The Warrior Trainer (9 page)

   As if reading her thoughts, his gaze moved to her hand and his fingers folded around the leather encasing her palm. "Your hands are warm."

   Not just warm, for suddenly they felt as though they were melting at his touch. She could only watch as he lifted her hand, turning it palm up. He stroked his thumb across the well-worn leather. She inhaled sharply.

   He stopped, his gaze searching her face. "May I take it off?"

   "I never ...," she said quickly, seizing wildly at the excuse she had always given before, but the words died in her throat at the return of his sensuous smile.

   "Never?" His fingers unbuckled her gauntlet, then let it fall to the ground. Calloused flesh covered her palm and scars of abuse lined the back of her hand from all her years of training. They were the hands of a warrior, proving she was no real Queen of the May. She tensed as the thought. "So strong yet so feminine," Ian said with a touch of awe, as if not seeing what was truly there.

   Scotia swallowed against the sudden tightness in her throat. Feminine. There was nothing feminine about her. But the way Ian smoothed his fingers over the roughened texture of her palm, as though her skin were as smooth and unmarred as other women's flesh, made her feel soft. Soft?

   She tried to pull away, but he held tight. "It was not an insult, only an observation."

   An observation she had never allowed herself to pursue. Ian's fingers stroked her palm, her wrist, her forearm. She watched, fascinated by the strangely seductive exploration of her flesh.

   His touch brought excitement, heat, hunger.

   A chant of "jump, jump, jump," mirrored the beating of her heartbeat. And in that moment the crowd pulled him away, turning him toward the ravenous flames. "Show us how it's done, mighty King of the May."

   Ian shooed the crowd away, gaining himself some space as he took several steps back. His body coiled, but before he ran toward the flames he spared one last glance for her—a glance that said he did this for her and her alone.

   Scotia held her breath as he leapt over the enormous fire, high above the flames. A second jump, then a third, and a cheer broke out from the crowd. "The king is triumphant!"

   A mug of ale was pressed into his hands by Richard as he and the other warriors drew him away from the fire, away from her, to celebrate his victory.

   And suddenly the night seemed hollow as she stood there among the merrymakers, alone. It was how she had celebrated Beltaine Eve over the last many years. Why did she expect it to be so different now that the MacKinnon had arrived?

   Scotia turned away from the celebration, suddenly tired, and headed back to the keep. Damn Beltaine Eve for momentarily making her long for more.

Chapter Eight

   At dawn the morning following the Beltaine Eve celebrations, Ian had given up trying to sleep. Now he sat between one of the carved stones that formed the crenellations of the tower and gazed out at the land before him. On one side of him, a bank of chilled mist sat over the shoreline and soared up to kiss the morn. On the other side, high, wild, and lonely cliffs dropped to meet the green tide as it curled against the rocks below.

   No one could deny that Scotia's land was beautiful, breathtaking even. It was land a man, or a woman in Scotia's case, would be proud to possess. Her ancestors had owned this castle for hundreds of years. In her veins flowed the blood of the warrior woman who had sailed to the Isle of Destiny promised to them by Moses. Ian envied her lineage, her connection to a family whose very beginnings were the source of all the Scottish people.

   With a history like that, he, a lowly bastard, had no right to think about kissing her. Yet after their encounter last night, the idea had filled his mind to the point of obsession. Just the touch of his finger against her flesh made him long for further exploration of her perfectly sculpted lips. Lips so desirable. Lips meant to be kissed. Groaning, he tore his thoughts away from the image. Scotia was a vehicle for his training, nothing more. The sooner he accepted that fact, the better. There were other things of greater importance to consider, such as when he would leave to find the Four Horsemen and take his revenge.

   The Four Horsemen could be anywhere in Scotland, wreaking further destruction and death. He had to stop them, even at the risk of his own life. Anger forced his hands into tense fists as he thought of the pain the Four Horsemen caused, all for the Stone of Destiny. An artifact so important to the people of this country they would be willing to give their lives in order to keep it safe.

   The only way to protect his clan from further assault was to learn what he could from Scotia about the Horsemen. With her help he would defeat the enemy and end the terror.

   But he still had more to learn. He needed time to build on the things she had taught him—how to channel his anger, move with dexterity, be more in tune with his body. All would help him when the ultimate battle took place.

   Ian swung his feet around, then jumped down onto the wall walk below. If he could keep his thoughts off Scotia and on her training, he could leave to find the Four Horsemen and avenge his brother. And to do that he would have to leave this castle and Scotia behind. The sooner the better if he were to help his clan survive a second attack.

   "MacKinnon." At the sound of her voice, his spirit lightened.

   He turned toward the open doorway where she stood framed by the gray sandstone. Her shoulders looked tense, her hair pulled back in a tight plait, her sword pointed down toward the ground before her. She looked so fierce and yet so fragile.

   He steeled himself against the pull of desire that rippled through him. He knew what he had to do to save his clan, to strike the Horsemen down before they destroyed all he held dear.

   "Are you avoiding your training today?" No accusation hung in her voice, only slight disappointment.

   "I could not sleep, so I wandered up here. Time must have passed without my realizing." He took three steps toward her, then stopped. Before they continued training, he had questions to ask her.

   She nodded, and her face brightened a little, as though she were pleased that he had not meant to avoid her. "I have something new to show you this day."

   "How much longer before I have completed my training?"

   Shadows descended into her eyes. "You are so eager to leave?"

   "Aye," he replied honestly. "I fear for the safety of my clan."

   "The Four Horsemen."

   "Have you encountered them?" he asked, knowing even as he asked the question that he should not. The more he learned about her and her life, the harder it was to keep himself closed off to her.

   "Only once, twelve years ago, on the day they killed my mother." The color bled from her face, and her chest rose and fell with the sudden force of her breathing. Not the slow steady breath of the controlled Scotia he had seen up until now, but the ragged breath of a woman torn apart by a haunting memory.

   Ian went motionless. In her gaze he recognized the same overburdened soul that drove his own actions. He saw her pain, her fear, her exhaustion.

   He moved toward her. She did not back away even as he removed one hand from the hilt of her sword to weave her icy fingers with his.

   Her fresh heather scent filled his nostrils, his mind, clouding his thoughts of anything but her. "I am sorry," he said in a voice so hushed the words were nothing more than a whisper. Yet the flare of her eyes told him she'd heard.

   "I had not come into my strength back then." Guilt laced her words.

   Without thinking, only reacting as he would to another human in need, he drew her closer against his chest. Like a creature unused to human contact, her eyes filled with a mixture of fear and wonder. The woman in his arms might be a warrior, a legend even, but she was as vulnerable as anyone else, he realized with a start. "What did you do?”

   "I could do nothing but flee with Maisie and Burke to safety." Her body remained stiff, unyielding in his arms, but she did not try to pull away. He prayed she would. He needed her to break the contact, because he found he could not. Instead, he pulled her closer, molding his body against hers, dominating her smaller frame. A surge of protectiveness erupted within him, the need to shield her from all she had suffered.

   "Ian ..." Her armor-covered body relaxed against his chest, and he was lost. He angled his head and lowered his mouth until he could feel her breath on his lips. Her eyelids fluttered closed. And he took what he so desperately wanted.

   With his lips, he demanded her to respond, challenging her to acknowledge the tension that had been building between them since his arrival.

   She tasted of innocence and hunger, as though he had opened a tap that had been left closed off for too long. Her lips parted in an invitation he openly accepted, not quite believing it was Scotia he held, yielding her body for him to explore. Yet she was here, granting him liberties only a lover should take.

   A lover? He was not here to woo her. And yet he could not deny the appeal the thought held.

   He had no right to pursue such things. He let her go.

   Dazed and disoriented, she stared at him, then stepped back into the shadows of the doorway, acting as if the darkness could hide the pleasure they had shared. But even the hazy light could not conceal her lips, still moist from his kiss.

   She turned, closing herself to him, hiding the last sign of their mindless exchange. "We must train." She clutched her sword firmly as she strode down the stairs.

   Ian started after her, his hands knotted in fists at his sides, fighting the stirring desire she had awakened. His urge to leave Glencarron Castle to seek revenge faltered. Yet how could he consider any other option with so many lives at stake?

   It was yet another twist of fate, a fate he could not turn away from. He knew his duty, and he would see it through.

  
At the soft tinkle of a bell near her bedside, Scotia jerked awake. A warning she had constructed. An intruder had entered the keep through the secret tunnel hidden among the cliffs.

   Clasping her sword, she rolled from her bed—alert, aware, and ready to defend herself. With her heart pounding, but in full control of her emotions, she slipped from her chamber, moving down the stairs and out into the night. Using the darkness as a shield, she headed toward the passageway that led to the walled garden. Inside the garden, she sensed the intruder's presence. If she remained still, eventually her enemy would reveal himself. Her senses sharpened.

   It did not take long. A soft creak sounded to her right. She turned, searching the moonlit darkness for a sign of his presence. There, near the tall stalks of rosemary, she could make out the faintest glimmer of his eyes. "Who are you?"

   A flash of metal flickered in the ghostly moonlight—a blade. "Who I am is not as important as my purpose here," a harsh, unfamiliar male voice said from the shadows.

   Scotia drew herself up, widening her stance, preparing for the battle to come. How many times had she heard those words before? "How did you know about the tunnel?"

   "That is my secret. But if I made it in, so will others. Does that scare you
?”
the intruder asked, stepping toward her.

   "Nay." The moonlight revealed a tall, muscular figure dressed in the plaid of her countrymen. A Scot had come to challenge her this time. A momentary pang of disappointment gripped her. Even her own countrymen came to challenge her now. "I find very little use for fear."