The Warrior Trainer (3 page)

   "Ye're a daft woman, ye are. When has Scotia submitted t
ae
anyone? Or are ye forgettin' the fits she gave us while growin' up? Ach!" A smile of fondness undercut Burke's words. With an effort he got to his feet, cursing his ancient bones as he did so. "I say we let the bloody fool go before Scotia learns of our plan and has our hides as well as his.
”

   Maisie ignored Burke's ramblings and grasped the fallen warrior by his arms, attempting to drag him across the flagstone floor. Long ago her strength had been great enough to easily move the large man, but now she was older and weaker. "Ye could quit yer blatherin' and help an old girl," she gasped as she continued to slide the man toward the bedchamber on the right. "I'm not as young as I used to be and he's a lot heavier than he looks."

   Burke offered her a toothless smile and remained where he stood. "Serves ye right for messin' in other people's business, Maisie, old girl."

   Ian woke to a throbbing in his temple. He tried to flex his shoulders, but found his hands were secured behind his back. He frowned, then regretted it when the movement brought a sharp pain to his head. It was bad enough that he, a formidable warrior in his own village, had been defeated by two antiquated biddies. But did they have to restrain him as well? Such things never happened to him. He was far too careful and clever for that. At least he had thought so until now.

   He pulled at the ropes that bound his wrists together. They gave ever so slightly. He tugged again. The binding separated more, giving him the room he needed to wiggle his hands free. His captors might be sly, but they could learn a thing or two about tying knots. A moment later he released the bindings at his feet, then made his way to the door of what appeared in the darkness to be a bedchamber.

   He should have been grateful they had not taken him to the dungeon. Ian allowed himself a sly grin. He knew now that neither of the ancients could be the Warrior Trainer. For some reason they were protecting their mistress. And Ian wanted to know why.

   He opened the door cautiously, peering into the corridor beyond. Shadows lurked in the unguarded hallway, creating pockets of darkness along the gray stone walls. He stepped out of the room, then paused while he willed the throbbing in his head to subside.

   Since the pain was not obedient to his wishes, he ignored it and crept quietly along in the shadows toward the staircase. He could see no one.

   It would be easy to descend the stairs, head for the door, and leave. Leave. The thought grated more than he expected it to. If he left now, he would have to accept defeat. The Four Horsemen would go unpunished, perhaps even return to his village to destroy his clansmen. Worst of all, how would he face his foster father again, knowing he had failed to do as he asked? He must stay to fulfill his duty.

   Ian set his jaw. To start, he would find the real Trainer. He slipped down the stairs, then paused, taking time to survey the unfamiliar surroundings. His plan was simple. Find her, demand her help, learn whatever secrets she harbored about fighting, then return to his clan. Time was of the essence if he was to avenge Malcolm's death and save his people.

   Using the shadows as a shield, Ian crept into the great hall on the left. The room was neat and orderly, with the chairs pushed against the wall, tables free from clutter, and the rushes freshly laid. Here was evidence of a well- kept home.

   Four young women stood near the hearth, one of them stoking the fire. Their backs were to him, and for that Ian was grateful as he picked his way across the hall, heading toward the corridor on the other side. Once inside the corridor, two doorways flanked the right and left side. He checked them both and found them empty before moving on to the doors farther down. After he checked the sixth chamber and found nothing, a stab of irritation shot through him. How many more rooms could there be in the main part of the keep? Already he had turned three corners, leaving only one side of the castle left to explore.

   He continued down the corridor until he came to yet another doorway. He tried the latch and the door opened easily to reveal a much larger space than the others. This room stretched upward, topped off by an elaborate vaulted ceiling that gave the chamber an open, airy feeling similar to the church near his village. But this was no church. Swords, axes, pikes, daggers, and various pieces of armor lined the walls, their highly polished metal gleaming beneath the light cast from a series of arched windows at both sides of the room.

   So many dangerous weapons—military strength worthy of any warrior. Except this warrior was female. He tensed at the thought. Women were meant to hold babes in their delicate and nurturing arms, not weapons of destruction. Perhaps she had not yet met a man who incited her to change?

   Ian smiled at the thought, but he was not here to pursue anything other than training. Once his commitment to his foster father had been satisfied, he would leave this castle and its mysteries behind.

   He strode to the wall of swords and reached for a lethal-looking blade. But the touch of cold, sharp steel against the front of his throat stilled him.

   "Move and I shall give you a wound you shall wear to your grave," a husky voice threatened from behind.

   Ian inclined his head only enough to communicate his agreement. He let his arm drop from the sword, cursing himself for not grabbing it sooner. "Are all the residents in this castle as friendly as those I have met so far?"

   A second dagger pricked the flesh just below his ribs, causing a sharp pain. So much for humor.

   His irritation quickly shifted to intrigue. What kind of woman was this trainer of warriors? No woman had ever spoken to him with such authority before. And there was no denying she was a woman. Her body pressed against his back—a combination of strength and hard metal wrapped in the soft scent of heather.

   "If you release me, I shall do as you ask," he said.

   The blade against his chest disappeared and the one at his throat eased. In that instant, he twisted out of her grasp. He meant to move away, but the sight of her held him captive just as tightly as her arms had done. Aye, she was definitely female. Even though her upper body was concealed behind a brigandine covered in faded red velvet, the plated armor did little to hide her curves. Her lower half was concealed by an assortment of leather and metal armor, yet the curve of her hips teased the soft red fabric of her skirt. But none of those things entranced him as much as the sight of her long, thick, sleep-tossed hair. It appeared dark in the uncertain light, perhaps red, perhaps brown. Locks of untamed curls spilled over her shoulders, teasing the edge of her chest armor as she returned her dagger to a sheath at her waist. An odd combination, that wild, feminine hair against the cold, masculine armor.

   "You are the Trainer?" Ian asked, trying to conceal the slight breathlessness that stirred in his chest.

   "I should be the one to ask who you are, trespasser." She drew a long, thin length of leather with two small weights at each end from her belt.

   "Ian MacKinnon of the clan MacKinnon." He kept his gaze on her weapon—a weapon that had the capability to render him immobile if he chose to attack. But would she use it? Or was she playing some sort of game?

   "Why are you here, Ian MacKinnon?"

   A devilish part of him wanted to find out if she was half as tough as she appeared. He took two steps toward her.

   She swung the two ends of the leather in a circle at her side, filling the distance between them with a threatening burst of air.

   A false move on his part and he was certain she would wrap those leather strands about his neck before she let him anywhere near her. So much for testing her. Ian paused. "I seek the Trainer."

   She snorted inelegantly. "You are a poor liar. If you had come to see the Trainer then why would I find you in this chamber stealing a sword instead of in the great hall preparing to make your introductions?"

   "I was not given a choice," he said, suddenly feeling impatient at the time he wasted sparring verbally with this woman. If she was the Trainer, why did she not just acknowledge it and they could move forward with the training? Ian folded his arms over his chest. "Had I the choice I would beg pardon and ask to speak with you."

   "And you think that would have gained you an audience?" She swung her weapon in a slow, methodical circle.

   "I had hoped it would serve my purpose as well as anything else."

   "If your only purpose is to fight me, then you are a fool."

   In an instant the leather strands snaked around his arms. Two heavy weights struck his chest, forcing the air from his lungs. The powerful throw sent him off balance. He tried to move sideways, to twist himself free of the bonds, but she was too quick. She caught him in the stomach with her foot and sent him sprawling on his backside.

   Slowly she stalked toward him, a tigress on the prowl. She straddled him with her leather-covered legs, then sat on his chest. She stared at him calmly, her face still and strangely sad, her mouth unsmiling, her green eyes so solemn he wondered if she ever smiled.

   "You wanted to meet the Trainer?" she asked. "Consider yourself introduced. Now that the pleasantries have been observed, you may leave."

Chapter Three

   "I shall not leave until I get what I came for," the MacKinnon said. "Release me."

   The blond man gazed at Scotia with a calm, unnerving stare. Despite the fact she sat atop his chest, something about his gaze pinned her there even as a surge of warmth flooded her cheeks.

   Unnerved, she stood, then stepped back from him, hoping the distance would hide her fluster. He was only a man. She drew a slow, even breath in an effort to regain her composure. Since she could first wield a sword, she had battled and trained a hundred men. What made this one different from the others? What about him made her blush?

   She studied him, measuring and appraising. An air of barely suppressed danger surrounded him. She saw it in the taut line of his shoulders and the grim line of his mouth. He had the look of a man prepared to take on the world and bend it to his will, no matter the consequences. Yet she sensed a vulnerability in him as well, something she could not quite define.

   "There will be no battles today," she said impatiently, suddenly angry at herself for having such ridiculous thoughts about a stranger who had entered her keep, a man who was still a threat.

   He untangled himself from the cords of her weapon and stood, neither approaching nor withdrawing. "I have not come to do battle with you, but to train with you."

   Scotia started at the words before she caught herself and masked her reaction. She could not allow herself to hope.
To train with you
. The words played over in her mind despite her efforts. It had been twelve of the longest and most difficult years of her life since she had heard anyone outside her castle utter those words.

   The last warriors, a father and a son, had come to train with her mother and herself when she was thirteen. The son, a youth of fifteen, had been resentful of her age back then. But he soon learned that skill mattered more than age. The father had taken his knowledge and had joined forces fighting the English. The son had remained with her. And over the years had become her most valued warrior, Richard.

   But what of this warrior before her? What were his true intentions?

   Fleeting emotion, subtle and reserved, flickered over his aquiline features. Fear? Desperation? Scotia studied him, searching his gaze for some clue of his true intentions. Could she believe him? Or was this some new ploy devised to get her to lower her guard, then strike when she was more vulnerable? It was a deception none of the challengers who had come to battle her for her title had tried yet. "Why should I believe you?”