As she rose, he did. With a nod at him, she walked off in the opposite direction her father had taken. Standing there, Iain knew he would have no place here once this confrontation between father and daughter settled. When the three days ended, Ailis MacKinnon would wed the stalwart Sir Duncan as The MacKinnon had arranged.
Iain nodded to no one in particular and walked where his feet took him. But his thoughts turned over as he tried to understand why this chieftain’s daughter should concern him at all. Oh, aye, he’d been drawn into their battle of wills. But something inside tugged at him to help her.
Especially since he should have left, with thanks to the chieftain for his overly magnanimous marriage offer, Iain remained. His purpose here, and at every other town, village and keep where he’d stopped over these weeks, was to find out his own truth. So, why did he want to put that aside and help this woman?
The dreams. It always came back to the dreams of her.
Had his pain-addled mind conjured her up to give him something to concentrate on during the tormented months? Had he truly seen Lady Ailis or just a pale-haired temptress?
Iain heard a shout and looked around. Without paying heed, he’d walked to the yard where the MacKinnon men trained. Watching them challenge each other with weapons, his own hands itched as though missing the feel of something strong and metallic.
“Come there!” a voice called out to him. “Come.”
An impossibly-large older man, garbed only in trews and covered in sweat, motioned to him. He’d been directing the training, ordering men about and assessing their movements, strengths and weaknesses while Iain had watched earlier. Before he could accept or reject the call, the man strode closer and tossed a sword, hilt-first, at him. Iain caught it without difficulty and adjusted his gloved grip around the hilt.
“Ye look like ye might need some work.”
Iain looked down at the weapon in his grasp and recognized the feel of it. Climbing over the fence, he waited as the man studied him, in a prelude to an attack Iain understood would come. Moving with a speed that belied his size, the man raised his sword and swung at Iain as he crossed the few paces between them.
Iain’s body reacted on its own, clearly experienced in this. From his ability to hold this huge warrior at bay, he was clearly skilled at it. Though his muscles protested from their too-long period of inactivity, his movements became smoother, more defined, stronger as they fought.
He stopped thinking and planning his next action and let his body remember what to do. Sometime later, his opponent finally knocked the sword from his grasp, ending their fight.
“Ye fight well with the sword, man.” As he picked up the blade from the dirt, the man nodded. “Verra well, indeed.”
“It has been a long time,” Iain explained.
“Well, ye havena lost any of yer skills.” The man held out his hand. “I am Breac, commander of The MacKinnon’s warriors.”
“I am called Iain,” he said, accepting the man’s strong grasp around his forearm and returning it. “And ye are his brother as well?”
“I am.” The man looked as startled by Iain’s declaration as he felt. He released his hold and stepped back. “Not many ken that and fewer speak of it. How do ye come by such?”
Iain could not explain the knowledge that filled his thoughts. This man was the chieftain’s natural half-brother though he was acknowledged ascousin. A bastard born from the old laird’s loins sired on a servant girl. A fact known by very few. More importantly, he was considered a worthy contender for the high seat if not for his illegitimacy.
“I dinna ken,” he said, shaking his head.
If Breac felt threatened by Iain’s knowledge, it didn’t show. The large man shrugged and, with a quick warning about keeping that to himself, Breac strode off, calling out orders. Iain walked to the fence to climb out, but Breac called him once more.
“Ye should come back and work with us. Yer sword arm is weak,” he said. Others who’d watched them fight called out other opinions, both rude and helpful, about Iain’s weak sword … arm and he laughed.
“I will.” His stomach grumbled, reminding Iain he had not eaten all morning.
He rolled his shoulders as he found his way to the kitchen, stretching to loosen the muscles that were not used to such work. It had felt good though. The sword felt as if it belonged in his grasp. The gloves did not slow him down, but his hand ached for the feel of the hilt against its palm. Mayhap he would remove them the next time?
Iain sought out a servant and asked for a bucket of heated water. Sweat poured down him now, making the layers he wore unpleasant and sticky. He needed to find a way to wash and not just quickly from a bucket. The man he asked promised to bring it to his chamber, so Iain went there to wait.
He dropped the bar to block the door once the water arrived. He took his time, removing every piece of clothing. The hood and mask hadn’t impeded his ability to swing a sword. But he found the heat they held in would tire him quickly in a real fight. The mask would also impede his vision in a true battle.
After he’d washed, and while allowing his garments dry a bit, he walked around the chamber and ate the food that was waiting, as promised, for him. He considered the choices that faced him now and how he could best reclaim his own identity and life, wherever that might be.
Now that he comprehended the chieftain’s plan to bait his daughter with him as an unworthy choice to push her where he wanted her to be, Iain thought about leaving. There was truly nothing to keep him here. He owed no allegiance to this lord or this place. Aye, he’d sworn his oath to someone, but here they knew him not.
He could bide his time this day and slip out just before the gates locked for the night or just after they opened in the morn. That was when many slipped in or out with little notice, returning to their houses in the village or coming to their work in the keep. One more man would gain little notice.
By this time on the morrow, he could be well away from here and the spectacle between The MacKinnon and his headstrong daughter. And back to his task of finding his own life. He finished the bread and cheese, content that he’d chosen his path.
The soft knock at the door brought him to a halt.
