by Willa Blair
Ellie shrugged. “We’ll talk more on it later. For now, ’tis time to head back for the evening meal.”
She turned to the friar, who had stood aside while they talked. “Are ye set for tonight, Tam, or is there aught ye need?”
“Nay, lass. I’ll bide well enough here.” He gave her a wink. “I’ve my prayers to keep me company.”
Ellie chuckled, surprising Donal. What amused her about a priest at his prayers? But Ellie merely waved to Tam and headed outside.
Jamie glanced at Donal, then turned to speak to the friar. “Thank ye for the lesson. I for one will savor the whisky even more, now that I ken the extent of yer efforts in making it.”
Donal nodded his agreement. “I’d like to come back when ye have the next batch underway, to see it done.”
“Ye’ll be welcome. But for now, be off with ye,” Tam told them with a decidedly unclerical grin. “The lass awaits ye outside.”
As they exited the building, Donal and Jamie traded a glance. Aye, something seemed odd about the good friar. What it was would have to wait. Ellie sat ready to ride back to the keep.
****
The next day, Donal stalked the bailey, Bram at his side. Jamie and the MacKyrie were having a private discussion, at her request. Aye, what a bonnie lass. He wouldn’t mind some private time with one so lovely, if the lass were not a Seer. Despite what he’d learned from Aileana, he still found himself reluctant to accept that such a thing could be real, no matter the lass herself believed in it.
Donal hoped Jamie settled this matter quickly so they could head back to the Aerie before the weather got any worse. This summer trip had stretched beyond what they’d expected, as every laird who signed the treaty insisted on hosting them for days or weeks at a time, then recommended other clans to treat with, which added even more stops to their journey. But Jamie was determined to do a thorough job, just as Toran would have done, so here they were, with autumn tending toward winter. ’Twas not a good time to be traveling these mountains.
“Look at the lads on the ramparts,” Bram muttered beside him. “Barely out o’breeks, those lads, sittin’ on a bucket, playin’ cards, unless I miss my guess. Nary a one keeping’ watch.”
“And none at all trainin’ with sword or bow,” Donal answered him, then stopped, fists on hips. “’Tis up to us to make this right.”
Bram nodded. “Aye, let’s set up a trainin’ ground and see who we can recruit.”
Donal nodded his approval. Bram gathered up the lads who were standing around, then broke up the game on the ramparts and brought those lads down, too.
Donal had collected sticks and wooden swords lying about in the dirt. He gave one to each lad, paired them up, then ordered, “Show me what ye can do.”
Their enthusiasm for sparring didn’t surprise him, but their lack of skill did.
“Do ye think to defend yerselves or yer mates like that?”
The lads stopped what they were doing and stared at him, wide-eyed. “Aye,” a brave one answered him. “We’ll defend our clan to the death.”
“Then die ye will, laddie, unless ye learn how to fight. Bram, let’s show these lads a thing or two. First, what they’re doin’ now...”
Bram nodded and stepped forward, pulling his claymore before squaring off with Donal. The lads formed a ring around them, wider and wider as Donal waved them back, then he pulled his claymore and faced Bram. “Whenever ye’re ready.”
Bram swung as the lads had been doing. Donal danced out of his way. “When yer opponent is unskilled, all ye have to do is wait for yer chance,” he said, watching Bram’s movements while he talked. The moment Bram dropped his guard, Donal struck, but stopped his blade just before it connected with Bram’s chest.
Bram dropped his sword and grinned. “A bit close, do ye think?”
Donal ignored the question. “Let’s show them how to fight, then we’ll work on skills with each lad until they can defend themselves.”
Bram picked up his blade. He and Donal traded blows, working up a sweat despite the chill in the air, while Donal kept up a running commentary, describing what every move they made was meant to accomplish and how the other countered it.
The crowd around them grew in size as they sparred and began to include women and the older men. The one called Micheil showed up as Donal called a halt to the demonstration.
“What’s this?” Micheil demanded.
Donal eyed him before answering, taking the measure of the younger man’s temperament. His face flushed red and his brow drew down in an angry frown.
“Merely a demonstration for the lads,” Donal answered, glancing around the crowd. A movement in the background caught his attention. Jamie and the MacKyrie were watching from an open window in the solar.
“Ye think Lathans are the only ones who ken how to fight?” Micheil challenged.
“Not at all,” Donal answered smoothly, with a nod toward Bram, who moved out of the circle to guard Donal’s back. “Would ye like to join the demonstration?”
Micheil stood his ground, hand on the dirk at his waist. “I’m captain of the guard,” Micheil asserted. “I dinna need to demonstrate anythi...”
“Ye are the one responsible for the sad state of these lads?” Donal interrupted. He knew that would goad the man, but if he’d allowed the reprehensible state of affairs here, Donal would not spare him. “They need trainin’. That appears to be sorely lackin’.” Toran would have his head, for certain, but Donal could not let this situation stand. These lads would die the first time they faced anything bigger than a dirk.
Micheil growled an oath and shoved through the crowd into the circle. “They’re too young to take up fighting,” he argued. “No one would accost them.”
“Were those lads on the whisky wagon too young to be waving their dirks at brigands armed with claymores, then?”
That stopped Micheil in his tracks. With an oath, he drew his weapon.
Donal grinned. “That’s better. Let’s dance, shall we?”
Micheil swung. Donal twisted out of the way, then slapped his opponent across the back with the flat of his blade.
“Point for me, I believe,” he taunted.
Micheil roared and charged Donal, aiming to impale him on the tip of his steel. Donal sidestepped, tripping Micheil as he barreled by. The man came up muddy and swinging. Donal crossed blades with him a few times, to show how it was done, then grew tired of parrying Micheil’s out-of-control thrusts. In no way was this a fair fight. Donal had to put a stop to it before one of them accidentally got hurt.
“It’s time to end this, laddie,” Donal told him as they danced around each other. “The lads have seen enough for one day.”
“Nay, this’ll end when ye’re skewered on my blade.”
“Now lad, we’re no’ fightin’ for real. We’re showin’ the bairns how it’s done.”
Micheil hesitated for a moment, giving Donal hope that his sense would catch up with his pride, but apparently his pride ruled him. Micheil’s face turned even redder as he swung his blade at Donal yet again.
“Ye think so? Have a care, auld man. I mean to take ye down.”
“Lad, I’m asking ye nicely to back off. We’re merely showing the laddies how to survive in a fight.”
“I’ll back off when ye’re dead.”
This lad needed a lesson. Too bad he was in no mood to learn. “If ye willna listen to reason, ye leave me no choice.” With a resigned shrug, Donal slid his blade up Micheil’s until they were face to face. Donal freed one hand and punched Micheil with his fist. Micheil went down like a sack of stones and stayed down.
The crowd gasped.
“Dinna fash. He’s alive, just taking a wee nap.”
Bram moved into the circle to stand at Donal’s shoulder. With Bram to keep an eye on the crowd, Donal risked a glance up at the solar window. Jamie shook his head. Even from this distance, Donal could see him sigh. But the look on the MacKyrie’s face—now that was interesting. Speculative. O
ne eyebrow arched. Her gaze locked with Donal’s and she nodded. Aye, she liked what she’d seen. She’d give Jamie no trouble over it.
Then she smiled. Aye, she’d done that, and laughed, too, as they traveled her glen. But there was something different about this one. Like she’d decided something, and it had to do with him. This smile hit Donal like a fist to the gut. Already too beautiful to his eyes for words, it made her breathtaking. And she’d given it to him, full on, no hesitation. Donal got the distinct impression that he might be in a different sort of trouble than he’d ever been in before. But this trouble, he might come to enjoy.
Chapter 3
In the list of things Donal regretted in his life, trouncing Micheil MacKyrie didn’t rank very high, despite the verbal lashing Jamie was determined to give him over it. Ale and whisky awaited down in the hall. Surely Jamie would rather be there than continuing this conversation. Donal certainly would.
“No, I didna ken when we started that Micheil was the MacKyrie’s master of arms.” He stood calmly, arms at his sides, allowing Jamie to vent.
“Truly? Ye had no indication, even after he said he was the captain of the guard?”
“Training up the laddies is his responsibility?” Donal gave Jamie his best wide-eyed innocent look, then rolled his eyes. Did Jamie intend to spend the entire evening chastising him? He hadn’t killed the foolish lad, after all. “From what I saw, he deserved to have some sense knocked into his thick skull, and let that be a lesson to him.”
“And ye laid him out like a new bride.”
“Well, no’ exactly like that. I’d hope a new bride would be awake and enjoying...oh, never mind.”
Jamie choked. Donal grinned, relishing his struggle. Since Donal almost never jested, that bit had caught Jamie by surprise.
“All right, I have to admit the MacKyrie, Ellie that is, didna seem upset by the trouncing ye gave her champion. On the contrary, she seemed rather pleased, which puzzles me, and I dinna like being puzzled by a woman.”
“Truly? I thought all women puzzled ye. Are ye no’ used to it?”
“Ye jest twice in one day?” Jamie chuckled. “Enough, enough. I’m for bed.” He went to the door, opened it, then paused. “But it would help if ye didna start a feud with the MacKyrie champion, all the same.”
“Aye, but it may be too late.” Donal shrugged.
“Let’s hope not. If he has any influence over her, our welcome here may be brief. And I’m sure Toran won’t enjoy the tale of why we failed to get her signature on the treaty.”
“Perhaps I’ll have to use my charm on her.”
“Aye, that’ll work...” Jamie snorted as he left Donal’s room, closing the door behind him. Donal could hear him laughing all the way down the hall.
“I think I’ve been insulted,” he muttered. Not that he worried much on that score. He’d had his share of lasses, just none lately. And Ellie MacKyrie did have the most radiant smile.
Pah. He’d best get his mind on business. The lads’ training started on the morrow, whether the MacKyrie arms master liked it or not. But...it would be better to have his cooperation. After he learned a thing or two, he could become fit to carry on when the Lathans returned to the Aerie. Aye, that was a sensible plan.
Satisfied, Donal decided Jamie had a good idea in heading to bed. He unbuckled his belt, stripped his shirt over his head, then sat by the hearth and pulled off his boots. Clad only in his breeches, he stirred the fire and watched as the flames began to dance.
Flames, aye, those were flames he’d seen in Ellie’s eyes as she watched him best her champion. He interested her, for certain. But why him? Why not the charmer of their group, Jamie? Or Bram, younger, or hell, even that fool Micheil? Donal supposed the lasses would call him handsome. Why would Ellie MacKyrie give Donal the eye?
Well, it didn’t matter. She was untouchable. He couldna risk a liaison with her. He meant to leave here in days or weeks. If he hurt her in any way, it could destroy the alliance Jamie was dead set on achieving for Toran.
And God forbid he left her with child. An unmarried, pregnant laird? What would the priests make of that? Or her clan? They would deem her unfit to be laird. He could ruin her life for one night of passion. Well, perhaps not only one night. Surely the heat in her gaze promised more than one. More than one...ach, he had to get his mind off of this crazy, foolish nonsense.
He had been too long without a woman. No question about it. It made sense that he’d be attracted to a comely lass, one powerful in her own right, who’d shown an interest in him. So what? There were lots of others in the keep, all bereft due to the regrettable lack of men in this clan. Or perhaps a convenient lack, not that he would have wished such a fate on any clan. Perhaps if he went back down to the great hall after all, instead of finding his bed alone, he would encounter a lass willing to join him. Or if he wandered down into the village. The tavern there would serve as well to find a willing lass. There were plenty who’d been long without a man, from the look of the place.
At the very least he could do with a dram of their whisky. He’d yet to taste it. But only one; he had his work cut out for him on the morrow.
He reached for his shirt.
Someone knocked on his door.
Who could that be at this hour? Jamie, returned to pester him some more? Or one of the other Lathans, bored and thinking along the same lines Donal had been moments before? Aye, a dram with a friend would not go amiss. He tossed the shirt onto the bed and hurried to the door before the Lathan on the other side started pounding loud enough to disturb the entire keep.
When he opened the door, it was all he could do not to close it again in shock. The MacKyrie stood in the torchlit hallway. She gave him a quirk of her lips as he stared at her, too surprised to utter a word.
“I’m sorry to bother ye, Donal McNabb, but I wished to speak to ye privately.” She glanced away, down the darkened hallway.
“Privately? Why did ye no’ send for me, then?”
Her gaze returned to him, bold, even defiant, as she glanced over his shoulder. “May I come in?”
Donal’s eyes widened. Into his room? Alone? This couldn’t be good. She must be upset about her arms master after all.
Finally, Donal remembered his manners. “Aye,” he said, stepping back to let her pass by him in to the room. “Come in.”
He turned to face her, leaving the door open, but she gestured for him to close it. He did so with a frown of apprehension, then remained with his back to the sturdy oak. He crossed his arms, only then remembering his chest was bared to the eyes of this lass. He started to retrieve the shirt from his bed, then decided he’d better not draw attention to the bed at all. Ellie had gone to stand by the fire, for which he was thankful, because he didn’t think he could restrain himself if she put the bed and her body in the same area. He settled his stance, kept his arms folded across his chest and waited.
****
Ellie turned from the fire to study the man whose room she had invaded. Aye, invaded. She was laird, and a woman. He could no more refuse her than refuse to breathe. Though he should have, and they both knew it.
It was highly improper for her to be here—alone with a strange man. An attractive man. A half-undressed man. One who sent her pulse to racing and quickened her breath. His naked shoulders, arms and chest bulged with muscle. His dark blond hair, badly trimmed, grazed his square jawline. His proud nose had been broken a time or two, but suited the intensity of his gaze. His eyes were hazel in this light, green in sunlight. What color would they be in the throes of passion? His mouth...were his lips soft or firm when he kissed?
They were set in a stubborn line at the moment as he waited for her to explain herself. He probably thought she remained angry about Micheil, though in truth, Donal had given him a lesson he sorely needed. The few fighting men they had left were mostly untested. They’d been left behind to guard the keep while the Laird marched off with his heir and their best men to fight with the King four years before. T
he lads were barely more than bairns. Micheil had done a poor job of training them, but could scarcely be considered at fault, given that he’d still been in training when most of their fighting force fell at Flodden.
They’d been lucky so far that none of their neighbors had tried to overrun them with a massed attack. Instead, they’d picked off her few remaining fighting men, then sought to gain MacKyrie lands through marriage. To her.
She wanted none of them.
Lately, her dream had come three times, always the same. Within it a man, much like the man before her, dark blond hair falling into his eyes, but in her dream, his well-muscled arms had been reaching for her. Donal’s most assuredly were not. They formed a barrier across his impressive chest. Their message was clear: stay back.
“I’m sorry to disturb ye,” she began.
“I owe ye an apology,” Donal spoke right over her. “I shouldna put yer man on the ground.”
“Aye, ye shouldha. I’m glad of it.” Ellie huffed out a breath. Focus on the goal, not on the man’s undeniable attractiveness. At least try. “That’s why I’m here, Donal. I need ye to stay and train our lads. Micheil isna able, as ye saw for yerself today. I need yer help.”
“I have responsibilities to the Lathan.”
“I ken ye do. But the Lathans have fighting men aplenty. Ye’ve trained them well. Jamie has told me so.”
Donal’s habitual frown turned positively fierce and his eyes narrowed at that statement. Did this man own any other expressions?
“Have ye spoken to Jamie about this, then?”
“Nay, I havena. I wanted to give ye a chance to think on it. To sound ye out before others became involved.”
“Why me? Bram is skilled, as are all the Lathans here.”
“Ye’re the best, Donal. And ye’ve trained countless lads...”
“Ye make me sound like an auld man.”
“Nay.” Ellie took a breath, then a step toward him. And another. She had to convince him. “Ye have the experience my clan needs. But ye’re far from old.” When she reached him, she rested her fingers on his arm to add emphasis to her words. His eyes widened a fraction. She heard his breath hitch. When the heat of his skin started burning her from her fingertips to her toes, she clenched her fingers and drew them back. Her cheeks heated as she clasped her hands together.