The Warrior Trainer (26 page)

   No one had ever told her that a touch, this slow caress, could bring an empty ache to the apex of her thighs, or make her breasts feel tight, or fill her with sensations she had no right to feel but no desire to stop despite the fact she knew she should.

   Any protests died as she moved her hands down his back to his tight, trim waist, then further down, to his buttocks. The feel of muscle and strength beneath her bare palms made her bold. She cupped his buttocks as he had her breasts, pleased by the groan of pleasure that escaped his lips.

   "Is this an invitation?" In one fluid motion he pressed her back against the heather tick and the tumble of covers that made up her bed. "An invitation we can both remember after we ..." His words drifted off, but the look of sadness and regret came back to his eyes.

   What was he telling her? Her mind warred with her body to find a meaning, but her body won over all rational thought, pulling her into the moment, leaving all else behind.

   Scotia slid her hands up his back and into the silky texture of his hair, capturing him as surely as he pinned her beneath him. She gasped as her breasts brushed against his broad chest, at the possessive way he caught one of her legs between his own, at the rigid maleness pressed intimately against her thigh.

   Lightheaded and disoriented, she tried to control the passion that washed over her. But she could not hold back a moan of pleasure as he pulled her closer, trapping spirals of untamed heat between them. The sensation was both exquisite and consuming.

   She wanted more of it.

   "If there is to be more between us, you will have to say the words, Scotia." The warmth of his labored breath curled against her cheek in silent invitation. "You have not been well, and I shall not take advantage of that state unless you wish it."

   She looked into his eyes, eyes that held both infinite patience and heated desire. Her gaze moved to the lips that hovered above hers, ready to descend if she gave him one small sign of encouragement. She wanted him to continue, but the thought of what came next held her back. She had learned enough from her mother to know this was how babies were formed. Yet her mother had said she would find no pleasure in the deed. How could that be possible when she had found only pleasure in his arms up to now?

   A long moment stretched between them while Scotia stared at him mutely, unable to find her voice.

   His mouth drew closer until he was only a whisper away. "Say you want this," he said in a soft brogue made rough by the desire he held back.

   A mere movement of her body would bring his lips to hers, one movement and she would be lost to his kisses forever. But with those kisses came a deeper commitment. Was she willing to make herself even more vulnerable than she was now for the sake of an heir, someone to carry on her task as Warrior Trainer? All for the sake of a kiss?

   With an agonized cry she turned her head away, knowing that the shadows would return to his eyes, shadows she would have put there by her denying them both this moment.

   "I understand," he said from beside her. His voice was not hard or angry, but laced with acceptance. He rolled from her and rose from the bed. She did not look up until she heard the door close softly behind him.

   He said he understood. How could he when she barely comprehended what had passed between them herself?

   Scotia twisted into the tangle of bedding next to her with a soft cry of unspent longing. Instead of her thick down coverlet, a soft woolen fabric pressed against her cheek. She drew back to look at it. His plaid. A single sob filled her, rose, caught in her throat. She could not breathe around the pain as her soul shattered within her.

   Why could she not have said the words he had longed to hear, that she had longed to say? She pulled the length of cloth away from the other linens and held it against her cheek, hoping to find solace in the action. None came. She closed her eyes and drew in the scents of mint and musk from the fabric—scents that would forever remind her of him.

   For the next two days, Scotia forced herself to get out of bed each morning and afternoon to train in the privacy of her bedchamber. Regaining her strength grew in proportion to her desire to be in charge of her own destiny. Ian had not come to visit her since she had turned him away. She understood why, but that did not make his absence any easier to take. If he would not come to her, she would go to him. But not until she could stand before him as his equal on the battlefield once more.

   Each morning she put herself through a series of stretches, working muscle by muscle until the stiffness caused by her injury and inactivity gave way to strong, supple movements. She used her time alone to retrain her body and refocus her mind. In the afternoons, she put herself through a series of kicks and lunges, parries and rolls, using the iron candleholder as her makeshift sword until she fell onto her bed, too physically spent to go on. But even exhaustion could not block out the memories of the moments she had spent melting in Ian's arms. against the length of plaid he had given her, finding contentment in its presence beside her cheek.

   As light crept into her chamber on the third day of Ian's absence, Scotia awoke to find her armor lying atop the coverlet at the foot of her bed. Her shield, sword, brigandine, gauntlets, cuisses, cross-garters and boots. It was all there, freshly oiled and shined. Next to her armor lay new quilted padding and a pleated skirt in the colors of the MacKinnon.

   Scotia scrambled to her knees, searching the bed for the length of cloth Ian had left with her. She tossed the bed linens aside in a desperate scramble, knocking her armor to the floor in her haste. Panic gripped her as she threw the linens aside, one by one in her search. The cloth was gone. But who had taken it, and why? She jumped off the bed and stared at the shambles of her room, at the softly pleated skirt on the floor, near her feet.

   Someone had taken the cloth to sew her this garment. Maisie? Ian? Scotia bent down and scooped it up, allowing the fabric to rub against her fingers. Beneath the plaid lay her usual tired red skirt.

   A new skirt or her old? Someone had wanted her to make a choice.

   Scotia pressed her lips together as she clutched Ian's plaid in her hands. What should she do? If she put on the fabric of his clan, would she be marking herself his? She brought the fabric up to rest against her cheek as she had when it was merely a length of fabric. The scents of mint and musk still lingered there, penetrated her mind, bringing forth an image of Ian, his lips hovering above hers. A delicious warmth spread through her at the memory.

   It might be an act of lunacy to wear his colors so intimately, but then again she had been skirting the bounds of sanity since the day he had arrived. What was one more irrational action when added to the rest?

   She drew her nightrail over her head and tossed it down beside her old red skirt. With a slight tremble in her fingers, she dropped the skirt over her head, tying the drawstring at the side. The fabric settled around her hips in a cloud of softness. With her fingers, she smoothed the plaid into evenly spaced pleats and smiled. The garment shaped to her hips as her old skirt never had, revealing feminine curves she had only recently discovered.

   She smoothed her hands over her hips and across her womb. If she closed her eyes tightly enough, she could almost imagine a flicker of movement inside her, or the gentle swell of her belly beneath her hands. A child: a permanent mark upon her body as well as her heart; an everlasting memory of the passion she and Ian shared to cause a child to develop and form.

   She opened her eyes. Did she want a child with this man? Could she move past her own fears of motherhood and vulnerability to allow that to happen?

   The image of Lizbet came to mind. Dear, sweet Lizbet, whose gentle acceptance proved to her she could be loving despite their less than perfect start. Scotia drew in a slow, deep breath. There were ways to keep a child safe once it was born, as her mother had kept her safe. As all the Scotias before her had kept their children safe from attackers.

   Would she feel the same way if she ever carried Ian's child—despite the fact there would always be others like Haldane who would challenge her?

   Haldane. He had almost defeated her. She brought her fingers up to the dark pink scars that stood out against the pale backdrop of her skin. Ribbons of color that looked so small and insignificant compared to the enormity of what had caused them. She had let down her guard for Ian and had been attacked when she was most vulnerable.

   Two wounds that marked her as a warrior, and two reminders of the moments of madness that she and Ian had shared.

   Her pulse quickened at the thought of him. Would she have done anything differently if she knew Haldane would attack her? The answer was immediate. Nay. She would have done almost anything for those moments in his arms.

   Why would she risk so much? She would risk everything for him, because she ... She let the sentiment drift away, not wanting to put a name to it. Yet even as she did, all the reasons for staying away from Ian, all the difficulties, were fading, losing their edges, becoming less clear.

   Scotia felt the awakenings of a smile come to her lips, joined by another odd, almost foreign sensation. Joy tumbled through her stomach, sending shivers of delight out across her bare arms and legs.

   She had to see Ian, had to somehow communicate that she was ready for a different kind of battle with him, ready to surrender to the force that pulled them together since the day they first met.

Chapter Twenty-two

   Feeling as light and airy as the fabric at her hips, Scotia swirled where she stood. A bubble of delight rose inside her as Ian's plaid came to rest against her thighs. She would gladly wear his plaid, his mark, if it meant that the rest of her desires would come to her as well.

   She raced back to the bed and slipped into her armor, eager now to leave her room and find the man who had changed her life for the better. Her fingers trembling with anticipation, Scotia plaited her hair. When she finished she picked up her sword and shield, then opened the door.

   Two of the men Ian had brought into her service stood at the entrance to her chamber dressed in full body armor. They held their spears in the shape of an X across her door, barring her exit. "Mistress," the taller of the two said.

   "At ease," she reassured them, but they did not drop their weapons.

   She placed her hand at the cross in the wood and pushed gently against the spears. The men did not yield. They could only stare at her with wide eyes and slack jaws. Scotia frowned. "I
sha
ll leave this room," she said with more force than she had intended. But her words had the desired effect. Both spears vanished, her way unchallenged.

   "Pardon, mistress," the guard on her left replied. "We dinna mean to stop ye. 'Tis just that ye look so different from the last time we seen ye. We are ever so glad ye are well and ready to train us again."

   Scotia turned to the other guard. Admiration shone in his eyes as well. " 'Tis a wonder that ye be a grand fighter when ye are also such a bonny lass."

   Scotia stiffened at his comment. What was wrong with these men? A skirt could not make that much difference in her appearance. Could it? Or was it how she felt in the skirt that changed her image? Baffled by their behavior, she hurried past the men.

   As she made her way through the familiar stone corridors of her home, she found herself relaxing. In this castle she was whoever she wanted to be—warrior, woman, mother. A mother. The thought sent a sudden chill across the back of her neck. She did not think she would ever get used to hearing that word in relation to herself. But perhaps in time ...

   Descending the stairs, she heard Ian's voice filtering up to her from the great hall. She could not make out the words, but his voice sounded strained. Any lightheadedness she felt disappeared as she recalled the threat of danger Ian had never confided to her. Her hand moved to her sword, and she was pleased to note her shoulder did not ache at the movement.