"I thank you. Tell Matthew to assemble the men in the bailey for training."
"Very good, m'laird." Eonan hastened back down the stairs.
'Twas time to strengthen the clan and ready them for future combat, for there would always be conflict between clans. And Sleat was not deterred from whatever his twisted goal was. In fact, Neacal would wager the man was even more determined.
Though he was not hungry, Neacal descended the steps to his chamber and ate part of his breakfast. Impatient to start the training, he gave the rest of his food to Dunn and left the room. One of his bodyguards, Leith, waited in the corridor.
"Ready for practice?" Neacal asked him.
"Aye, chief." He gave a brief bow, then followed.
In the great hall, he met his sword-bearer, Matthew MacDonald. "The men are gathering for training, as you requested, chief." He quickly looked away.
Annoyance twisted through Neacal yet again. Why the hell did Matthew have a difficult time looking him in the face? This had been the case since the torture. He saw his reflection in the polished silver mirror every day and in many a pool of water on a clear day. 'Twas true, a scar marred his face. Did this frighten people? Were they disgusted by it? He didn't give a damn.
He would be a good leader for them, even if it killed him. That was all that mattered.
A flash of blond hair several yards to his right snagged his attention. Mistress Douglas' green gaze met his and did not falter. The lass possessed more courage than most of his men. How could that be?
She held a violin beneath her chin but the bow did not touch the strings. She lowered the instrument and turned to one of the other musicians who spoke to her.
Muttering a curse, Neacal tore his gaze away and headed outside. He had far more important things to do than wonder about Mistress Douglas. The clan depended upon the strength of its men. Training them was something Neacal could do easily. No social graces required. He knew himself to be the best damned swordsman and archer in 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?
