Elizabeth McBride (13 page)

"Can you see that?" She turned to him. But he was looking at her face, not her fingers.

"I see that," he murmured.

The warmth in his eyes unsettled her. "You ... you
should try it yourself. Before you forget."

"Aye, I should."

He reached out. Still under the spell of his gaze, she
started to hand her weapon to him. Then her wits returned.
"Nay," she said abruptly, drawing the bow back. "You must
use your own bow. That would be better."

He nodded and picked up his weapon. Then he notched
an arrow on the string and looked at her. "Target?"

She scanned the countryside beyond him. "That tree
there."

He followed her gaze and squinted. The tree was at least
fifty yards away. "Hmm."

He raised the weapon, released the string, and missed.

He grimaced fiercely. "That was very good," Mhoire pronounced. "You almost hit the target." He peered down at
her out of the corner of his eye.

She ignored the skepticism she saw there. "Take another
arrow, and let me watch more closely."

He did as she told him.

She peered at his hands and then moved behind him.
Standing on her toes, she tried to observe his sight line.
But he was so much taller than she was that she couldn't
see the relationship between his eyes and his hands.

"Perhaps you should kneel. I can't get a proper look at
what you're doing."

He got down on one knee and took aim again.

Still behind him, she straddled his leg and bent one knee
herself until her head was at the same level as his. She had
to reach out as far as she could to get around his broad
shoulder with her left hand. The length of her arm lay
against his, and she could feel the bulge of his muscle under
the cloth of his tunic. Her heart began to beat as swiftly as
a rabbit's. Ease yourself, she ordered. You're just showing
him how to hold the bow. But she had never been this close
to a man before, and her body vibrated with awareness.

Tentatively, she pried his fingers open. "Move your fingers a little farther apart. Like this."

His fingers were warm and rough under hers. All of him
was warm and rough. Except for his hair, which she inadvertently brushed with her nose and which was as smooth
as the silk of a milkweed pod.

She glanced at his face, an inch from her own. He looked
slightly pained, and his eyes were shut. Alarm rushed
through her. "Are you all right?"

"Fine."

"You must keep your eyes open, Drosten."

"I know that." He gritted his teeth and opened his eyes.

The top of his tunic was untied, and a delicious heat
emanated from underneath it. His neck smelled of sweat
and the sun.

She reached around his right side and, with her right
hand, lightly touched his where it held the bowstring. Her
breasts, barely covered by her undershirt, pressed into his
back.

"Mhoire," he croaked.

"What is it?" She leaned even closer so she could look
around his shoulder and see his face.

His eyes were shut again. "We'd better get on with this
lesson."

"Are you certain you are not ill? You look most strange."

"I'm not ill."

"But you must keep your eyes open, Drosten." He
opened his eyes. "Remember," she spoke softly into his ear, "relax your back as you aim." She laid her right hand
against the small of his back and spread her fingers. "Just
before you release the bowstring, loosen your back." She
dug her fingertips into the muscle around his spine and
kneaded. His bones were as true as a ship's mast and the
muscles hard as iron. "Then-" She lifted her hand and ran
it lightly along the length of his right arm till she felt the
warm, bare skin of his taut wrist. "-keep this arm straight
after the release so the arrow doesn't veer. That's the most
important part." She leaned back on her heels. "Now
shoot."

His arrow hit the tree.

"Very good!"

He shook his head. "That was a miracle."

"But you have much talent, Drosten."

He ran his free hand through his hair and half-turned to
look at her. Amusement shone in his eyes. "Not under these
conditions."

Her brow wrinkled. "What conditions?"

He laughed. Then he bounded to his feet and held out a
hand, leaving his bow on the ground. "Come. I owe you
something for your instruction."

She grasped his outstretched hand and let him pull her
to her feet. Suddenly, she was close to him again, the length
and breadth of his body filling the sun-splattered space before her. She stared up at him, and longing rose in her, as
full and deep as the tide.

She arched toward him. It took all of her will not to reach
up and sink her hands into the hair that curled at the nape
of his neck, to bring her mouth to his.

"What do you wish to learn?" he murmured. His pupils
glowed with intensity.

She remained mute.

"I'd show you how to kill a man, but I think one look
from your eyes would do that."

With a sharp intake of breath, she stepped back, confounded and hurt. "What do you mean?"

He simply shook his head.

She folded her arms tightly across her chest and looked
away.

He muttered something.

"What did you say?" she asked sharply.

He shook his head again. "It doesn't matter."

Neither of them looked at the other.

"Elanta says it's the old language you speak." She cast
about for words, anything to cover up the discomfort she
was feeling.

"Aye, sometimes. But I'm not always aware of it."

"All ... all your men speak it, do they?"

"It's the language we learned as children."

"But you know Gaelic."

"The monks taught us Gaelic. Everyone in Pictland
speaks Gaelic now." He glanced at her. "Does it bother
you? The old language?"

"Nay." She caught his eye briefly, and looked away.
"I ... I just didn't know about it. I've led a sheltered life,
you see." She looked down at the ground. "There is much
I don't know."

He was quiet for a moment. A breeze drifted through the
bower of trees, and the branches of the sycamores
squeaked.

"Well, I'd best show you a few things then, mo milidh."

My warrior. The words would have been mocking, had
the tone not been so gentle.

He walked over to where his weapons were lying on the
ground and picked up his club. "Let's pretend this is a
sword." He held the club out to her hilt-first.

She grasped it in her right hand. "What are we doing?"

"I'm telling you my battle secrets. Now come at me with
the weapon. As if it were a sword."

She blinked a few times. She didn't understand why he
was doing this, but at least his eyes no longer held that
smoldering look that wrenched feelings from her she didn't
even know she had.

She gripped the club firmly and made a thrust to his
stomach.

He grabbed the shaft. "Just what I thought." He released
the weapon. "Hold it in both hands."

Mhoire did as he instructed. "Like this?"

"Aye. Now come at me again, but here." With the edge
of his hand, he made a slicing motion against the left side
of his neck where it joined his shoulder. "It's an easy spot
to hit, and most of the time it's a fatal blow. Bring your
sword up with both hands and then down, and the weight
of the weapon will give you extra force."

She stared at his neck and grimaced. She wasn't accustomed to hitting people.

"Come," he commanded.

She raised the club and swung it. Once again, he caught
the weapon before it hit him.

He frowned. "That's difficult for you, isn't it?"

"Aye. I'm not very strong."

"You're very strong for a woman. But these weapons are
heavy and I'm a big man." He scrutinized her. "Let's try
your dagger."

She started to slip her small eating dagger from the
sheath at her waist. "Not that one," he said. "The other
one."

She stilled. "What other one?"

A half-smile touched his lips. "I don't know where it is,
but I know you have another dagger on you somewhere. I
saw you hack your way through a roof with it. Remember?"

Flushing, she turned to one side, lifted her skirt, and
drew the dagger out of the sheath that was strapped to her
leg. It was considerably larger than the one at her waist.

"Good. Now show me how you hold it."

She clutched the dagger tightly in her fist. He reached
out as if to touch her hand, but stopped himself. Instead,
he made a circular gesture. "Reverse your hold. Lay the
hilt in the palm of your hand."

She looked up at him in surprise. "That doesn't seem
right."

"It is right. I'll show you why. Lay the hilt in the palm
of your hand and then wrap your fingers around it."

She did so. It felt peculiar. She raised her elbow and
tried to plunge the dagger downward, but the movement
was ungainly. "I can't swing it this way."

"You can if you come from below, not from above like
that. Keep your elbow close to your body and your arm
low. Then go for my gut. In and up. One smooth movement. Your small size will help you. Just move right into
me." He took two steps backward. "Now."

"I'm not going to stab you."

"Nay, you're not. But you're going to try."

"I am not."

"Aye, you are. You need to know this, Mhoire. If you
want to be a warrior, then behave like one."

She lunged at him.

Just before the knife hit his flesh, he gripped her wrist.
And then his other arm snapped around her waist, pressing
her body against his. Startled by the strength and quickness
of his movement, she gaped wide-eyed into his face.

She pushed back against his arm with all her might but
it was as unyielding as an iron bar. Panic rose in her throat
like vomit, and she screamed.

Drosten dropped his hold instantly, and she stumbled
backward, letting the dagger fall.

"I'm sorry, Mhoire. I didn't mean to frighten you. I'm
sorry."

She covered her face with her hands. Her fear was a
caged animal, and in one leap it had escaped and shamed
her.

He took an awkward step toward her. "Forgive me. I
shouldn't have touched you."

She moved her trembling fingers from her face to her
hair and smoothed it back from her brow. "I must go. I'm
not hurt. But I must go."

Drosten watched her agitated movements as she walked
over to where her things were lying on the ground. Clumsily, she concealed her dagger under her skirt. She slid the
bow over her shoulder, picked up the heavy string of game,
dropped it, and picked it up again. Drosten turned to the sycamore tree, lay a bent arm against its trunk, and buried
his face in his sleeve.

That was how Grainne found them.

Her long face screwed up in consternation when she
halted at the edge of the grove. "What has happened?"

Mhoire came toward her with a closed expression.
"Nothing."

Drosten raised his head and pulled away from the tree.

Grainne scrutinized one and then the other. But she kept
her thoughts to herself.

"I came looking for you, Mhoire, to tell you that the cow
is here."

Mhoire nodded.

"What cow?" Drosten asked.

"I bought a cow from Irwin," Mhoire replied. "We need
milk for the child, and butter and cheese."

"You bought a cow from Irwin?"

"Aye. He has plenty of cows. And he is willing to help
us. He is one of our people."

"Not a Pict, you mean."

Mhoire didn't respond.

"And what did you pay for this cow?"

"I traded him a silver hair pin for it."

"I see." Drosten picked up his bow with one hand and
his club with the other. "Irwin has a use for hairpins, does
he?" Without looking at her, he strode away.

Mhoire watched his back as he receded over the side of
the hill, her insides tight and aching.

"There's something else," Grainne said, placing a bony
hand on her arm. Mhoire heard the rasp of fear in her voice.
"Your father is at the fort."

Grainne's words squeezed Mhoire's heart like a fist.

"Is my father angry?"

One look at her friend's face told her the answer.

Of course Colman was furious. By refusing to marry
Drosten, Mhoire had denied his wishes in the boldest way
possible. She had prayed-beyond all reason-that he
would not confront her in person. But here he was.

"I must go and greet him."

Grainne's hand tightened on her arm. "You could hide
in the cave. I could tell him that I couldn't find you. He
will think you have gotten lost. Or maybe that you have
been kidnapped..

"He would find me somehow."

Grainne dropped her hand.

They made their way down the hill and waded through
the high grasses toward the fort. Mhoire struggled to order
her thoughts, but they were as slippery as eels and just as
formless. There was no argument that could justify a
daughter ignoring her father's commands in order to live
on her own in another country.