Ciaran shrugged, but only with the shoulder that had suffered no injury.
“Who am I to lecture?” he asked. “I was recently defeated so soundly that it nearly cost me my life.”
Eilidh wanted to leap to Ciaran’s defense, but she forced herself to keep her tongue.
Arran, however, had no such qualms. He openly scoffed at Ciaran.
“That’s nae what your reputation suggests,” he said, a hint of challenge in his voice.
Out of the corner of her eye, Eilidh saw Davina roll her eyes affectionately. Men really were so terribly susceptible to challenges to their pride.
“Ye are a legend, and ye dinnae become such without knowing your trade. False humility doesnae become ye.”
A muscle worked in Ciaran’s jaw, but he did ultimately succumb.
“Ye,” he said, stepping forward and pointing at Davina, “are doing just as ye should. No matter what taunts your husband may throw at me, I’ve no advice for ye but to continue practicing. Ye will get better and better with each hour ye put in.”
Davina smiled, clearly startled but still pleased by this praise.
Ciaran turned to Mairi next.
“Ye,” he said, “should give up on throwing blades altogether.”
Mairi’s face fell, and she stared at her target, clearly confused, given that she hit the target far more frequently than she missed it.
“Ye are fine at throwing blades,” Ciaran clarified. “But ye could be far better than merelyfineif ye took to the bow. Ye have the height for it—and few lasses do. It will give ye an even greater advantage than throwing a blade will do, especially if ye learn how to shoot well from atop your horse. A bow will let ye use what ye have—your strength, your steady core, your clear ability to follow a line of sight far. Find the best archer ye can and ask him to train ye.”
Mairi’s expression faded into something thoughtful, and she nodded absently. Eilidh could practically see her weighing which of the clan warriors should be considered the best archer to teach her.
“And ye.” Eilidh wasn’t sure whether she wanted to preen under Ciaran’s assessing gaze or wilt away from it. “Ye have agility, but ye don’t use it to your advantage. Ye throw from the shoulder, but ye need to twist your hips as well.”
He held his hands out in front of them and then twisted them as though he was guiding her hips through the motion. He was yards away from her, but she somehow managed to feel the ghost of his touch on her body anyway.
It was that ghost that made her snappish.
“I dinnae ken what ye are talking about,” she insisted, weighing a blade in her hand like her attention had already moved away from him. “Ye cannae have a sense of any such thing from a mere glance.”
“Och, aye.” Ciaran’s eyes were narrow, and irritation came off him in waves. “I’m sure that my years surviving battles, assessing enemies at a glance, with my life at stake, gives me far less experience than…” He made a production of glancing around. “An afternoon with some knife tossing thrown in?”
“All right, there,” Arran said, though the censure in his tone was mild. “They’ve been trying.”
Ciaran’s eyes were locked on Eilidh’s. “Aye. And if she would use her talents to her advantage, that effort might actually amount to something.”
“This attitude must be why ye are known as a warrior but nae as a leader,” Eilidh said with poisonous sweetness.
Behind Eilidh, Mairi let out a low whistle that might have been impressed but also very well might have been alarmed at Eilidh’s attitude.
Ciaran’s jaw clenched in a way that, by now, Eilidh had seen enough to know meant that he was trying to hold back a much stronger reaction than what he displayed. Something inside her thrummed in excitement over whatever he was going to say next. She might not be an expert in weapons or battles, but she was rapidly becoming an expert in this particular fight.
Except, just before he released the retort that she could practically see flying to his lips, his eyes darted over her shoulder, and the words evaporated before they could take form.
“Just move your hips,” he said absently. “It will help.”
And then he brushed past her without another word, leaving her with a strange, unfulfilled sense that she couldn’t shake, no matter how hard she tried.
7
Ciaran kept his eyes fixed on the glint of light, sharp and unnatural, gleaming from the armory door. The flicker had caught his eye and his warrior’s senses—no matter how much Eilidh might choose to denigrate them—had perked up with a certainty that this was no mere trick of the light.
