Chapter 4
Odd. It was odd in a disturbing sort of way: Keirah slept as if it had been years since her last slumber. Not only this but she kept giving small whimpers; her little icicle nose tucked under his chin would twitch slightly.
All night he hadn’t heard any twigs break, but the cavern floor had helped him stay awake with its rough dampness.
When she leaned back slowly at rest, her features showed clearer by the sun approaching midday which peeped around the cavern’s ledge.
Her dark lashes brushed over the soiled, stained cheeks.
It was as clear to him as the sun’s rays washing over them: he would guard her with everything he was, even if it saw him to death’s door. Why the sudden urge? Not a clue.
However, one aspect was clear as the crusted mud in her hair: she felt good to be in his embrace.
Good? Naw, special in the most spectacular way.
He’d best savor it now, for when she discovered he…
he had been banished from his clan, by his very brother, she would turn away in disgust, the same as every other lass who became enamored by his demeanor and features.
Her lashes began fluttering; she was awakening. Should he greet her with ‘Good morrow, lass’ or ‘Sleep well, lass?’ In almost a daze she stared at his arm resting over her shoulder a mere moment then jerked back, giving a sound almost like she had been pierced by an arrow…
“NAE!” she screamed while bolting backward, awkwardly stammering, “L…Lord Kollungr!”
She was terrified! “Keirah, nae,” he called out calmly, despite every speck inside seeking to snarl in rage at this shite called Lord Kollungr.
She scrambled upon her hands and knees, sending pebbles whipping about, before vanishing into the cavern’s back shadows like she had just seen a phantom.
“Keirah, ’tis Aonghus.” He kept his tone steady. “Not Lord Kollungr.”
Resting on his heels, kneeling, the shadows were like a dark curtain pulled before him. His eyes continued to search frantically in the unseen black vista. There was no exit to the cavern’s backside; where had she gone? What the hell had those shite trolls tortured her with?
“Keirah?” he asked, his voice calling to the tone one would use for a skittish kitten. What could he do if she refused to come out? How might he offer her comfort…?
A tiny sob tore the air from the darkness. “Forgive me Aonghus, I saw your arm, not your face. I thought…” Her words were broken as she. “I do not know what my muddled mind thought. Please forgive…”
He remained frozen. “Keirah, ’tis nothing.” He cut short her apology. “You have been through a hell, like a warrior after battle. The wounds are fresh and raw. Time, lass, time it will ease.”
“I am nae warrior, Aonghus.” Her voice echoed from the shadows. “I cannot even hold a bow.” Well, that was going to change. Right. Now.
He fetched one of the two daggers tucked into the back waist strap at the top of his chausse. “You understand the ways in how to use a dagger?”
“The sharpened blade, not the hilt, strikes the opponent,” she replied, sounding embarrassed.
Under normal circumstances he would have laughed at the innocent answer.
She explained further, “They sought to keep me docile and never spoke regarding weaponry.”
His brows drew together; if he could breathe fire, he would.
“Keirah, I am goin’ to approach,” he advised and stayed low on his heels, shuffling along the ground till she came more into his sights.
There she was – seated on the ground, her knees tucked before her breasts, clutching the legs close like a protective shield.
She needed to feel strong again, and dammit, he was the same as the dirt on the cavern’s floor if he couldn’t unleash this emotion for her.
He offered her a dagger’s hilt. “This will not stand for much longer; I shall teach you how to throw a dagger,” he promised. “Keirah MacThistlen, are you prepared to sharpen those wee Scottish thorns, my Highlands thistle? To claim your strength and freedom back? You ready, lass?”
Her shaking hand emerged from the shadows’ edge, cautiously taking the hilt, her fingers brushing his. She was cold again. Movement. Training and movement would warm her quickly, or he could tuck her close again. No. This would only unleash more feelings which could never be.
She clutched the weapon in both hands before her breasts to whisper, “Aye.”
“Cluaran, then let us commence!”
***
“Once more, then another, then another!” she heard her new battle instructor demand, three hours later. “If you are goin’ to be a cluaran, sharp, you must take heed of an opponent’s vulnerable points. What are the targets to kill an enemy with your throw?”
She stood at the cavern’s center looking toward the Scotsman’s face flushed by intensity.
He seemed an honorable sort; dare she trust him fully?
“Take care and aim for” – she focused on the task while pressing her lungs – “where one shall draw breath, mindful of the ribs as a natural shield” – her fingers went to the increased thumping under her breast at their laboring in her learning – “your heart.”
He nodded. “Brillant.” Why did his praise affect her so? “Then we look to your stance, Cluaran.” He pointed at her feet.
She raised her skirt with the free hand; he frowned.
Normally when a summit-sized warrior approached, she would back up, but not now; he had worked diligently training her the whole afternoon while they waited for dusk before re-taking the journey south.
Each step he had been firm but fair; with every turn she…
was trusting him more. Huh, something she had lacked for years now.
“Nae,” he commanded before he kicked her legs farther apart.
Yet, he was so demanding! Did she like it? Well, a wee bit.
“Ouff,” she puffed at his stern command, then groused, “Take care there, Aonghus.”
His intensity rose. “Care?” He threw his hands up dramatically. “Does your mind dare to consider a Northmen will be offering a pause to aid with ‘care’ for your attack?” Raging hell, he was demanding and right.
Her eyes narrowed in determination while she capitulated. “Nae, they will charge without thought, driven by rage.”
“Aye.” He nodded, serious. “Keep your damn stance wide. There, Cluaran; when you throw, how does your weight shift onto your soles?”
She demonstrated by leaning forward then placing all her weight onto the balls of her front feet, emulating the throw; the blade caught a glimpse from a sunray, and it blinded her eyes a second.
“Excellent. Soon as we venture out into the forest you shall commence on targets such as trees. For now, the steps to aid the blade?”
“Upward to commence; my enemy cannot be more than three steps from my blade in a straight throw or it shall not aim true. ’Tis best to attempt a throw at a larger distance so it may shock the enemy,” she answered.
He nodded before she continued, “Aonghus, when I feel the hilt begin to release from my palm” – she arced her arm up then swung down halfway to pause – “Here is where I release; when the hilt frees my fingers, my thumb holds steady atop. This pressure on the hilt controls the angle; give a wee bit of press at the last moment to the hilt’s edge to keep the arc down. ”
A smile from him. Her blood pumped faster. “If an enemy takes you into his grasp?”
Focus, lest he kick her ankle again. Her fingers tightened on the hilt; she motioned to him directly in front of her. “Slice the sides of the throat, this will drop him same as a boulder.” She explained the earlier lesson.
“Keirah, if you cannot take a high path with the blade?”
“Groin; if I can tear the blade across his inner thigh, death is imminent,” she answered, quickly.
“Nae blade?”
She lowered her eyes. “A knee to the groin.” Her face flamed at the tactic his bruised groin demonstrated.
He didn’t dwell but asked sternly, “If the groin is protected?”
Her eyes scanned the nearby vista and grabbed a rock. “Use the nearest force available in weapon.”
“Applied where?”
She raised the boulder toward his temple, paused, then met his eyes. “This is a fragile point; aim here.”
His smile grew. “When we reach Stirling, I know of a bowyer to fit you properly, lass. A bow will be made just for your delicate size and you will get the training you seek.”
The boulder on his temple, she reversed so her fingers traced over his sensitive skin patch with a tender caress. “You cannot fathom what this training harbors in feel for me, MacCade. More…more than words.” His pulse was pumping under her flesh as well. Did he feel an attraction sparking too?
He paused while looking down at her a long moment. Her heart thumped quicker, and not from the matters they spoke of about defense. Why had his gaze fallen onto her lips? Would he kiss her? Would she halt him? Did she want to halt him? When the hell had she become so unsure on everything?
Grrr. A sound took the cavern, echoing directly from her stomach. Ugh, that ruined the moment. Hunger letting its rage be known! Her hand dropped quick as the stone she held from mortification.
“Pardon.” Her cheeks blazed. “I am a wee bit ravenous. ’Tis a weakness I carry. My tummy summons when seekin’ fulfillment.”
He gave a low chuckle, and she watched curiously as he strode toward a rock pile and pulled back the top layer.
Hidden beneath was a pouch, which, once unfolded, revealed a generous sum of blaeberries.
The mercenary must have hidden this here on his way north.
Gathering them in his palms, he handed them over one and all.
Her breath caught. What a selfless act. He must be hungry as all too, but he gave every last one without a second thought.
“Cluaran, tame the beast within.” He nodded at her gut when it rumbled again, and her cheeks flamed more. “It will be dusk soon. I am goin’ to seek a wee nap. You stay watch? Listen for any twigs which may break sounding the alarm?”
“Aye.” She nodded. A quiver took her spine when his warm hands brushed hers delivering the helping of berries.
He settled upon the floor then gazed at her one final time. “I dare say if your hunger for feasting lets itself be known so sternly, the sound you shall utter in Gaelic battle cry at the enemy before attack will be unlike any other,” he declared, then winked.
Was there another Gaelic warrior goddess present? She darted her eyes behind her. No, he winked at her! Her breath caught.