Eilidh wanted to protest, but she knew that it did not matter that the idea of being constantly observed by a guard was stifling, suffocating. She could not allow herself to fall into Gordon’s hands, not only for her own sake—though being forced to be his bride was one of the worst fates she could imagine—but because he could not be given any further tools to legitimize his claim to the Donaghey legacy.
“I understand,” she said, nodding solemnly to indicate her sincerity.
Ewan’s brow unfurrowed, and Eilidh was reminded of how veryburdenedher brother by marriage had seemed of late.
“Good,” he said. “We willnae allow anything to happen to ye.”
Ciaran’s fingers briefly squeezed around hers, tight and reassuring, and Eilidh clutched back with all her might.
14
Ciaran stretched his shoulder, testing its range of motion, as he crossed down to the training yard. The master healer had told him that he could train.“As long as ye don’t feel pain. Aches are fine, but nay pain. Dinnae look at me like ye dinnae ken the difference, sir; I swear, ye warriors are all the same.”Today was the first time Ciaran had felt equal to the task.
He supposed that six days wasn’t actually that long in the vast scheme of things, but he’d felt every moment of the idleness like another jab against his wounds. He couldn’t afford to linger abed, not when Gordon still posed a threat to Eilidh—a far greater threat than she, or any of her protectors, realized.
So, as soon as he was physically ready, he made his way down to meet the other soldiers. He would forsake his pride and beg for a weapon if he needed to. He couldn’t stand this feeling of uselessness any longer.
James raised an eyebrow when Ciaran joined the other men, but nobody made any protest when he helped himself to a practice sword from the pile. He felt his confidence rush back the moment he held the blade in his hand. It wasn’thissword, andit wasn’t particularly sharp. It hadn’t been weighted for his reach or his grip.
But he was a warrior, down to his treacherous heart, and he was not whole without a weapon at his side.
“Have ye finally come to learn from a clan that kens sommat about fighting, then?” Captain McGregor called, the challenge in his voice playful rather than a true slash at Ciaran’s pride.
Another surge went through him. He wasn’t about to let that sort of an opportunity slide.
“Och,” he said, stripping from his borrowed shirt. He had too few possessions to his name right now to lose one to mere training. “Ye read me wrong, Captain. I’ve come here to see if your lads can hold their own against me. I reckon they’d faint dead away at a training session that Gunn warriors complete before breakfast.”
One of the younger lads looked like he wanted to protest this, but when he glanced around and saw that the old warriors were grinning, he went along with everyone else to line up for drills.
For an hour, never once forgetting that James McGregor—a legendary fighter in his own right—was watching, Ciaran led the men of Buchanan Keep. He drilled them endlessly on footwork, on feints, on the kind of lightning-fast strikes that had kept Ciaran alive innumerable times.
None of the men uttered so much as a single word of complaint. No matter what Ciaran threw at them, they met his commands with grim determination.
But it wasn’t enough. To win against Gordon, they needed to be better.
And, from the expression on James’ face—and on that of Arran, who had come to join James’ observation midway through the session—they knew it.
“I’ll admit that ye ken how to fight or at least how to direct others,” Arran observed lazily, his hand drifting toward the pommel of his sword. “But canyehold your own?”
Ciaran suspected that this offer was a gift. He’d come to this Keep twice now on the brink of death, and then the men had graciously allowed him, this unknown interloper, to order them about for more than an hour.
Arran was giving Ciaran a chance to show that he deserved their attentiveness.
He spread his arms wide. His shoulder didn’t tremble, not even when he held the sword at a full extension.
“Against one of ye?” Hetsked,shaking his head, his green eyes twinkling. “It wouldnae be fair for me to even try. I wouldnae wish to shame ye in front of your men.”
Arran’s jaw twitched, but James quickly stepped up at his side.
“Would two suit ye, then?” he asked, the tiniest mocking lilt in his voice.
Ciaran grinned. “It’s a start.”
They came at him then, all fury and thunder.
If he had the breath, Ciaran would have laughed out loud at howgoodit felt to feel his body respond to his every command practically before he had even finished thinking it. He dodged and wove for a moment, getting their measure, playing the defensive briefly. It didn’t take long for him to see it, the way these two complimented each other spectacularly. James, lithe and feline, used his agility and speed to overwhelm his opponent. Arran, broader, used his strength to his advantage.
Aye, James was fast, and Arran was strong—but Ciaran was both.
