The Warrior Trainer (7 page)

   Scotia drew in a measured breath and caught the heady scent of musk from the MacKinnon as it mingled with the night air.

   "You dance well." His voice was light.

   "Well enough for a trainer of warriors." She stepped away from him, putting some distance between herself and that intoxicating male scent. She must think like a warrior, be a warrior. She gripped the hilt of her sword until the corded metal bit into her flesh. Her sword always reminded her of her purpose.

   "You might be a warrior, Scotia, but you are also a woman."

   She rounded on him, sword drawn. "I am no woman."

   "Nay?" He raised his brow in question. "That is not what I see. You are beautiful." The corner of his mouth drew up in a half smile. His dimple winked at her again.

   "That matters not," she said, uncertain how to react. No one had ever told her she was anything other than a warrior. How could he think she was beautiful, dressed as she was in leather and iron? "What matters is your training."

   She drew herself up. A new, even more lethal battle had taken hold of her, she realized with a start. The battle with herself against her own attraction to this man. Maisie was right after all. Mother Nature's lure was strong. In order to win this battle, her defenses must be stronger.

   Scotia tightened her grasp, once again feeling the metal of her sword press into her palm. With a grunt of disgust at her behavior, she waved the tip of her weapon close to his chest.

   He gave a harsh bark of laughter. "I am not afraid of you, Scotia."

   "You should be." She glared at him in the darkness. "We will begin again at sunrise," she said before striding away.

Chapter Six

   Ian leaned against the cold stone wall in Scotia's training chamber the next morning, hoping the chill would keep his mind on warring, on battle, and not on the beauty before him.

   With surprise and alarm he watched Scotia brandish her sword against her imaginary partner. He had spent the better part of the night contemplating the ceiling of his bedchamber, seized by madness. It was the only explanation. Why else would he forget his purpose here at this castle? Because last night he had. He had seen the light tapping of her booted toe as the music started, had noted the look of longing that filled her eyes. And he had done the unthinkable. The moment he folded his hand around hers, all thoughts of revenge against the Four Horsemen had fled from his mind, replaced by the need to see her smile.

   She had looked enchanting swirling about the hall. For a moment, the shadows that filled her gaze had disappeared. And although she had not smiled, a joy he felt certain she rarely experienced had radiated from her.

   After the previous day's training, he now realized the woman's skills with a sword far exceeded his own. He had no choice but to accept the fact. He had claimed he would not humble himself before her again, but he already had—every time he found himself on his back staring up at her sword. He would do so again today in order to learn how to fight with the same agility she now displayed. He would do anything to gain the knowledge he needed to defeat the Four Horsemen.

   Faint morning light forced its way through the windows above, spilling a hazy light about the room. "You are paying me no heed." Scotia scowled at him from inside the weblike network of ropes that made up her training cross.

   "Aye, but I am." Ian tried to look away from the trap of her green eyes, tried to look anywhere but at her. Yet he could not. Her movements captivated him and held him in her grip. Like a lithe cat, she wove her body first over, then under the web of ropes arranged at different heights. Her sword rose and fell as she went through the training routine she had set forth for him.

   Her movements were tightly controlled, graceful and elegant despite her heavy armor. Movements he had never seen before. Her actions held not only strength, but a power he had not witnessed in any other woman. He saw something else in her features this morning as well—something that had not been present last night. Loneliness.

   Ian folded his arms over his chest and studied her closely. How long had she been in charge of this keep and in the role of Warrior Trainer? Maisie had said Scotia's mother had died many years ago. Had her father as well?

   Scotia performed the intricate steps moving her way through a timeless dance. He could see the outline of the well-honed muscles in her arms and legs. And though she appeared stronger than any woman he had ever met, a softness, a suppleness, was evident in her body as well.

   Feminine strength—an alluring combination. He found himself snagged by the sight before him, drawing in a breath with each lift and extension of her sword, then exhaling as her shoulders dipped, bringing the blade down, protecting her chest from exposure to an enemy sword. His heart pulsed as her blade flashed upward in a fluid, confident stroke better than any he'd seen. Her eyes showed no fear, betrayed no vulnerability. Yet what he glimpsed in their depths gave him pause. Her face looked a score and five but her eyes spoke of twice that age.

   "How long have you been in charge here?"

   She continued her movements, only a slight hesitation on her upswing proving she had heard his question. "We are here to train, not talk."

   Her unwillingness to answer only brought more questions to mind. What in her past had left such a scar that she cut herself off from the people around her? The members of her household cared greatly for her. He had seen proof of that last night. She might have blocked out the encouraging looks others had thrown her way, but he had not. Had she once been free of responsibilities? Did the burdens of her role rest even more heavily upon her because she had once known the lightness of being free? Was that what brought the current shadows to her beautiful green eyes?

   What was it about her that made him care? He had to admit he admired her dedication to her craft. But it was more than appreciation that drew his gaze to her lips over and over again. Lips that were generous and full. Kissable. The word formed in his mind before he could stop it, and an answering warmth flared in his loins. He would not mind kissing her at all.

   Kissing her?

   Ian shook his somewhat cloudy head and tried without success to pull his gaze from her mouth. He was here to train, to focus on his revenge, not to find pleasure.

   Besides, the woman would most likely eat him alive before she allowed him the opportunity to kiss her. And yet, such an attempt might be worth the risk. For he was certain if she ever gave herself over to such emotion she would embrace it with the same intensity with which she fought.

   At the thought, arousal roared through him. He gave up trying to look away and continued his exploration. The formed metal plates of her brigandine were no doubt meant to conceal the soft flare of her breasts and hips. They only accentuated them, though. Yet no one could say her soft curves lessened her image as a dangerous warrior. Nay, if anything she appeared even more powerful, leaving no doubt that her family carried a warrior's bloodline in its veins.

   Leather cross-garters held her
cuisses
against her legs and peeked out from beneath the hem of a red skirt that skimmed the tops of her shapely thighs. An image of smooth, creamy thighs filled his mind. Underneath all that armor existed a woman who had no idea how enticing she was.

   Ian bit back a groan and tore his gaze away. What was he thinking? Perhaps that bash he had taken on the head had rattled his brains more than he had realized.

   He could appreciate her looks all he wanted as long as he did so from afar—from the end of a sword, preferably. That would at least remind him of why he was here. The last thing he needed was to complicate his life. It was best if he kept his fantasies to himself, focused on his training, then left to exact his revenge on the Four Horsemen, who had altered his life for the last time.

  
Scotia felt Ian's gaze upon her. He was supposed to observe her motions, then join her in the training cross. But his gaze was nowhere near her sword, and he had yet to imitate what she had shown him thus far.

   "Have you finished watching me practice, or would you care to rest some more before you begin?" She could not hide the touch of irritation that laced her voice. His blatant observation left her off-balance and uncomfortable.

   Ian drew his sword. "I could watch you forever."

   The husky baritone of his voice warmed her. She knew he meant he could watch her wield a sword forever. "You will do fifteen repetitions through the ropes, advancing, then retreating."

   "With no opponent?" He offered her an innocent smile.

   "Use your imagination. That is, if you have one."

   His smile shifted from innocent to playful. "I assure you I do." He lunged forward against his unseen enemy, but his gaze remained on her, assessing her as he moved.

   She turned away from his verbal sparring and those distracting eyes. She drew a slow, shaky breath, trying to still the rapid beat of her heart. What was happening to her? Before Ian had come to Loch Glencarron she had cared not a whit how people looked at her or spoke to her. She rarely exchanged a civil word with her challengers before they attacked. As the Warrior Trainer, she expected nothing more.

   Yet when she was around Ian, the sound of his voice did things to her insides, and his gaze made her feel...soft. Nay, that was not it exactly. He made her feel feminine and more aware of her own sexuality than she ever had before.

   That realization struck terror in her heart such as no warrior ever had before. Her only purpose as a female was to breed the next descendant in her lineage. And as her mother always told her, it was an act that would give her no pleasure.

   Her hand flared across her womb. A moment of longing pulled at her. What would it be like to feel a child growing inside her? To be free to raise that child with no destiny or obligations to fulfill? Her hand fell to her side. That kind of freedom was not to be for her or for any daughter she might produce. Scotia pulled the edge of her brigandine back into place. With a sigh, she turned to face her student, for she must only think of him as such.

   Ian stilled, allowing the tip of his sword to dip to the ground. Concern flooded his gaze. He left the training cross and came toward her. "Are you ill?"

   His genuine concern caught her off guard. None but Maisie had ever thought she might require care or gentleness. She managed to absorb the odd sensations that knotted her stomach. "It is time to battle. If you can apply the skills I taught you this morn, who knows?" She shrugged, forcing a nonchalance she did not feel. "Perhaps you will best me this day." She could feel his focus intensify.

   "And when I do finally best you?" he prompted softly.

   "It is highly unlikely." She opened her mouth to continue, but he laid one callused finger against her lips.

   "I do love a challenge." He traced the sensitive outline of her lips with his finger, moving slowly across the top, then the bottom.

   Her mouth tingled. She fought the urge to press against his touch. No man had ever touched her thusly. Saints alive, it was a pleasurable feeling indeed. One she was not certain she wanted to stop.

   "Shall we begin?" he asked as he drew his finger away. "Aye," she breathed and brought up her sword, suddenly determined to win this fight at all costs.

  
"Did ye see the way he touched her lips? Did ye?" Burke whispered from behind the doorway to Scotia's training chamber. "Ye were right, old girl. Our betrayal of Scotia's existence and location seems t
ae
have worked. It prompted Abbus MacKinnon t
ae
do as Scotia's mother bid him so many years ago."