The Warrior Trainer (25 page)

   "Aye." He dragged a hand through his hair, trying to bring it into some sort of order.

She groaned and tried to sit up. "I am feeling better now."

Ian put his hand on her uninjured shoulder and pressed her back down, alarmed at how little effort it took to do so. "Not so fast."

   "I am merely tired," she said with a touch of irritation.

   She sounded more like her usual self. A smile came to his lips despite the terror that had held him in its grasp and was only now beginning to subside. "Getting out of this bed will only make things worse. Please, just this once, trust me and lie still."

   She sighed impatiently. "All right, but I want my armor. All of it."

   "Nay." He steeled himself for her reaction. "Not until I am certain your fever has passed and your wounds have healed."

   With a frown she tried once again to sit up. This time he let her. He pulled his hand away, but kept it near in case she should falter. Scotia would not believe she could not do something until she tried. One attempt from her would be worth him arguing all day.

   She eased herself up on trembling elbows and her face drained of color. Her gaze grew disoriented, then panicked. Her eyes widened and her breathing grew sharp before she collapsed back onto the fluffy heather tick beneath her. "How will I battle like this?" The question sounded as though it had been ripped from the depths of her soul.

   "You cannot." Ian took her icy fingers in his once more and held them up to his chest. Even now, the fight had not left her, despite being injured and weak.

   Good. That spirit would serve her well as she recovered. The more determined she was to leave this bed, the sooner she would be back to training.

   And the sooner he could seek his revenge against the Four Horsemen. He had been trying not to think about his need to leave as she lay sick, nearly dying. But now that it appeared she would recover, he could no longer deny his duty to free the country of the villains that threatened them. Maisie would happily tend Scotia. The older woman had tried to relieve him during the three long days of Scotia's recovery, but Ian had refused, wanting to stay near should she need him. Lizbet would be thrilled to have her playmate back. Even Griffin had shown his concern as he checked on Scotia's progress each morning before leading the new men in several of her training routines.

   "The others will be pleased to know you are awake."

   Ian let go of her hand. He avoided her gaze as he moved to the window to stare out at the moonless night. Should he tell her about the report he had received from her scouts early this morning? The Four Horsemen had changed their advance. Instead of progressing north in their usual fashion, they had done what he had feared most—turned their attack to the south, back toward his village of Kilninian. Back toward his father, his clan, and his home.

   His body tensed, muscle by muscle, in a combination of fury and pain. He would have to leave soon if he were to stop the Four Horsemen before they endangered his clan. But leaving Glencarron Castle would mean leaving Scotia, possibly forever if the battle did not go in his favor.

   "Ian," she called from the bed in a weak voice. "What is wrong?"

   He drew a steadying breath, then turned to face her, offering her a reassuring smile he did not feel. He should tell her the truth. She deserved to know what had happened. He studied her face. Exhaustion clouded her eyes, but did not hide the spark of vibrancy that always seemed to shimmer just beneath the surface of her being. She would fight them even now, despite her own weakened state. If he told her about the Horsemen, she would leave this chamber to fight them. And without a doubt, she would die.

   A crease furrowed her brow. "Ian?"

   He set his jaw, remaining silent. She would want nothing to do with him when she learned he had withheld the truth. But what did it matter? Despite the fantasies and longings he had given free rein while she recovered, he had no future with this woman. His life had one purpose and one purpose alone: to kill the White Horseman.

   Since Malcolm's death it had seemed enough of a goal, finally giving the purpose of his life with the MacKinnons a focus. Revenge against the murderer of his brother seemed a fitting tribute to all Abbus MacKinnon had done for him. He had put his heart and soul into that end. Nothing else had mattered—until Scotia had entered his life and thoughts of warring had turned to thoughts of touching her, holding her, feeling the beat of her heart next to his.

   He turned his gaze away from her, away from the look of concern in her eyes. He clenched his fists, trying to control the twist of pain in his chest. God help him, with one simple look she could slice right through years of hardened resistance he had created around his heart.

   She touched a part of him he never knew existed, and wished now he had never discovered. It would make his destiny that much harder to fulfill. But he would do it; he had no other choice. He would stay only until he was certain she regained her strength, another day or two at the most.

   Scotia had her own obligations to fulfill. She needed to bear a female child to carry on her lineage. When he left, perhaps she would open herself and her heart to one of the new warriors he had brought with him. The twist in his chest tightened until he could bear it no longer. "I must go," he announced as he hastened from the room, leaving a startled Scotia in his wake.

   Once in the hallway he leaned against the stone wall, allowing the cold to seep inside him, praying it would act as a balm to the purgatory he had created in his own mind. He should not care if Scotia took another man into her arms. He should not care, but he did. Ian stared into the unlit corridor, seeing nothing but a depth of darkness that truly mirrored his soul. He could not remember a time when he had been more miserable, despite the torment of his childhood. That seemed a mere bump in his path compared to now.

  
His destiny left him no choice but to leave. To think he had any other option would be disastrous for them all.

Chapter Twenty-one

   "What are you hiding from me?' Scotia demanded. She sat on the edge of the bed, where she had been a prisoner to bouts of sleep and wakefulness for the past two days. She was feeling stronger now and ready to get back to training. "I can see that something is going on just by looking out my window. The men you brought are training with a force that speaks of some known peril."

   Something was wrong. She could see the evidence written into the very texture of Ian's face. His eyes bespoke danger, just as the tension in his shoulders and along his chin warned of a heaviness that threat brought to him, or herself, or her people.

   Maisie and Burke had both been to see her, yet she had been unable to wrest any information from them, either. "If Ian has somethin' to tell ye, he will do it in his own time," Maisie had said, to Scotia's growing irritation.

   She gritted her teeth, trying to hold on to the anger that offered her some safeguard against him. Why would he not confide in her? "Tell me or I shall leave this room to find out for myself. I would go now if I could but find my clothing."

   "You are still too weak."

   "That is your opinion." She straightened her shoulders and tried to show him how much stronger she felt. "Where are my armor and my sword? And why are there guards at my door?"

   "The guards are there for your protection," Ian said. "They are keeping unwanted visitors out. It is for your safety alone that they stand near."

   She knew he had posted the guards to keep her safe. That was not what had irritated her so. It was the knowledge that she could not defend herself if someone came to challenge her, or even help Ian against the unspoken dangers she read in his eyes. The Four Horsemen had to be the reason why he held back information from her. No doubt he thought he was protecting her, but her whole life had been spent training for the coming conflict with her enemy.

   "I shall not be confined to this bed forever." She started to stand, but thought better of it when her legs wobbled beneath her. Scotia sighed in frustration. Best to stay seated and argue her point.

   To her annoyance, Ian smiled. He had noticed her attempt to stand. "You may leave any time. No one is holding you here." He stood near the window, and occasionally shifted his gaze to the hills and vales beyond her land.

   She gritted her teeth and tried to gain her feet once again. If she tried hard enough, she might be able to overcome her fatigue and the trembling of her limbs. "I need my armor and my sword," she gasped as her legs weakened beneath her.

   Ian shot to her side. Two hands of strength wrapped about her, lowering her gently against the bed. "I shall give them back to you when you are ready to return to battle. You are making progress in your recovery. It will not be long now."

   The solid wall of his chest pressed against the softness of her own. Her pulse quickened; her senses heightened. After so many days of isolation and rest, his nearness overwhelmed her. Without her armor she felt vulnerable and weak. How she longed for a thin sheet of metal to separate her from the warm feel of his body against her own.

   "I am ready," she said, a bit more breathless than she had intended, but it was difficult to breathe when he stood so near.

   "Ready for what, Scotia
?”
She startled at the mix of sadness and regret in the timbre of his voice.

   She turned to look up into the depths of his eyes, trying to see in his gaze what she sensed in his voice. But any response she tried to make stilled on her tongue as her senses sharpened. The warmth of his body reached out to her, carrying with it the musky male scent that was only Ian's.

   With a will of its own, her body pressed closer against his, trying to identify this new sensation, experience it further, while her mind struggled to control it. "My ... armor," she said on a shaky breath, trying to fill her lungs not with air, but with the essence of this man who held her in his arms.

   A look of pained reluctance crept into his gaze. "To protect yourself against your enemies or me?" He slid one hand up her back, over the thin linen nightrail someone had dressed her in. One of her mother's, no doubt. Callused fingertips slipped over the softness of her skin, leaving his imprint on her in a trail of heated sensation.

   He knew her thoughts too well. Scotia began to tremble under the combined forces of pleasure and shock, and no amount of willpower could control the betraying tremors. She needed protection from herself as much as she needed it from him.

   That odd reflection of emotion vanished from his eyes as his fingers lightly caressed the wounds at her shoulder. Instead of pain, his touch brought an ease to the area. The wounds had healed over the last several days, thanks to his care.

   "I never thanked you—"

   Ian held a finger against her lips, bringing tingles of sensation along with his touch. "There is no need for words. I can see your feelings in your eyes."

   She lowered her lashes to hide her gaze from him. How could he read her thoughts so easily when she had been taught to shield her inner feelings all her life? What else did he see there? Could he see the war of emotions that tugged between her desire for him and her duty to remain strong, alert, untouched?

   She tried to form words that might express her thoughts when his fingers traced the curve of her chin, running across the sensitive nape of her neck as if he were trying to commit each nuance of her to memory.

   Then his fingers moved on, to delve further down until his hands cupped the fullness of her breasts. His thumbs brushed the hardened peak of her nipples. She gasped, but did not pull away. Instead, she shut her eyes and gave herself over to the pleasurable sensations he brought out in her, wondering if he would touch her breasts again and hoping she could bear it if he did. No one had touched her like this before. And, heaven help her, she liked it.