness in her throat. "You came back."

   "I did." The words were simple, but the look in his eyes spoke of something more complex. His emotions mirrored her own—the depths of her fear and the richness of her joy. A shiver of sensation sent her heartbeat into an erratic flutter. She clamped her hands together to try to tame her reaction to his return.

   Slowly, he moved toward her, as though giving her time to adjust to his presence. Scotia drew a steadying breath, feeling more in control of herself. It was then that she noticed the others. A crowd of rugged men gathered behind Ian. They stopped before her, a dozen men, clothed in plaids of blue, green, and brown, worn over shirts of saffron yellow, with legs bare from the knee to the top of their boots. The dress of her countrymen.

   "These men have come to train with you, Scotia, and protect you if the need should arise." Ian stepped aside to introduce the men, one by one. Keith, Angus, William, Donald ... their names blended together as each man came forward, offering a bow and expressing his desire to serve her and learn from her.