The Warrior Trainer (23 page)

   "A memento from my last encounter with Haldane." Scotia kept her gaze trained on Ian as though waiting for something.

   His anger built, matched only by the fierce wave of protectiveness that washed over him at the thought that Haldane had not injured Scotia once, but twice. Violent thoughts of how he could repay Haldane overtook him until he realized Scotia's gaze had not changed.

   Did she expect him to think less of her because of this additional sign of weakness? Did she equate wounds to failure? If so, she needed his reassurance, not his anger. "As you said. All warriors have scars. You are no different from the rest." He sheathed his dagger. "Now," he said in a matter-of-fact tone, "I shall take care of this wound."

   "Are you certain you know what to do?" she asked, but a look of relief passed across her features.

   "Aye, but you might want a bit of ale to dull the pain before I begin." Ian was about to continue with his instructions when the door of the chamber burst open with a resounding whack against the opposite wall. Two cries of anguish sounded from the doorway—one a wail, the other a screech—followed by two bodies as they hurried across the room, staggering to a halt at Scotia's feet. Ian stepped back, giving Maisie and Lizbet access to Scotia.

   "Scotia," Lizbet wailed, thrusting her head into Scotia's lap.

   Scotia stroked Lizbet's golden hair as the little girl sobbed. "I am all right. Look at me. I am well, and will be ready to battle you again on the morrow."

   The little girl's head came up and the tears stopped. "Truly?" she asked with a sniffle.

   "I promise," Scotia said in a soothing voice that made Ian pause. Much had changed between these two since he had been gone. He could see the slight tightening of Scotia's lips, no doubt from the pain, despite the fact she tried to appear calm and at ease. It was something a mother might do to protect her child from fear.

   "My dear sweet child," Maisie said from near Scotia's side, "this is not exactly the homecomin' I had envisioned for the two of ye." The older woman glanced up at Ian. She managed to keep her face composed despite the lines of worry etched around her eyes and mouth.

   "I shall be fine, Maisie," Scotia said, ignoring the woman's comment. "It is just a cut."

   Maisie's gaze shifted from the red linen on the floor to Scotia's shoulder. "It appears to be more than a cut." She held two bowls in her hands, one filled with a soft yellow paste, the other filled with dark-colored leeches. "I brought a poultice of clary seeds and yarrow. It will ease the pain until I can bleed her. Move aside young man. I shall see to her needs."

   Ian stared at the bowl of leeches and remained where he stood. "Nay," he said in a stronger voice than he had intended.

   Maisie took a step back, and the bowls in her hands trembled ever so slightly.

   "We shall have no need of those here. My foster mother never used them. Besides, Scotia has lost enough blood already."

   Maisie drew back her shoulders. "What know you of healin', Ian?"

   "Enough to heal Scotia, not make her worse. Her last wound has never healed. See for yourself," Ian gestured toward Scotia's exposed shoulder. "If this is what your leeches do for her, I say it is my turn to try my hand without delay." Ian found it difficult to keep the anger from his voice.

   Ian knew the moment Maisie's gaze lit on the wound. Her face turned a pasty white before settling into an ashen shade of gray. "Mercy be. I had no idea." She held out both bowls to him. "All right. Ye can proceed. What might I do?"

   With a sense of relief, Ian accepted the poultice, then turned back to Scotia. "I shall need a jug of strong ale, a bucket of boiling water, strips of fresh linen, thread, and a very sharp needle."

   "Aye," Maisie agreed. "Lizbet, if ye wish to help Scotia, come with me." The girl hesitated until Scotia nodded her head, then stood and followed Maisie. The swish of their skirts and the closing of the chamber door told Ian they had left to do his bidding.

   "I did not ask you to sew me up." Concern danced across Scotia's features. "Sealing the wound will be faster. I cannot remain here for long. I have men to train."

   When she made to stand, Ian held up his hand, keeping her in her chair. "You need to heal before you will be any good to anyone."

   She shook her head. "There is no time to waste on such trivial things. The Four Horsemen could be headed this way. I need to protect my people for once, Ian. Lizbet has shown me how much my people suffer. I shall stand for it no longer." When he remained silent she added, "If you will not use a sword to stop the bleeding, then bind the wound. It will heal eventually."

   Ian crossed his arms over his chest. Did she not realize how ill she truly was? Or was this stubbornness a shield for some other emotion? "In every other battle we have, I am willing to accept defeat because your skill and talents far outweigh my own. But in this battle with your wound, I shall not concede. You will leave this chamber and return to your training when I say you may."

   She gave him a thunderous look.

   He returned the look with one of his own. She would not win. Not this time. "Do we understand each other?"

   Scotia was saved from a response by Maisie's return. "I left Lizbet with Cook. It took some talkin’ to keep the child from yer side, Scotia. She finally agreed to remain behind after I fed her an apple pastie and promised her she could visit when the wound was closed." As she spoke, Maisie set the items Ian had requested near the hearth. "Tell me what to do now."

   Ian picked up the jug of ale and held it out to the older woman. "She must drink this before I begin."

   "I shall not—"

   Ian shot Scotia a glance that dared her to argue.

   "Give me a tankard," she muttered.

   While Maisie handed Scotia the ale, Ian moved to the fire to run the needle through the flames as he had seen his foster mother do many times before. His hand was steady above the flame, but not his heart. He had watched his foster mother knit wounds together a thousand times. She made it look so easy, although he was certain it was not.

   He stared into the red and gold flames, waiting for his nerves to steady. He had to do this if he wanted the new wound on Scotia's shoulder to heal properly and not become putrid, as her last injury had. The tip of the needle grew red, and the metal warmed against his fingers. A needle. The tool of a woman looked small and insignificant in his large, masculine hand—a hand made for wielding a sword. He stared at the flames in the hearth pondering the irony of his situation. And with that tool he would mend a delicately molded feminine shoulder for a woman wielding a sword.

   A twist of fate.

   Ian removed the needle and dipped it in a pitcher of water to cool while he waited for the ale to take Scotia in its grip. When her gaze grew less focused and her objections tapered off, he knew it was time to begin.

   When he washed out the wound, Scotia flinched but said nothing. Instead, she held her gaze steady on something behind him, most likely using one of her training techniques to focus her thoughts.

   Each time the needle bit into her flesh, he tensed, longing for just a pinch of her composure. With painstaking care he pulled the edges of her skin together, binding them slowly despite his great desire to hurry. The thick needle tugged at her flesh as he worked it from one side of the wound to the next. By the time he reached the end, his hands were shaking. Beads of sweat dotted his temples and the back of his neck, yet she remained as calm and peaceful as if they were sharing a cup of tea—until he unsheathed his dagger.

   "You will torture me with first a needle and now your knife?" A tremor of fear flickered across her features when he reached back and ran the blade through the flames as he had the needle.

   "I must reopen the other wound and drain the putrefaction away." Could she hear the agony in his voice? The thought of his dagger slicing open her flesh twisted his gut. "If I do not, you will become ill, and perhaps die." He had seen it happen far too often during his foster mother's time as a healer.

   Scotia nodded grimly. "Be quick."

   After cooling the blade, he pressed the point against the ugly purple flesh. Slight pressure would open her flesh, yet he hesitated. He had never willingly drawn blood from another person outside of battle.

   His gaze moved from the wound to her face—a face covered with streaks of dirt and sweat as well as blood. Hair from her once neat plait framed her face in long, wet tendrils. Her cheeks were flushed, her color high from the trauma he had imposed on her. Her gaze came up to meet his. She had never looked more beautiful or more frightened. But beneath the fear there was also trust.

   "Why do you pause?" she asked in a tight voice.

   "It is difficult to be the one to inflict pain on someone you care about." Yet in order to heal her he must hurt her first.

   "You truly care for me?" The shadows that usually haunted her eyes slipped away and radiance filled her. The first true moment of happiness he had seen in her face.

   Her fingers crept up the back of his hand, until she wrapped them around the hilt of his dagger. Her touch was both comforting and reassuring. She understood how difficult this was for him. He could see it in her eyes.

   She thrust against the dagger.

   Ian drew a startled breath at the unexpected motion.

   The knife went in. Blood spilled across the tip of the knife, down the blade, until it mingled with their joined fingertips. A surge of gratitude erupted inside him. She had done what he could not. "Thank you," he said with a catch in his voice.

   Her hands left his to settle at her sides once more. "Make it quick, Ian." Her voice was barely a whisper. "If I must lose this battle ... at least allow me to keep my wits about me. I feel them ... slipping away."

   She closed her eyes and her head lolled against the back of the chair. "Must stay ... in control of my destiny."

Chapter Twenty

   Ian sat in a chair near Scotia's bedside in the overly warm room. He had stoked the fire into an intense blaze to keep away the chill that usually hung about the castle. The light of the fire illuminated the woman and small child who slept within a tangle of bed linens. After he had finished sewing Scotia's wounds, she had fallen into a fitful slumber. It was not until Lizbet came to snuggle beside her that Scotia grew calm and relaxed.

   Like mother and daughter, they appeared so at ease together. For that one miracle, Ian was grateful. Because Scotia seemed happier now that she had allowed someone other than Maisie and Burke into her heart. Would she allow him the same access? Ian frowned at the thought. He had never been worthy of anyone's love before. What made him think he deserved such a precious gift now, especially from Scotia?

   Ian tore his gaze away from her, shifting his attention to the length of cloth in his lap—a gift from the weaver in his village. A plaid of red and green and blue and white. The colors of the MacKinnon, designed by the weaver herself. Almost against his better judgment, his gaze drifted back to Scotia. He should have given the gift to her upon his first arrival, but her dismissal of him had held him back. Why it suddenly seemed urgent he give the gift to her now, he did not know. But it did.

   Most likely it was his own guilt over her injuries that made the effort seem vital. At least that was what he told himself as he moved to the bed and spread the cloth across her, tucking the top ends near her face. He brushed his hand against her cheek and allowed his fingers to linger there. Within moments, his tenderness slipped into unease. He pressed his hand closer against her skin. Saints! She burned, and not from the warmth of the room.