this part of the Highlands, and could train his men to be just as skilled.
He descended the steps into the bailey.
Dozens of his clansmen were gathered about and two—Gegrim and Parlan—were already sparring in the center with dull practice swords. He watched them with a critical eye, studying their postures and movements. Swordplay was an art form and something that came as naturally to him as breathing.
When Parlan caught sight of him watching, he faltered. Gegrim knocked him to the ground and held the tip of his sword an inch from his throat.
Neacal shook his head. Damnation! These men still needed a hell of a lot of training. He couldn't believe Elrick had ignored something of such great importance while he'd led the clan over the past year.
"Well done, Gegrim." Neacal held out his hand for the practice sword. Once the guard handed it over, Neacal said, "Rise to your feet, Parlan, and I will show you how 'tis done."
***
As Anna tightened the string on her violin in the great hall, a ruckus of shouting and sword clangs sounded from the bailey. 'Twas far louder than their usual training.
"Heavens, what's amiss?" she whispered to her fellow musicians, then ran to the window. Surely the clan was not being attacked again. She couldn't see what was happening because of dozens of men gathered outside, blocking her view, but it didn't appear to be a siege. As far as she could tell, only two men fought. After placing her violin on the table, she slipped out the exit to find out what was afoot.
The chief practiced sword fighting with one of his warriors. Sweat dripped from both men's faces and drenched their hair. After they circled each other, the mock battle resumed in earnest as the chief advanced on his opponent and drove him backward with strike after strike against his blade. Chief MacDonald's blue eyes glinted with wild fury. A chill went down her spine as she feared his next blow would be the one which killed his opponent. This did not appear to be practice at all, but battle, in truth.
Would he kill his own man?
Chapter Two
The chief slashed and thrust the blade at his sparing opponent as if the man were his worst enemy rather than his own soldier. Staying well out of the way, Anna pressed a hand to her mouth, praying no one would be killed this day.
Several warriors rushed to intervene, grabbing onto his arms and blocking Anna's view. Surely the rumors of the chief's madness were not true. Were they?
"Release me!" he roared. "Do you truly think I would kill my own clansman?" When the other warriors drew back, he threw the practice sword to the cobblestones with a clang and strode toward her. Anna's heart vaulted into her throat, but she remained in place. His eyes, normally icy blue, were now dark, narrowed and unfocused. He bypassed her and headed toward the entrance, fury written clearly on his flushed, sweat-drenched face. Once he'd disappeared inside, she released the breath she'd been holding.
The men's murmurs of concern filled the bailey. An older, white-haired man, large of frame and using a walking stick, followed after the chief. Mayhap the elderly man would calm him down.
A massive guard stopped beside Anna, leaned in and whispered, "Do not concern yourself with the mad laird. I'll protect you from him." He winked.
She frowned, unable to believe the chief's own man would say such a thing about him.
"I'm Farquar." He held out his hand as if he expected her to grasp it.
"Anna Douglas." Ignoring his hand, she gave a brief curtsy.
A girl stopped beside them, her glare shifting between Anna and the guard. "Why are you talking to her?" she demanded of him.
The lass was beautiful, her coloring similar to Anna's—blond hair and green eyes. She was perhaps a couple of years younger than Anna's own twenty-two summers. Her hair was styled to perfection in many lovely small braids and curls, whereas Anna made do with whatever style she could manage on her own. She used to have a
He descended the steps into the bailey.
Dozens of his clansmen were gathered about and two—Gegrim and Parlan—were already sparring in the center with dull practice swords. He watched them with a critical eye, studying their postures and movements. Swordplay was an art form and something that came as naturally to him as breathing.
When Parlan caught sight of him watching, he faltered. Gegrim knocked him to the ground and held the tip of his sword an inch from his throat.
Neacal shook his head. Damnation! These men still needed a hell of a lot of training. He couldn't believe Elrick had ignored something of such great importance while he'd led the clan over the past year.
"Well done, Gegrim." Neacal held out his hand for the practice sword. Once the guard handed it over, Neacal said, "Rise to your feet, Parlan, and I will show you how 'tis done."
***
As Anna tightened the string on her violin in the great hall, a ruckus of shouting and sword clangs sounded from the bailey. 'Twas far louder than their usual training.
"Heavens, what's amiss?" she whispered to her fellow musicians, then ran to the window. Surely the clan was not being attacked again. She couldn't see what was happening because of dozens of men gathered outside, blocking her view, but it didn't appear to be a siege. As far as she could tell, only two men fought. After placing her violin on the table, she slipped out the exit to find out what was afoot.
The chief practiced sword fighting with one of his warriors. Sweat dripped from both men's faces and drenched their hair. After they circled each other, the mock battle resumed in earnest as the chief advanced on his opponent and drove him backward with strike after strike against his blade. Chief MacDonald's blue eyes glinted with wild fury. A chill went down her spine as she feared his next blow would be the one which killed his opponent. This did not appear to be practice at all, but battle, in truth.
Would he kill his own man?
Chapter Two
The chief slashed and thrust the blade at his sparing opponent as if the man were his worst enemy rather than his own soldier. Staying well out of the way, Anna pressed a hand to her mouth, praying no one would be killed this day.
Several warriors rushed to intervene, grabbing onto his arms and blocking Anna's view. Surely the rumors of the chief's madness were not true. Were they?
"Release me!" he roared. "Do you truly think I would kill my own clansman?" When the other warriors drew back, he threw the practice sword to the cobblestones with a clang and strode toward her. Anna's heart vaulted into her throat, but she remained in place. His eyes, normally icy blue, were now dark, narrowed and unfocused. He bypassed her and headed toward the entrance, fury written clearly on his flushed, sweat-drenched face. Once he'd disappeared inside, she released the breath she'd been holding.
The men's murmurs of concern filled the bailey. An older, white-haired man, large of frame and using a walking stick, followed after the chief. Mayhap the elderly man would calm him down.
A massive guard stopped beside Anna, leaned in and whispered, "Do not concern yourself with the mad laird. I'll protect you from him." He winked.
She frowned, unable to believe the chief's own man would say such a thing about him.
"I'm Farquar." He held out his hand as if he expected her to grasp it.
"Anna Douglas." Ignoring his hand, she gave a brief curtsy.
A girl stopped beside them, her glare shifting between Anna and the guard. "Why are you talking to her?" she demanded of him.
The lass was beautiful, her coloring similar to Anna's—blond hair and green eyes. She was perhaps a couple of years younger than Anna's own twenty-two summers. Her hair was styled to perfection in many lovely small braids and curls, whereas Anna made do with whatever style she could manage on her own. She used to have a
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