“No,” he responded slowly, lifting his hands in a loose, defensive pose. “I only want to be sure that I know what I’m taking on.”
She was practically vibrating with anger and eagerness.
Too hasty, he thought.
As if to highlight the point, Una flung herself at him, fists whipping out in a powerful blow that might well have taken an inexperienced opponent by surprise.
Struan, however, was not inexperienced.
He dodged neatly, and her fist whistled past his face. She gave an audible growl of frustration and righted herself.
If he’d been playing seriously, he might have driven a fist into her side as she rushed by. He had a feeling that if he did that—or if, heaven forbid, he knocked her unconscious—the soldiers around them might panic and stab him, or something like that.
Instead, he danced away. His movements were stiff and less elegant than they could be, but already his lungs felt as though they were expanding joyfully in the cool, fresh air.
“Not bad for an opening move,” he remarked, dodging another blow. “Careful now. Ye might tire yerself out. Don’t want to be striking the air now.”
“Well, this wouldn’t be a problem if ye would just…” Una bit off the end of the sentence, but Struan knew just what she was trying to say. He let out a low chuckle.
“Just what? Wouldn’t be a problem if I just stayed still? Ach, lassie, that’s not realistic, is it?”
“I’m no inexperienced fool,” she spat, backing up and finally giving herself a chance to breathe. “I’ve fought. In abattle. I’ve killed people.”
Struan smiled. “Ye have fought in a battle, eh? Very good. I’ve fought in hundreds.”
He lunged forward, too fast for her to evade. He twisted her around, neatly tying up both of her arms with his own forearm and pinioning them behind her back, and pinned his arm across her collarbone. With her back to him, he could only see part of her profile, but he certainly saw her eyes widen when she realized that she was trapped.
“Ye are too hasty,” he murmured in her ear. “Ye let yer emotions get the better of ye.”
“Let go of me!” she bucked, trying to escape.
In a moment, the watching soldiers would probably intervene. They were most likely itching to do so now.
“Ye rushed in, headfirst, because ye wanted to hit me,” Struan responded, as calmly as he could. “Ye wanted to hurt me. That was all ye were thinking about. Aside from a well-practiced opening move, where was the skill in yer fighting? Where were the tactics? Aye, flailing around with a sword might serve ye wellin the close quarters of battle, but not when ye go up against an opponent with experience.”
She went still, just for a moment, and he realized that she was actually listening to him.
Well, so she should. It was good advice.
“Una!Una!”
A familiar voice yelped in the distance, and running feet approached them. Struan released her just in the nick of time, spinning around to see a group of men and one nun hurrying towards them.
The man who had shouted was none other than Thomas Darroch himself. Struan knew the man, of course. He’d been a thorn in the side of the Dicksons for a long time, and he had led the armies that had defeated Struan’s men.
More to the point, he was the one who had just married Kyla.
Struan found himself pounced upon by the Swedish giant, who hauled him away from Una.
“It was a sparring session,” Struan found himself shouting. “She suggested it.”
Thomas pinched Una’s chin, frowning. He seemed to be looking for injuries and was visibly relieved to find none.
Struan bared his teeth. “She didn’t win, if ye wanted to know.”
Thomas glared at him. “Ye were brought above ground—against my advice, by the way—to work. Ye are meant to be picking herbs, not fighting. Una knows this.”
Apparently, there was a reproof in those words, because Thomas glanced sharply at Una. She hung her head miserably.
