Highlander Redeemed (Guardians of the Targe Book 3) (17 page)

“And you. I
know
you.”

He nodded, holding her gaze with his own. “Aye.”

She would not let herself look away from him, from his dark brown eyes gone soft as he waited for her to say something, to do something. But she would not let herself close the small distance between them. She knew herself, and she knew Duncan. They would drive each other daft if there was anything more between them than teacher and student, big brother and bratty wee sister. And yet she did not think of him as brotherly anymore. There was nothing brotherly at all in the way Duncan had invaded her thoughts, and her dreams. Nothing brotherly when he had kissed her. And there was nothing sisterly in the desire for him that swamped her at odd times.

Besides, they both knew she was a fickle creature. Her infatuation with Conall had only lasted until she had other things, more important things, to fixate upon. And there had been lads before him, fleeting flirtations, a few stolen kisses. Of course things had gone a bit further than kisses with Conall. She turned away from Duncan then, pretending she had heard something behind her. She was not proud of what had happened with Conall, though at the time it had been thrilling to know he wanted her so much, to know he would put his life in danger to lie with her. It had been a heady rush of power that she had never experienced before. It had been an escape from the impending death of her mother. And yet she had found no joy in learning of his arrival at the caves.

But she did find joy in her time with Duncan, and not just from the training. She found herself looking for his smile when she finished one of his tasks, and was disappointed if it did not appear. Spending time with him made her forget, sometimes, the things that had happened, and managed to suspend her fixation on the battle to come, allowing her to simply be with him, in the moment.

Daft. She was daft. She wanted no escape from the horrors that had befallen her and her clan since those days of naïveté. Now she wanted to hold the pain, the anger, the sorrow, and the grief close to her so she would never forget, so she would stay focused on what mattered, on vengeance, on driving the English
devils from this land, on killing as many of them as possible so they could not return, yet again, to try to break Clan MacAlpin of Dunlairig. She had two deaths to avenge. If she gave in to whatever this was between her and Duncan she would lose her focus, her edge, her burning anger.

She realized she still stared into Duncan’s eyes, but at least her resolve was once more in place.

“How can we use this ability of mine as a weapon against our enemies?” she asked, turning the tension between them back to what she really wanted.

Vengeance.

F
OR THREE DAYS
Duncan had driven them both hard with sword practice, testing her gift, obstacle courses in the wood, tracking practice for those things she could not find with her
knowing
, discussions of strategy . . . anything he could think of to tire the two of them out so much and so thoroughly that neither had the energy to dwell on the change in their relationship, for even though she had not admitted as much, the very fact that she could
know
where he was at all times spoke volumes about the emotions she refused to acknowledge.

That alone, hiding her emotions, was remarkable and told him in no uncertain terms that she did not want the feelings she held for him. Which was fine. He did not want these new feelings she was engendering in him, either.

But Scotia fought like a demon now that she had a real sword. No longer did she dance through the lessons he set her. The sword, and a better understanding of what her gift could and couldn’t do for her, had honed her to a fine edge, making her move through the exercises with more force, more grace, and far greater purpose than ever before.

“Ouch!” he said as Scotia landed a blow with the flat of her sword on his upper arm.

“If you held your targe where you should, I could not hit you like that,” Scotia said, her sword once more up, her targe in place, and a wicked smile upon her lips. “If ’twas a true battle, I would not have turned my blade, and you would be without that arm.” She shifted her weight side to side, her sword at the ready, enjoying far too much his momentary distraction and her momentary victory.

Duncan attacked. Swords clashed, and for a moment his focus was absolute. Scotia put everything she had into her parries and counterattacks, forcing him to think fast to keep up with her.

She fluttered her eyelashes, the smile still in place, drawing his attention away from her fighting stance to her eyes. The moment his focus wavered, she spun, landed a vicious blow on his targe, then used that force to propel her into another spin. He stopped her next blow with his sword, the blades sliding down each other until the cross guards stopped them, jamming their weapons together and bringing Duncan within inches of Scotia. Her eyes locked with his as she fought for control of the battle.

Duncan could barely hold his ground, struggling to keep his mind on the battle now that she stood so close he could feel her rapid breath upon his face, but they were at a stalemate.

“Enough?” She licked her lips, and he was lost.

Somehow she hooked a heel behind his knee and pulled him off balance, toppling him to the ground. He managed to hold his weapons away, pulling hers free of her grip at the same time, but that meant he could not break his fall. He landed hard with an “Oof!”

In one motion, so fluid ’twas like a dance, Scotia drew her dagger and straddled him, her knife point coming to rest just under his ear. At least she was breathing hard from the exertion. He could barely breathe at all, and it had little to do with the knife at his throat, and everything to do with the woman who sat atop him in a position far better used for pleasure than for war.

Scotia was motionless, her gaze, still locked on his, showed surprise, and awareness.

His body stirred. She did not move. Her breath stuttered and grew unsteady.

And then she closed her eyes and caught her lower lip between her teeth and rolled her hips almost imperceptibly. Duncan groaned. He swiftly relieved her of the dagger, throwing it away from them as he rolled and pinned her beneath him so he lay in the cradle of her thighs. She reached up and pulled him down into a kiss that was every bit as fierce as their first, though there was no anger, no argument, this time.

Duncan’s focus was absolute.

The slide of her lips against his, the touch of their tongues, fanned his desire. She let her hands roam over his back, pulling him tighter against her, then she slid her long fingers into his hair as he deepened the kiss, urging her mouth to open for him. It was all he could do not to push her skirts and his plaid out of the way and do what clearly they both wanted right then and there. One bit of sanity and a promise he’d made to himself kept him from that. But that promise didn’t keep him from enjoying the moment.

He slid his hand slowly down her side, his palm skimming over the side of her breast, then down the curve of her waist.

The fervor of her kiss slowed, as if her attention had shifted from his mouth to . . .

“Ahhh,” she whispered against his lips as he ran his fingers over the exposed soft skin of her thigh where her gown and kirtle had bunched up, until he found her damp and ready. Before his mind could catch up with him, he pressed a finger into her and felt her shudder. She let her head fall back, and closed her eyes. The look of utter concentration on her heart-shaped face almost undid him.

He pressed deeper into her, then out, and in again, and she began to move her hips against him, matching the rhythm of his fingers. He found her bud and ran his thumb over it as he delved his finger into her, all the while watching her as intense
concentration gave way to intense pleasure. She tensed, arching her back, pressing her breasts against his chest and her sex hard against his hand.

She let out a long, low moan of pleasure, her flesh pulsing against him, and it was all he could do not to join her in her release.

He let his forehead rest against hers for a long moment, breathing in the scent of her, letting it wrap around him and settle into him, and he realized he had truly lost the battle, and not the one with swords and shields.

“Get off me, Duncan,” she said but he could not tell her mood. He pushed back and sat down facing her, grateful when she settled her skirts back where they belonged. She said nothing as she got to her feet and found her dagger. She looked at it in her hand as if only seeing it for the first time.

“We cannot do that again,” she said, sliding the dagger into its sheath at her belt.

“I ken that.” He got to his feet and gathered his own weapons. “’Twas not my intention.”

“Nor mine,” she said. “I should have stopped you, but . . .”

“ ’Twas the heat of battle,” he said, though he knew it was far more than that. “It riles the blood.” ’Twas a poor excuse for letting his desires get the best of his intentions. “ ’Twill not happen again.”

“I will not let it happen again,” she said, but she wasn’t looking at him and there was none of the heat he expected in her voice. “It cannot happen again. No kissing, no . . . touching.” She cut her gaze to him and he could see the pink in her cheeks, but he did not ken if the color was because she was embarrassed by what had transpired here or because she was angry about it. She let her hand rest on the hilt of her dagger, the dagger that had killed her mum and Myles, the dagger that she had just used to remind herself of her goal. “I cannot be distracted from my vow, Duncan. I’ll not let you nor any other lad distract me.”

D
UNCAN SAT ACROSS
the fire from Scotia that evening after the meal, hoping the crackling flames and quiet conversation would distract him from the tension that still rode his body and his mind. But it was useless. He could think of nothing else, and every time he let himself be drawn back to the events of the afternoon, followed by Scotia’s silent return to the caves with him, he wanted to groan or grab her and pull her into the forest with him. Clearly he had not been thinking when he let himself, when he let them, get carried away like that, and now he was paying the price. Somehow she had turned the tables on him. He was the one distracted by desire, while she remained steadfastly focused on her goal.

“If you keep staring at her like that, lad,” Nicholas said, “Kenneth is likely to pluck out your eyeballs.”

Duncan closed his eyes and rubbed the spot between his brows. “Is it that obvious?”

“Aye.” Nicholas sat next to him. “But from what Rowan has told me, and from what I have seen from the moment I met you, you have always had a soft spot for the stubborn, selfish—”

“She is not—”

Nicholas laughed quietly. “Not anymore, ’tis true. It seems she has grown up at last, and while circumstances of late pushed her there, you appear to have something to do with her transformation, too.”

“Transformation?” Was their indiscretion that apparent?

“You are not blind—yet—and neither am I. You have been training her with weapons.” Duncan gave silent thanks, then realized what Nicholas had said. “If I had not seen it myself,” Nicholas continued, “I would know from the way she carries herself.”

“Seen it?”

“You forget that my first calling was as a master spy. Did you not think I would keep an eye upon you and your charge when she has caused so much trouble?”

Duncan sighed. “’Tis a measure of how preoccupied I have been that I did not consider that.”

Nicholas chuckled. “She is a distracting woman. But as I said, even if I had not seen her training myself, I would know. No longer does she wander about, swaying her hips, and looking for mischief as she did when first I saw her trysting with Conall.” An unwanted flash of anger had Duncan scanning the gathering for the blond warrior. “She moves differently than she did even a tenday ago. Now she strides about like a warrior, her eyes scanning for trouble, her reactions swift and often ending in a fighting posture. And I daresay she is getting quite good with her weapons, given the number of bruises and cuts I have seen on you in the last few days.”

Duncan looked down at his nicked hand, and rolled the shoulder she had whacked with her blade just that afternoon, knowing there would be a fine bruise in evidence by morning.