Never Love a Highlander (McCabe Trilogy 3)

She slid her fingers over the hilt and carefully lifted it from its perch. It felt glorious in her hand. The weight. The grooves, fashioned just so for her grasp. Light enough that she could wield it with a deft hand but heavy enough to inflict a mortal wound.

She tested the sharpness of the blade, satisfied when the hair she brushed across fell neatly into two.

Now to brave the stairwell and hope she didn’t run into Sarah.

A few moments later, she burst into the courtyard and hurried through the line of men so she could position herself at the fartherest point away from the entrance to the keep. If Sarah came looking, she wanted to be well out of sight.

The mixed greeting from the men bewildered her. A few looked genuinely glad to see her and called out a greeting. Others seemed more reserved and exchanged uneasy glances. A few were more bold and stepped in front of her, though their stance wasn’t in the least aggressive.

No, they looked concerned. And protective.

Hugh McDonald frowned and then swallowed uncomfortably. “Rionna, perhaps ’tis better if you remain indoors. ’Tis cold today. You shouldn’t be indulging in a man’s training.”

Rionna’s mouth gaped open as she stared back at the burly warrior. Hugh was directly responsible for most of her skill. Aye, he’d taught her almost everything she knew. He’d knocked her on her arse more times than she could count and always taunted her to get up and try again.

“He’s gotten to you, hasn’t he?” she demanded. “He’s not been here a week and already he’s turned you against me!”

Hugh put out a placating hand. “Now, Rionna. ’Tis not what’s happened at all. The laird has made us see that ’tis not the best course for you to be fighting. ’Tis not a seemly pursuit for a woman.”

She scowled at him and drew her sword. “How seemly would it be for a woman to put you on your arse?”

Hugh put up his hand to the others. “The man who puts sword to hers will answer to me.”

Hurt squeezed her chest, turning her insides into a knot. “You’ll forbid the men to spar with me?”

Hugh looked as though he’d swallowed a mace. “ ’Tis sorry I am, lass. Aside from the fact the laird would have my hide, I’d not have you hurt. Or any bairn you might find yourself pregnant with.”

She closed her eyes and turned away. Desolation swept through her, leaving her empty and aching. Tears pricked her eyelids and her shoulders slumped in defeat.

“Give me your sword, lass,” Hugh said gently. “I’ll put it away.”

She turned to see the rest of the men standing behind Hugh, their faces set in agreement. None would battle her now. Biting back tears, she slowly extended the sword to Hugh. He took it and then handed it back to one of the other men. She didn’t wait to see what they did next. She turned and hurried out the back of the courtyard, never looking back.

Her chest felt near to bursting.

The wind blew cold over her damp cheeks. Tears she hadn’t registered froze on her skin. Her sense of loss was keen. It cut deep and festered like a week-old wound.

She felt horribly betrayed. Like her life would never again be the same. The people she loved, who loved her, had been swayed by her husband’s firm beliefs about a woman’s place.

How she longed for the days when she’d run free and her only worry had been avoiding her father. She missed the euphoric rush of victory when she bested one of her father’s men with a sword.

Out here, with her blade, her faults fell away. She didn’t feel inadequate. She was just another sword in a sea of warriors. Strong and capable. Not just a woman in need of protection.

She was no good at simpering or playing coy. She didn’t have the social graces necessary not to embarrass herself or her kin. ’Twas why her father had never shoved her in front of the noses of anyone of import.

She trudged down the hill toward the bubbling brook that connected the two lochs on McDonald land. ’Twas a pretty sight with ice crusted on the banks, reaching toward the middle where water still rushed over rock. Snow drifted on either side, framing the icy-cold water and blanketing the land in white.

She stopped at the water’s edge and hugged her arms to her chest. She closed her eyes and breathed deep of the crisp winter air. The faint smell of smoke from the keep’s chimney wafted through her nostrils, and for the first time in a long while, the smell of meat over a spit.

For how long she stared over the water she wasn’t sure, but shivering with cold she had the realization that what she hated wasn’t the loss of her freedom. It was the fear of the unknown.

She was acting like a petulant child whose favorite toy had been taken away. She could be part of the rebuilding of her clan. Perhaps not in the way she had the most knowledge, but everyone else was having to cope with change. She wasn’t the only one who didn’t like it.

If her husband wanted the perfect lady, a well-kept manor, the epitome of feminine grace, she could give him all of that even if it killed her.

She’d give him no reason to be shamed by her.

Her chin notched upward and her gaze settled across the brook. To her shock, men on horses bolted from the trees and charged toward her.

She turned and let out a yell just as the horses splashed into the water. She ran along the shore, knowing she had no chance trying to run up the hill to the keep. She’d never outrun the horses.

She opened her mouth to yell another alarm, praying the men would hear from such a distance, but a boot slammed into her back, knocking her to the ground.

She landed in the snow with such force, it knocked the wind from her chest.