Susan King - [Celtic Nights 03] (32 page)

"Hold, boy," he said. "Set down your weapon."

Eva stared at him, her oval face pale, eyes wide, dark hair tumbling half out of a thick braid. Lachlann lowered the tip of his sword slightly, and she turned to flee.

He launched after her. Eva's exit was blocked by a tangle of fragrant, piney boughs, and she turned and used her blade to push Lachlann's sword down, so that she could run past him.

He deflected and defended the strike, and they circled into the clearing. She was obviously well trained. Her rapid strikes, deft footwork, and quick reasoning astonished him, as did her thoughtful, strategic movements. Lachlann countered with relative ease, his height, reach, and strength an advantage.

She knew how to defend, how to feint and parry; she faked and blocked, and improvised well. Even when she stumbled, she recovered rapidly to strike Lachlann's steel-protected shoulder.

Swiftly, Lachlann undercut her blade with his and stepped in close, foot to foot, knee to knee, blades pushing against each other, faces in shadow. Breaths heaved in tandem and their gazes locked. The tension between them felt taut, hot, and keen, less that of foes than lovers. Lachlann felt desire heat within him for her, even as he poured strength into resisting her force.

Devastated days ago by the news of her marriage, he had kept his distance from her, hoping to collect his thoughts and let his feelings cool. His anger had calmed, but his love and passion for her would never fade. Now, facing her in so intimate and demanding a manner, he felt his heart burgeon again. Dear God, he thought, how he loved her! He had never doubted the quality of her courage and her fiery, stubborn nature, and he was proud of what he saw in her tonight.

In that still, tense moment, he looked into her fearless glance and knew she recognized him, She did not acknowledge it; neither did he.

Poised in resistance with her, he thought suddenly of the story of Aeife and her prince. They stood for three days and nights, one against the other, hands locked over the Sword of Light; then they fell together from exhaustion, each catching the other. Now he understood such passion, strength, and devotion.

He knew he could disarm Eva easily with a fast snatch at her sword hilt. Instead, he pushed away and let her keep the weapon.

"I am tired of cat-and-mouse," he said. "You have been schooled in swording. Now show me what you can do. I will not let you go, so we may as well both enjoy this."

She adopted a ready stance as a gesture of agreement. Lachlann deliberately slowed his movements and began a drill, and Eva engaged him expertly. He murmured praise, then led her into another pattern, familiar from his own boyhood practice.

Now the contest seemed worthwhile to him, a match of skill and knowledge. He had no interest in defeating Eva to prove his own greater skill. Intrigued by her ability, he found their encounter compelling, a strangely sensual dance of power.

Breathing rhythmically, moving forward as he moved back, then coming together with him and parting, she accepted his slow thrusts and countered him gracefully. He led her through one drill after another. Altercation became lesson; foes had become as equal and careful as lovers.

As a bladesmith, Lachlann knew swords intimately; he knew swordplay, as art and study, better than most knights. Years ago, he had read manuals on the subject in Latin and English, two borrowed, another acquired at a market in Glasgow. He had pored over every word and every drawing with painstaking care, learning to read and learning about swords. On the fields of France, he had used more of that knowledge than he had ever wanted to use.

Now he called it up in his mind and in the memory of his body, like a scholar reeling out his lessons one by one—only he was the master now.

He initiated a series of lunges and countermoves, and Eva responded, well rehearsed and practiced. Some were traditional, others she improvised with near brilliance, catching Lachlann narrowly more than once. Lachlann increased speed and force, careful to strike only her blade.

As much as he enjoyed this and wanted it to continue, he realized the contest must end before the sound of clashing swords brought the king's men toward them once again.

One powerful swipe from beneath, accurately timed, sent Eva's sword spinning out of her hand. Lachlann felt the jolt in his own arm. The sword landed in a bed of leaves, and she grabbed at her forearm, curling inward as if in pain.

"Are you hurt?" Lachlann asked with quick concern.

"I am fine," came her muttered, recalcitrant reply.

Lachlann lifted his blade tip to point. "Well done. Sit over there." He indicated the base of a wide tree. She sat, legs folded neatly, and cradled her wrist.

Lachlann sheathed his sword and snatched up the fallen weapon. His knowledgeable smith's eye took in the older style, the nicked and well-worn blade.

"Whose weapon is this?" he asked. She did not reply. He stood before her and drove the swords into the earth, folding his hands over both pommels at once. She rose to her feet and stepped into a shaft of moonlight to walk past him. He grabbed her arm. "Stay here," he said. "Eva."

She pulled, made a little frustrated sound. "Let me go!"

"Where are you going? And what the devil are you doing here?" He turned her, but she looped out of his grasp. "I told you to stay at Balnagovan," he growled.

"Are you my keeper?" She glared up at him.

"I did not think you needed one. I thought you were sensible, but I should have known better. Why the disguise? And where did you learn swordplay? We took you for a man at first, for love of God! One of us might have killed you!"

"I learned how to protect myself while you were in France. Give me that," she said, snatching at the hilt of her sword. "It belongs to Alpin."

"It is mine now," he said. "As victor."

"I let you win," she muttered. "I gave you that last shot."

"Did you?" he said easily. He handed the sword to her, hilt first. "Return this to Alpin, or I will."

"He gave it to me for my own defense." She slid it into the scabbard that hung from her belt. The sheath and sword were too long for her height, angling past her knee.

"When you were young, you followed your brothers and me in most things. But you never wanted to fight with stick swords, as I recall. You did not like to hurt anyone, or to be hurt."

"I have enjoyed the sword lessons, but I never intended to use the skills to fight in earnest."

"How long have you been training with Alpin?" He pulled his sword out of the ground and slid it into his scabbard, hearing the whistle of good steel.

She rubbed her wrist. "Almost two years."

"Well, he is the best teacher you could have for this. He taught me when I was younger, and your brothers too. But why you would choose to do this, even for self-defense, I cannot—" He paused. "Ah, the legend. Aeife's legend. The maiden with the sword. Do you think you must reclaim Innisfarna this way?"

She stilled her hands and regarded him silently.

"Do you not trust your beloved husband to keep your isle safe?" he asked, low and bitter.

"Would you?" she snapped.

"Then why accept the marriage? You can refuse it." He wished she would do that, and soon—or he would take care of Colin Campbell himself. His patience ran thin on that topic.

"Not as easily as you think. We cannot talk about this here." She stepped away. "I must find my brother and warn him."

He grabbed her arm, fearing she would bolt. Robson's men must not find her dressed as a boy, armed and skilled like a soldier—and clearly in league with the rebels. He had to keep her with him, even if she did not want that. "I told you I would find Simon. You should not be out here."

"I did not come out only to annoy you," she snapped, shaking off his grip. Then she winced and rubbed at her wrist again.

"Let me look at that." He took her forearm and skimmed his fingers along its slender length to the elbow, probing gently, turning her slim wrist in his hand. She seemed small and vulnerable in his large hands, but he knew her formidable temperament, had seen her fight with courage and skill. Her fragility was deceptive, her strength and resolve genuine.

"It is not swollen, but it is bruised, and it must be sore. A cold cloth and some of Mairi's willow ointment will help. I struck the sword too hard from your hand. Though if I had not, you might have taken me down," he remarked wryly.

"I may do that yet," she retorted.

She had done it long ago, he thought, plucked his heart from him neat as an apple from a tree. "Come," he said, taking her upper arm. "We are going back to Balnagovan."

"I came out here to find Simon!"

"He is no fool. With all the noise of sword fights and king's horses out here, he is not about to make himself seen, if he is nearby. I want you safe, and Simon wants that too, I am sure. Come." He walked her firmly toward the downward path.

"I can watch out for myself."

"That is what worries me. Go easy in the dark."

"I know the way," she said, as they edged their way down the hill. "Oh—listen!" She stopped and turned. He heard the creak of steel and leather, and the crunching of feet through the leaves on the hillside. "They are back!" she cried softly.

"Down!" Lachlann hissed, taking her arm. Before she could protest, he slid her sword out of its scabbard and pushed her to her knees and lower, shoving her into a high drift of dry leaves.

Drawing his own sword, he slid it to the ground with hers, and dropped down beside her, swirling his dark cloak over both of them, shimmying into the cover of leaves with her.

"What are you doing—"

"Shh," he whispered, touching his finger to her lips.

Holding her snug, her hair soft against his jaw, he peered over a fold of the cloak. Between the trees a little distance down the hill, he saw the two soldiers who had earlier accompanied him. He ducked inside the cloak's cover and lay with Eva, their forms blending with the leafy rumple of the hillside.

Chapter 22

The incline seemed to tilt beneath her when Lachlann took her down to the ground, swirling his cloak over both of them. Eva clutched at him, fearing they might roll down the hill.

"Be still," he whispered, his embrace tightening. "Wait."

Wrapped in his arms, his breath warm upon her cheek, she lay motionless. His steel breastplate was hard and cold against her chest, and his beard was like sand against her brow. "Why should you hide from them?" she whispered.

"I do not want them to find you," he murmured.

"I would have run—"

"Hush." His finger pressed her lips.

A moment later the ground shook as men walked close by, footsteps crunching through the leaves, their voices clear.

"MacKerron!" As the name echoed, Lachlann's arms tightened around her. "He was here not long ago, and his horse is still tethered down the slope. He must have chased that rebel elsewhere," one of the men said. "No one appears to have been injured here. I will wager MacKerron could not take that quick little fellow and ended up running after him."

Cocooned with Lachlann inside the cloak, Eva felt the ripple of his soft chuckle. She knocked him on the shoulder.

The other soldier laughed. "I swear I heard the sound of weapons hitting after we left him. But there is no one about."

"'Tis rutting season. You might have heard two stags clashing horns over some fine doe." More footsteps crushed the leaves. "What a place this is, steep and rugged. Come ahead. The others are waiting down the hill. We canna wait for the smith. He knows that Robson wants us to meet him down in the glen after we search the hill." They walked away, making no attempt to muffle the crashing sound of their departure.

Silence descended over the hillside again. Eva rested her head on his shoulder and felt his hand soothe over her hair. She sighed, glad for such peacefulness, however fleeting.

"Best to wait until we know they are gone," he whispered.

She nodded, willing to linger in his arms inside their dark haven. A turn of her head brought her lips against his chin.

"Be still, you." His tender whisper stirred a sensual force within her. The air between them seemed laden, pulsing. Her body pulsed, too, as her mouth nearly touched his.