The Warrior Trainer (22 page)

   "Lucky me."

   "No." Haldane bared his teeth in savage delight. "Lucky me to be the one to take you down."

Chapter Nineteen

   Metal to metal, their swords rang a peal of power and violence. A quick attack, then withdrawal. Scotia and Haldane studied each other as they circled like wolves, two warriors engaged in a life-and-death struggle.

   Ian clenched his fists at his sides as a mindless panic set in. Haldane had mentioned the Stone. Whether Scotia possessed it or not did not disturb him as much as the fact that she would not allow him to fight for her. How could he just stand back and watch? As a warrior, the battle was everything to him. Yet this was a battle he could not fight.

   Cursing the rules of honor that forbade him from interfering once the first strike had been made, Ian kept his sword poised. The sound of the clashing swords rose above all else until even the slight breeze that had crept down from the north abated, as though it too held its breath.

   Ian clenched his teeth. His gaze clung to Scotia. He had seen men like Haldane before. Loathsome adventurers who would rather steal others' success than earn it themselves. Men who would kill without remorse. A sickening fear tightened Ian's gut. He would never allow that to happen. Not to Scotia.

   No one could keep him from interfering in her battle if the fight turned against her. He would do anything, even break a code of honor, if it kept Scotia safe. He clutched his sword in his right hand and drew his dagger with the left. He tensed, balancing on the balls of his feet as she had taught him, waiting, watching.

   Several of the castle's inhabitants suddenly appeared at the gate; no doubt the sounds of battle had pulled them away from their daily tasks. Each time Scotia's sword caught her opponent unaware, a cheer rose from the crowd. Tension mounted as Griffin and the new warriors gathered among the growing crowd, forming a semicircle around Scotia and Haldane.

   "They are boxing her in," Keith Ranald said as he tried to push the crowd back with his strong arms, giving Scotia more room to maneuver. His attempts were unsuccessful, but Scotia did not seem to notice the lack of space. Her broadsword slashed right, then left, and back again, as she pressed her attack.

   Ian drew an easier breath when he detected a slight shift in Haldane's stride. Scotia's opponent was beginning to tire. She must be every bit as tired, yet she showed no sign. Instead, she stood tall and proud, moving on full attack. Haldane spun away. Scotia feinted to the left and drew her sword across Haldane's thigh, drawing blood through the boiled leather cuisses that covered the tops of his legs.

   Haldane did not cry out in pain, but his eyes flared with outrage. He slashed a wide, furious circle around Scotia. His attack no longer held any kind of predictability as he savagely cut at anyone and anything in his way. The crowd scattered like leaves in a strong wind.

   Ian remained where he stood, unable to move away despite the danger. Haldane had turned from dangerous to lethal. A wounded animal willing to sacrifice all for the sake of triumph. And if Scotia were not careful, Haldane would kill both himself and her before this battle was through.

   Ian stepped forward, unable to stay uninvolved. "Hold." A hand on his arm restrained him. The old gatekeeper, Poppie, stood beside him, his gaze gentle with understanding. "She made her wishes known. Let her continue."

   "Nay, I must—"

   "Interfere now, and Haldane will only come back again. Let this battle be the end. I beg ye."

   Ian knew the gatekeeper was right. He forced his feet to remain still despite an almost desperate desire to go to her. He had no one to blame but himself for this situation. He had been so eager to see Scotia again, had wanted to bring a smile to her lips, that he had dropped his usual guard, charging forward without a second thought, until only the need to kiss her had dominated over reason.

   And now, Scotia would pay for his indiscretion. He kept his gaze upon her, fearing to look away for the slightest of moments. Her sword dipped slightly, growing heavy in her arms, a sign of the strain the battle put on her. Despite that weakness, her reflexes were still strong, but they could not hold out forever. With the next clash of sound, his thoughts proved him right. Both swords struck flesh and came away red. A dark, red ribbon of blood spilled from her padded shoulder.

   Ian tightened his grip on his sword. He shifted forward, ready to rescue her. Scotia's gaze left Haldane and blazed into Ian's. She voiced nothing aloud, but her gaze said This is my battle. He forced himself to remain still against an overwhelming tide of anger and frustration. He answered her with a look he hoped conveyed his faith in her abilities.

   Bolstered by his gaze, she attacked with a renewed vigor. Haldane's eyes widened in surprise. Their blades came together with such force that sparks flared off the metal. The two swords locked together at the hilt. Scotia wrenched the sword from Haldane's grasp, sending it arching wildly across the hard-packed dirt of the outer bailey.

   Her opponent fell backward to the ground as he stared after his sword in shocked disbelief.

   She used his distraction to finish the deed. She poised her sword at the soft flesh of Haldane's neck. If he moved, the lethal blade would end his life. "Do you yield?"

   Haldane remained still except for the harsh rise and fall of his chest. "Aye."

   "Do you swear that you will never return to challenge me again? Or send other men to do the task for you?"

   His gaze turned mutinous. "I have been defeated twice. My pride cannot take much more."

   Scotia pressed the blade more firmly against his throat, drawing blood. "Your word, Haldane. I need your word."

   "I promise never to return," he spat out.

   "And?"

   Haldane's gaze hardened. "I shall cease sending mercenaries to challenge you as well." Her sword lifted and the challenger twisted away. He staggered to his feet, gathered his sword, then limped away.

   Ian sheathed his sword and his dagger before he raced to Scotia's side. The Ranald warriors walked behind Haldane, making certain he caused no further trouble.

   The battle was over.

   Ian had never been so glad of anything in his life.

   As quickly as he could, he ripped off a length of linen from the bottom of his shirt and bound it across the top of Scotia's shoulder, then under her arm. "Let us get you inside."

   Scotia stumbled, then regained her balance as she walked back to where her brigandine lay against the dirt. With stiff movements, she pulled the armor back over her head.

   "Your shoulder," Ian said, trying to remain in control of the overwhelming guilt that flooded him. If only he had been more careful.

   "Maisie will tend me later." She began to fasten the ties when Ian stilled her hands.

   "Nay. I shall see to it now."

   She began to protest, but Ian ignored her, sliding his arm about her waist. She gave in, and leaned heavily upon him as he led her back to the keep amid the stares of her people. If their curious gazes bothered her, she did not show it.

   Ian scattered the observers with a piercing gaze. Did they take Scotia's challenges and her winnings so much for granted that they regarded these occasions as moments of casual interest?

   He gritted his teeth against a sudden rush of anger. Scotia might be the Warrior Trainer, but she was also mortal. Over the years of caring for the sick with his foster mother, he had seen many great warriors die from wounds like this. He shut himself off to the memories. Such a fate did not await Scotia, not while he was near.

   With a renewed sense of urgency, he whisked her off her feet. She made a small sound of protest, but did not fight him. A sign of the seriousness of the wound. Like a man possessed, he hurried into the keep and up the stairs to her chamber.

   He deposited her in a chair by the hearth. "Thank you," she murmured.

   "Do not thank me." He knelt down beside her. "I am the reason you left the protection of your castle." He could not keep the guilt from his voice.

   Scotia took up his hand. He stared down at their fingers, hers encased in gauntlets, his roughened by years of hard work, and felt his guilt and anger fade into surprise. It was the first time she had reached for him. For hands so small, there was great strength in her grasp.

   She caught and held his gaze. There was no blame in her expression—only forgiveness. "Haldane would have come back sooner or later. At least now the suspense of waiting for him is over."

   At her acceptance of her fate, a kind of peace settled inside Ian. "Do you believe Haldane will keep his word not to challenge you again
?”

   Scotia released his hand. She leaned her head back against the chair. "He will stay away for a while. But with men like him, the lure of success often outweighs the honor of their word, especially now that he's guessed about the Stone." A weariness invaded her voice. She closed her eyes.

   She had the Stone. The real Stone. A part of him rejoiced that the English had failed to steal the artifact from them at the Abbey of Scone. But what price had Scotia paid for that deception? He stared down at her tired, beaten body.

   She might accept her destiny as protector of the Stone and a warrior who could count on no one but herself, but he intended to prove her wrong. "I must check your wound." Gently, Ian lifted her armor from her shoulders, then pulled the heavy protection over her head.

   The armor had barely left her skin when her eyelids fluttered open. Uncertainty shone in her eyes. Her hands came up to shield her padded chest from his view. A rush of color flooded her pale cheeks. "I shall be well once I rest." Her voice was weak, hesitant. "And I am certain Maisie is mixing up some sort of remedy."

   "I want to see the wound for myself." Ian set her armor aside, then turned back to her shoulder. After removing the blood-soaked linen bandage he had tied around her shoulder, he pushed the padding and her thin chemise aside to examine the wound. He breathed a silent sigh. The gash in her flesh was deep, but none of the sinew beneath the muscle had been disturbed.

   "How is it?" she asked. Her face paled, but her eyes held an underlying strength that he doubted would ever fail her, no matter how grim the circumstances. '

   He thought about telling her a falsehood, then decided against it. He had learned from his many hours spent in his foster mother's company as she healed the sick of their clan it was best to tell people the truth. "The wound is serious, but the arm is not damaged."

   "That is a relief," she said with a tinge of nervousness in her voice. "It would be difficult to be the Warrior Trainer with only one functioning arm."

   "Scotia." The word was more a plea than a warning. "The arm is fine, but the wound is deep. I must stanch the bleeding. I can either seal it with a heated sword, or knit it together with thread. Which will it be?"

   "The sword." She stiffened her back and sat up straight in the chair. She put on a brave front, but Ian could hear fear in the slight quaver of her voice. "Make it quick."

   Ian paused to consider her decision. Her words spoke one thing, but her actions suggested something else. "It will leave a scar," he explained, loath to inflict that kind of pain or lasting disfiguration on her flesh.

   "I care not what it looks like. All warriors have scars."

   "You are far more than a warrior, Scotia." He drew his dagger and carefully cut away the padding from first the back, then the front of her shoulder. He pulled the thick fabric away, exposing her creamy flesh. When he saw a second red gash lower on her shoulder, his heart seemed to freeze. Though not a fresh wound, the purple and brown gash was recent and had never healed as it should have. "What is this?"