She went off on a tirade, pointing out the benefits of bathing and how the entire Buchanan family saw fit to be covered in mud and muck at all times. By the time they had descended to the north end of the training fields en route to the loch, Aisla was red-faced from the exertion and righteous indignation.
“Perhaps your father will let you choose your husband,” Sorcha offered.
Aisla shot her a look that suggested she was deranged for even thinking it. “Ye ken? This from the same man who boasted he would marry his own daughter to a dog?”
“I suppose you have a point.”
Aisla’s brows drew together into a slight frown. “Why do ye no’ have a brogue? Ye’re Scottish, aren’t ye?”
“My mother’s English, and insisted on English tutors.”
“Why?”
“Because I was to marry Ma—” Sorcha broke off and spat to the ground before continuing, “a disgusting, odious excuse for a man.”
“The marquess ye were speaking about at sup last night.”
She nodded. “Yes.”
They stopped at the top of the next small hill, which gave them a full view of the men who were training with swords and bows and arrows. Sorcha’s fingers itched for the chance to practice with her bow or even her sword. The only weapons she carried were the dirks lodged in each boot beneath her skirts. She counted about several dozen soldiers on the field and frowned. At Maclaren, they had four times that number.
“Where are the rest of your men?” she asked.
Aisla shrugged. “Most of them left for work in Inverness and Glasgow in the last handful of years, but Montgomery is well protected, if that’s what ye’re worried about.”
Sorcha scanned the surroundings, and once more, marveled at Montgomery’s defensible position. No attack from an outside enemy could come without adequate warning. And the pass from which they had entered was well guarded. But it wasn’t an outside attack Sorcha was worried about—it was one from inside. She did not trust Rodric. While she enjoyed Aisla’s company and would have liked to get to know the duchess better, it was not worth the risk to outstay their welcome.
“Do you train?” she asked Aisla, who was watching the exercises with a wistful look.
Her copper eyes widened. “With the men? Nae, ’tis no’ proper.”
“Who says?” Sorcha tossed back. “I trained with Maclaren soldiers from the age of three. It’s a fact that I can fight better than most of them. How else will you be able to defend yourself?” She eyed the lass. “You can’t wait for a man to come to your rescue. If I had, I would have been dead.”
“Is that how ye got those?” Aisla asked, her eyes darting to her scars.
“Yes.” She raised a self-conscious hand and then dropped it. “I’m sure you’ve heard the story, and it’s true. I fought off a very angry and very hungry mother wolf with two daggers.” Sorcha bent to retrieve one from her boot. “Much like this one.”
Aisla reached for the dirk and ran her thumb gently along its razor-honed edge. “’Tis sharp.”
“I keep them oiled and ready, so that they can pierce through leather and hide,” she said. “I used to be able to snare a rabbit at forty paces, though I’m far better with the bow now. I can teach you to throw the dagger, if you like.”
Aisla’s eyes lit up. “Truly?”
Sorcha faltered, realizing that they would be leaving within the next two days, but she nodded firmly. “Here, why don’t we start with your first lesson? See, you grip the blade like this with your thumb and forefinger, nice and tight.” She demonstrated, being careful not to touch the edge. “Pull back and then throw. You can also toss from the hilt, but you don’t get the same heft.” Drawing her arm back, she let the dirk fly a few feet away to sink into the dirt.
She retrieved the dagger and handed it to Aisla. The dagger skidded across the grass on her first few tries, but by the third, it sank blade first into the soil. Sorcha cleaned the dirk on the grass and then gave it a wipe with the hem of her dress. She held it out. “You can keep it.”
“But ’tis yers,” Aisla stammered, staring at the dagger with a comical combination of longing and restraint. “I cannae possibly accept it.”
“I want you to have it.” She reached down for the second, matching dirk. “And I’ll keep its twin. That way we will always know the other is safe.”
Sorcha was unprepared when the girl flung her arms around her neck and nearly didn’t get the blades out of the way in time. Though she had two older sisters, they had both married and left Maclaren by the time she’d been old enough to appreciate having female siblings. Embarrassed, Sorcha flushed with pleasure as Aisla pulled away to examine her new gift, holding it up to the light and marveling at the intricately etched designs in its jeweled hilt.
“I promise I will keep it clean and practice every day.”
Sorcha smiled. “What we really need is a proper target like the ones down there.” She indicated the thatched human-sized targets that some of the men were shooting at with bows, and started down the hill, only to stop when Aisla grabbed her arm.
“We cannae,” she blurted out, fear clouding her expression. “’Tis no’ allowed.”
“What’s not allowed?”
“Lasses on the training fields,” she said. “’Tis too dangerous.”
Sorcha’s laughter drew the attention of several soldiers, but she didn’t care. It was the most ridiculous thing she’d ever heard. Then again, such a rule did not surprise her from the way the laird treated his own wife and daughter, as if they were nothing but glass pawns to be moved and abused at his whim. She rolled her eyes and shook her head. From what she was seeing happening down on that field, the men could do with a proper lesson.
Excitement coursed through her veins at the thought of getting her hands on a sword, and Sorcha made up her mind. She winked at Aisla. “Come now, surely a wee hellion like you isn’t afraid of the puny rules?”
Aisla stuck out her tongue and tucked her dagger into a loop at her waist. “I’m no’ afraid to bend the rules, but I am afraid of my father’s temper, ye ken?” Her mouth curved into a smile and then widened with unrestrained glee. “Though he left early to visit the southern holdings and is no’ due to be back until sup.”
“Once we’re down there, you can try your hand at the bow as well,” Sorcha told her. “I’ll wager you’d be a natural.” She hesitated, not wanting to invite ugly consequences upon the girl. “Are you certain? I don’t wish to force you or cause trouble.”
“Aye, Papa’ll be mad as piss when he finds out, but by then ’twill be too late.”
“You can blame me,” Sorcha said with a laugh. “Insist that the Beast of Maclaren coerced you.”
“Ye’re no’ a beast,” she replied softly. “And ’twill be just as much my fault as it is yers. I’ll face the consequences gladly for a lesson with a bow.”
Sorcha was struck speechless by the girl’s sense of fairness. She couldn’t imagine how someone so innocent and mild-tempered could have been born from the seed of a man such as Rodric. She was lucky that she seemed to favor her mother, in temperament, at least.
As they turned down the path that led toward the fields, Sorcha eyed the lass skipping happily beside her. “Does your father often get angry?”
Aisla slowed her pace, her face conflicted. It was clear that she didn’t want to speak ill about her father, but it was also clear from her fearful expression that he was a man of capricious temper. Sorcha suddenly felt sick to her stomach. “He doesn’t strike you, does he?”
“Once or twice, though I deserved it,” she said, ducking her head in shame.
Sorcha stopped so swiftly that Aisla nearly tripped over her own two feet. Rage coursed through her blood in hot violent sweeps that any man—a father no less—would beat upon his harmless, innocent daughter. She put her hands on Aisla’s shoulders. “Ye dunnae ever deserve it, do ye hear me, Aisla Montgomery?”
The girl’s eyes widened. “Yer brogue, ’tis back!”
“Only when I’m angry,” she said with a grim smile.
“Dunnae fash, Lady Sorcha.” Aisla shrugged with a battle-worn look that was far too old for her tender years. “’Tis only a lash or two. My brothers have faced worse at his hands.”
“Are they like him?”
Knotting her fingers in the folds of her skirts, she shook her head. “Callan would no’ hurt a fly. Papa used to tell him that he was as soft as a lass’s arse, but ’twas Patrick who bore the brunt of it. One time, our father made him stand out in the fields during a storm because he was afraid of thunder. He was a wee five-year-old.” She pursed her lips. “And that’s no’ even counting the whippings and the beatings. They were men, he used to say, they had to toughen up. Callan would weep, but Patrick would never shed a tear. That’s why he seems so stoic. He kenned over the years to control his emotions. No’ to cry, no’ to laugh, no’ to be afraid, no’ to feel anything at all. ’Tis the safest way.” She broke off as if she had said too much, her face coloring with a ruddy mixture of shame, sorrow, and vexation.
“Safest?” Sorcha prodded gently.
The bleakness in Aisla’s expression made Sorcha mute. “In Montgomery, if ye care about anything, ’tis taken from ye. That’s why Callan never gets to visit the holdings. ’Tis punishment, the laird’s way of control.” She shrugged again, this time she seemed beaten. “And ’tis the reason I will be betrothed to the Buchanan.”
“I am sorry,” Sorcha whispered.
Aisla pushed a bright, forced smile to her face and linked arms with her as they crossed the last stretch of ground. “Ye are lucky ye were able to marry for love. ’Tis clear how Mr. Pierce feels about ye every time he looks at ye.”
“No, he doesn’t…” she trailed off, unsure of what she was going to blurt out, and then said it anyway, “love me.”
Aisla threw back her head and chortled. “Are ye daft? The man practically has sheep eyes every time ye open yer gob. To him, when ye walk into a room, the stars fall from the heavens and all the angels weep in yer wake.”
With a bark of laughter, Sorcha chucked the cheeky girl in the arm. “Your head is stuck in the clouds, lassie.”
“Shouldn’t a lass be allowed to dream? ’Tis the only place we are free, after all. Women are naught but chattel, pieces to be bartered for the sake of the clan. Love is no’ and will never be part of that.” She wagged a finger at her. “And dunnae think I do no’ see your sheep eyes as well, mooning after him.”
Sorcha was struck by her perspicacity, but saddened too that a girl of her age would be so cynical. Then again, having a father like Rodric would make a child age quickly. “Och, I am not moony. Now, come, let us show these lads what real women are made of.”
All the men stopped what they were doing as they approached the training grounds. Some of them looked angry, others surprised. Others were slack-jawed, their eyes instantly drawn to her defining scars. Sorcha strode up to the man who appeared to be in charge—a brawny soldier with a shock of tangled brown hair that looked like it hadn’t been brushed in weeks.
“I require a sword,” she told him in a tone that communicated it was not a request.
His mouth fell open and he laughed. “Lassie, if ’tis a sword ye require, I can most certainly indulge ye. Though the sport I had in mind…’tis of a more pleasurable nature, ye ken?”
Sorcha rolled her eyes, well accustomed to bawdy talk from Maclaren soldiers. Aisla was not, from her wide-eyed expression. “Curb your tongue in front of your lady,” Sorcha berated him. “And I’ll tell you what, give me a sword. We’ll spar, and if you win, we’ll leave. If I win, you’ll allow us to try our hand at the bows and arrows.”
The man frowned as his gaze flicked to Aisla. “The laird willnae like it.”
“We won’t say a word.” Sorcha arched an eyebrow. “Or is it that you’re afraid to be bested by a woman?”
He laughed again, but it had a nervous edge to it. Her scars weren’t the only part of her reputation that preceded her. Her skill would have, too. But she wasn’t worried that he would refuse, not with his pride on display before all his men. She almost felt sorry for him.
“Someone give the Beast a sword,” he growled.
Aisla sidled toward her. “Sorcha, are ye certain this is wise? He’s twice yer size, and he’s one of the laird’s strongest men.”
“But I am the infamous Beast of Maclaren,” she said with a grin, palming the sword and relishing the weight of it in her callused palms. “Now pay attention.”
Diah, she’d missed the feeling of being in a fight. Her blood pulsed hot as she took up position, her sword held high. Her foe stared blankly at the hefted sword before he came slashing forward with a sideways thrust. Sorcha danced out of the way, swinging her sword backward to slap flat-ended on his rump. A spattering of laughter burst through the gathering crowd. She could have cut him, but this wasn’t a real fight.
Shouting, he rushed her again, only to have the satisfying sound of steel meeting steel echo through the air. Sorcha parried again on the downswing, sparks flying from the force of her strikes. She whirled out of the way of a forward lunge and spun back to deliver an attacking lunge of her own. The tip of the sword cut through leather and wool, scraping along the breastplate her opponent wore.
Sorcha could have continued thrusting and parrying for hours, but they didn’t have much time at the fields, and she wanted to show Aisla a thing or two with the bow. With two decisive steps, she caught the man behind the knees and took him to the ground. The point of her sword swiftly followed to rest at his throat.
To her surprise, the crowd broke out into cheers. Pulling the sword away, she reached out her arm to the man, and was surprised once more when he took it to haul himself upright.
“Ye fought well,” he said with a grudging half bow. “I suppose the rumors of ye prowess are true.” He smiled, and the dimpled effect on his face was startling. “As it turns out, ye also wield yer sword better than I do.”
Was that an apology? Sorcha’s mouth almost fell open in shock. It did fall open when he turned and bowed in Aisla’s direction. “My Lady Aisla, apologies fer my careless words before.”
“Of course, Geordie.”
And suddenly, they were swarmed by the men who wanted to know more about her skills and how the warriors trained at Maclaren. She answered them one after the other and was made to blush when one of the men—a handsome black-haired Scot with the bluest eyes she’d ever seen—remarked that he’d heard she was hideous when she was nothing of the sort. His overt flirtation and blatant interest made her laugh.
“Back off, Fergus, ye clot-heid,” Aisla said, shoving him in the shoulder. “She’s married.”
“Och, more’s the pity!”
No one but her brothers—and more recently Brandt—had ever complimented Sorcha before. Though she basked in the attention, there was only one man whose notice she craved…and that, sadly, was the man who held the title of husband. And he was set on dropping her off like a sack of potatoes to Brodie lands. She scowled. Perhaps she should be focusing on bonny Scots like Fergus who wanted to pay her compliments.
Handsome Montgomerys aside, she’d promised she would show Aisla how to shoot a bow. They marched over to the archery markers. Several of the men followed, including Geordie and Fergus. She felt conspicuous as she grasped hold of a bow, testing its tautness and flexibility before drawing an arrow from the nearby quiver. She did not shoot, but handed the bow to Aisla who gaped at her. “This should do.”
“Now?” she squeaked.
“No better time than the present.” She showed her how to hold the bow and set the arrow, and Aisla mimicked her motions. “Keep your left arm straight and set your sights down the length of the arrow. Now carefully, draw your right arm back until the feathers touch your cheek.” She nodded as Aisla did as she was told. “Good, notch the space between your thumb and forefinger under your chin. Release when you’re ready. Aim for the first bundle.”
&nbs
p; Where they stood, there were three bundles tied to stakes in the ground at varying intervals. The first was the closest and would be the least difficult. Sorcha stepped back just as Aisla let the arrow fly with a loud twang. It flew through the air and landed just to the left of the target.
“I missed,” she said crestfallen.
“But not by much. Try again.” This time she let Aisla do all the steps by herself. “Don’t rush it. Time it with your breath. Inhale and release on the exhale.”
The arrow lodged scant inches from the target’s center, and Aisla looked as pleased as could be. She shot a few more arrows, each of them hitting the bundle at various points before she turned toward Sorcha. “Now, ’tis your turn.”
Aisla’s command was supported by shouts and whistles, the loudest of which was from Fergus. Sorcha blushed and took the proffered bow. She reached for an arrow, running the stiff fletching through her fingers. As she prepped the bow, the hairs on the back of her neck rose. Somehow, she knew Brandt was watching. She could feel the familiar rolling press of his stare. Glancing over her shoulder, she scanned the crowd of soldiers but did not see him. The feeling did not abate. Perhaps he stood at a window at the keep, though it would be hard to see from this distance.
Exhaling, she raised the bow and nocked the arrow. Brandt had seen her skill on the battlefield. She did not need to impress him, though she wanted to more than anything. Aiming the arrow, she released it.
“Ye missed!” Aisla shouted.
“Look again.” Sorcha grinned and pointed to the very last thatched bundle, well over a hundred yards away. The arrow was lodged at its dead center.
“’Twas chance,” someone called out.
Sorcha raised an eyebrow and lifted the bow again, more confident now. She let the arrow fly, and it knocked the first arrow clean out of the target. The sensation of being watched deepened. She didn’t know how it was possible, but she could feel Brandt’s pride from wherever he was. It caressed the back of her neck with the lightest of touches.
My Scot, My Surrender Page 24