I stalked across the training field, my jaw clenched tight enough to crack teeth. The afternoon sun beat down on my neck, but the heat in my blood had nothing to do with the weather. Young warriors scattered from my path, their practice swords lowering as they caught sight of my face. I barely noticed them. My gaze had fixed on James, who stood instructing a group of lads on proper shield positioning, as if he hadn’t deliberately disobeyed my orders regarding Murieall and my daughters.
“Good,” James was saying to a gangly boy of perhaps fourteen summers. “Now, hold yer shield higher to protect—”
“A word,” I growled, stepping into the circle of apprentice warriors.
James glanced up, his expression shifting from surprise to carefully constructed innocence. “Can it wait, Laird? I’m in the middle of—”
“Nay, it can nae.” I turned to the lads. “Training’s done for the day.”
They exchanged nervous glances before bowing hastily and retreating. James sighed and handed his practice sword to a nearby soldier.
“What troubles ye, Munro?”
“Ye ken verra well what troubles me,” I said, keeping my voice low but sharp. “I asked ye to show Murieall around the castle with the lasses. Instead, I find her running through the corridors playing tag with my daughters, crashing into me like some wild thing.”
James’s brows lifted. “Ye ran into her? Literally?”
I ignored the question. “Ye were supposed to stay with them.”
“I was needed here,” James said, gesturing to the training field. “These lads require instruction if they’re to become proper warriors. I simply told the lasses to play with her. It seemed a fine way for them to become acquainted.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Do nae take me for a fool. Ye did it deliberately, hoping to create some… some connection.”
James sighed and reached for two practice swords from a nearby rack. He tossed one to me, which I caught reflexively.
“If ye’re going to rage at me, we might as well get some training in while ye do it,” he said. “The men will respect ye more seeing ye with a sword in yer hand than a wine cup.”
The barb struck true, but I refused to give him the satisfaction of a reaction. Instead, I stepped into the center of the trampled earth, testing the weight of the practice sword. It had been too long since I’d trained properly. The wooden hilt felt strange in my hand after so many months of clutching nothing but goblets.
James took his position across from me, his stance easy and confident. We’d trained together since we were boys, and he knew my style as well as his own. But he didn’t know the depth of the rage that now fueled me, the frustration that had been building since Isabella’s death.
I lunged without warning, my blade arcing toward his shoulder. He parried just in time, the clash of steel ringing across the training yard. Surprise flickered across his face at the ferocity of my attack.
“Quit meddling in my affairs,” I snarled, circling him. “I did nae allow Murieall to stay here for anything but a brief distraction.”
“A distraction that ye put in charge of yer daughters,” James countered, deflecting another blow with a grunt of effort.
I pressed forward, my movements sharper and less controlled than they should have been. Each stroke was fueledby the anger that constantly simmered beneath my skin these days. James met my aggression with steady defense, letting me wear myself out.
“She told me her tale,” I said between blows, “about a witch and a magical goblet. About stealing it and being cursed.”
“And?” James asked, sidestepping a particularly vicious swing.
I advanced, sweat beginning to trickle down my back. “And I think she may be mad. She grew strange in Isabella’s solar, clutching her head as if in pain.”
The memory of Murieall’s sudden pallor, the way she’d swayed on her feet, made me hesitate. James seized the opportunity, darting forward to land a light tap against my ribs. In a real fight, I’d be bleeding out.
“Ye’re distracted,” James observed, stepping back. “Is it the lass who distracts ye?”
“Are ye listening to me? I’m saying she may be mad,” I repeated, resuming my stance. “I do nae have any interest in keening her beyond our bargain. I may nae even take her to my bed.”
James lowered his sword slightly, studying my face with an intensity I found uncomfortable. “If ye truly think she’s mad, I’ll send her away this night.”
I opened my mouth to agree, but something stopped me. The memory of my hand on Murieall’s arm flooded back unbidden. My fingers curled around the hilt of my sword as I recalled the warmth of her skin through the coarse fabric of her sleeve. I could see perfectly the way she’d looked up at me with those dark eyes full of something I couldn’t name. And the scent of her, heather and rain and something uniquely her own, clung to me. The realization struck me then that I could not recall the scent of any woman I’d bedded since Isabella died. Not one. Yet this woman I’d barely touched had imprinted herself on my senses.
“Munro?” James prompted, his expression curious.
I shook my head, trying to clear it. “Nay,” I said finally. “She can stay. The lasses seem to like her well enough.”
