Chapter 11
The sun beat down on the steel in Neil’s hand and the sweat on his skin. He stood at the training yard’s center, the packed earth hard under his boots. The wound in his shoulder pulled each time he swung, but he welcomed the sensation.
It kept him sharp.
“Again,” he grunted.
One of the guards lined up for training charged at him. Neil swung his blade and knocked the man off line, then tapped his ribs with the flat. “Ye are leaning wrong. Fix yer stance.”
The guard widened his stance, his feet skidding.
Neil did not wait; he swung again. Their swords clashed. The guard held up his blade, leaving an opening, and Neil tapped the flat against his breastbone.
“Strike faster,” he snapped. “Or go home.”
Another guard charged, eager and loud. Neil jumped to the side, let eagerness run past, and clipped the back of his knees. The guard hit the dirt and rolled with a grunt.
Neik kicked the fallen blade away. “I leave for five years, and ye all become weaklings,” he snarled. “How have ye been protecting this castle, hm?”
He did not want to think about the study or the table against Kristen’s hip or the sound she had made when his mouth had found hers. But those memories flooded his mind anyway.
Heat flared in his gut. It made him angrier.
“Next.”
Two guards stepped forward to test his temper.
He met them without ceremony. The first feinted right and swung wide.
Neil parried and shoved him back with the crossguard.
The second tried a quick cut on the arm.
Neil turned, teeth clenched when his shoulder twinged, and blocked the blow with the edge of his blade.
He lunged forward, making the man back up three paces, then twisted and sent him stumbling.
“Keep yer stance,” he barked. “The ground willnae love ye if ye daenae respect it first.”
The first guard came back, but Neil knocked his sword clean from his hand just as quickly and sent it flying. He stared at his fingers as if the air had robbed him.
“Pick it up,” Neil ordered, his voice flatter than he had intended.
He pushed them all harder than they had been pushed in years. He wanted the ache in his arms and the burn in his lungs. He wanted the world to shrink to weight and angle and the plain truth of timing.
“Plant yer feet,” he told one. “Cut short and finish.”
“Use the point,” he told another. “Ye arenae churning butter, for Christ’s sake!”
A laugh rose from the fence, but died down when he turned to look. The guards at the rail fell quiet immediately.
He heard his own breath and the clash of steel. He heard Kristen’s breath too, the one he had swallowed when he had taken her mouth.
He pushed the thought out of his head and drove his blade into the pell with a thud.
“Harder,” he said to no one.
He made it harder.
He made everything harder.
Footsteps hurried across gravel. He did not have to turn around to know who it was.
Lachlan drew to a halt behind him, his hands tucked behind his back.
“Came to train as well, Braither?” Neil grunted, his back still turned.
“I daenae think the earth is angry with me that much. Yet.”
Neil scoffed. “Maybe the earth isnae ready to catch up with ye.”
“Ye are fighting like a man possessed, Neil,” Lachlan observed, crossing his arms. “Tell me, Braither, have ye had any action in the past five years?”
Neil frowned at first, but the confusion fizzled out the moment the meaning hit him.
“Nay,” he bit out, without slowing down.
A guard tried to strike him again, but he dodged the blow at the last minute with the flat of his sword.
“Saints.” Lachlan whistled low. “God help the poor lass when ye finally decide to bed her.”
Neil cut a look at him. “This isnae about a woman.”
“Nay?” Lachlan drawled. “So why have ye nae settled things with yer wife?”
Neil’s blade stopped at the pell and held. He felt the yard lean a little to hear. “Because I have nay need for heirs and nay time for distractions.”
Lachlan arched an eyebrow. “Is that what we call a wife these days?”
“Aye,” Neil said.
“Ye sound sharp,” Lachlan noted. “And a little wrong. Have the years in captivity screwed with yer brain as well?”
Neil shot his brother a cold glare. “Do ye want the next bout?”
“Ye ken what? Perhaps ye’re right. Perhaps the earth has caught up with me today. I do,” Lachlan said.
“Ye do?”
“Aye. Someone needs to knock some sense into ye.”
Neil watched his brother draw his sword, and they touched blades.
Lachlan moved like a man who had slept and eaten well for five years. Neil moved like a man who had not. His swings felt more desperate, more dependent on everything except strength. Speed carried him, but control kept him from breaking the brother who had come to test him.
“Ye are fighting with pain,” Lachlan muttered. “Ye do realize ye daenae have to do that anymore.”
“Keep yer eyes on the point,” Neil shot back.
They traded cuts and binds. Lachlan caught his shoulder once. Neil swallowed the pain and sent him wide with a wrist cut that earned him a grunt.
“Still cruel with the small work,” Lachlan chuckled, panting.
“Cruelty frees captured men,” Neil said.
They broke apart.
Neil lowered his blade and turned to the guards. “Next.”
No one moved at first. Then a tall guard with a scar on his cheek lifted his sword and charged forward. Neil knocked him down in three clean exchanges. Steel met steel, hilt met wrist, and the floor met his back.
Murmurs rippled through the yard.
“The Wolf has returned stronger.”
“He fights like he never ate a meal in peace.”
“Mind yer mouth,” someone hissed.
Neil heard it all. He kept his face neutral and his hands busy.
Another guard came on. Neil feinted right and knocked his blade aside. The guard recovered quickly and tried to trap him near the fence. Neil ducked, turned, and hooked his ankle with a boot. Down again.
“Up,” he ordered.
The guard pushed himself to his feet, winded.
Neil pointed his blade at the line of guards. “Ye are too slow. Ye are too proud. Ye forget that a fight is short when a man doesnae give ye time.”
He stepped back and let his sword tip fall. His chest heaved as the sun warmed the back of his neck. Sweat trickled down his spine and stung old wounds. He rolled his shoulder once to keep the joint from locking and felt a tug. He clenched his teeth against it.
Lachlan wiped his brow with the back of his hand and lowered his blade. He eyed Neil narrowly, as if seeing something he did not like.
“What in God’s name happened to ye in the past five years?” he asked quietly. “I daenae ken how to explain it, but ye have changed. A lot.”
Neil did not answer.
A gull cried from the wall, and the stable bell chimed once, breaking the silence. The guards at the fence went still, as if the yard were a church and someone had spoken too loudly.
A young guard found his nerve and stepped in. Neil raised his sword. They met in the middle. One, two, three. The guard’s blade spun free and hit the ground. Neil’s point rested at his throat for a breath, then lifted and fell away.
“Train, all of ye,” he barked. “Then come back.”
The guard nodded and stumbled off, his cheeks flushed.
Neil glanced up at the tower and saw the tall window on the upper floor. But he did not let his gaze linger. He knew better than to search the glare for the shape of a woman who might be watching.
He rested his sword on his shoulder.
“Enough,” Lachlan hissed. “Or else ye will break the men before dinner.”
“They need hardening,” Neil insisted.
“They need a laird who sleeps and eats,” Lachlan countered. “And ye look like ye bit iron.”
“Then the iron kens its place,” Neil said. “I cannae say the same for most of these men.”
Lachlan exhaled and sheathed his sword. “Aye. And if the iron could speak, it would ask what set ye on fire, and why the flames look a lot like a lass.”
Neil’s lips thinned. “I told ye, this isnae about her.”
“Aye.” Lachlan’s tone was mild, though the look in his eyes was not. “And I am telling ye, perhaps it needs to be.”
With that, he turned around and made his way back to the castle.
Neil stood in the center of the yard, the guard’s whispers swirling around him. He felt strong. He felt hollow. He felt the question hang where everyone could see it, but no one dared to ask it.
If he could fight like this, why did he nae break free sooner?
Kristen stood at the tall window with both hands on the sill. Sun struck the steel below, and Neil moved through the ring like a blade that had found its purpose. Each swing was sharp and exact, and each lunge drove the men back a step.
The wound in his shoulder would not like it, but the fool did not seem to care.
“He will bleed again,” she muttered. “The damn idiot.”
She was also scolding herself.
She pressed a hand to her chest as if she could ease the tightness there, but it was to no avail. Every time he struck, she flinched and waited for blood to seep into his shirt.
The sound of slippers rose behind her, jolting her out of her reverie. She knew who entered without even bothering to turn.
“I didnae ken ye missed yer husband so much,” Davina commented, amused.
Kristen flushed but kept her gaze on the yard. “Miss him? I only wonder why he fights like that if he couldnae fight his way home sooner.”
The amusement vanished from Davina’s face. She stopped beside Kristen and looked down at the men.
“Ye ken how men like him are,” she replied. “Lachlan has mentioned that their faither was a sea raider. A pirate. He protected his crew nay matter what, and men followed him because he would die for them.”
Kristen looked away from the yard at last. “Aye, I ken the story. Yer husband seems to be proud of it enough to tell it to anyone, I suppose.”
Davina laughed. “Aye, that sounds like Lachlan.”
“I heard that he never married either,” Kristen added. “Folks say that he left children scattered everywhere.”