Page 19 of Wicked Passions

Callum turned his head to glance up. “What amuses you?”

“I lied my way here from the castle for swordplay…not quite the swordplay I thought, though.”

He didn’t laugh. “You call yourself unconventional, but you are a jewel, Lady Isla. Rare and fine. Any man should be proud to have you on his arm—at court in a gown, or in hose and shirt with sword in hand.”

“Just Isla in private,” she said softly, as she rose to her feet.

“Then we are Alastair and Callum,” said Alastair. “Are you…must you leave?”

“Ha! You might wish it soon enough; it’s time for a sword lesson. Callum, put on fresh shirt and hose, and lend me some too, if you please. Alastair, would you assist me in removing my gown and kirtle?”

After a swift sponge bath Callum dressed himself, then selected some choice items of clothing for Isla and brought them out to her. She stood near the fire wearing naught but stockings.

God’s blood.

Her body was so lithe. Long legs, flat belly, small breasts with surprisingly large nipples, and a tight arse. Her skin was Highland pale, which made the contrast of her green eyes, rosy nipples, and black hair and bush even more prominent.

“You are staring, Callum,” she said archly as she tugged on the borrowed hose, but there was uncertainty in her gaze.

“Because you are beautiful.”

“I am not. My mother and sisters are. Fair-haired angels all, with breasts and hips to cushion a lover.”

“Not everyone seeks that,” said Alastair as he watched her pull on a fine linen shirt. “Some find a wild lass with green eyes and a perfect arse very fine indeed.”

Isla looked genuinely astonished. “Oh. Well. I…ah…shall we clear a space inside? Is there a private courtyard behind the cottage?”

Callum shook his head. “Nay. And close neighbors besides.”

“Then in here it shall be. We don’t need much space today, for I’ll show you grip and stance to begin with. It may sound dull, but every tutor I’ve had spent a great deal of time on this. As I must be back at the castle before the supper hour, fetch your sword, please.”

When Callum retrieved his longsword and handed it to her, Isla unsheathed it in one smooth, expert movement and examined it closely.

“Hmmm,” she mused. “Good balance. Nice weight. But I must scold you for your care of it. How often do you oil the blade?”

Alastair coughed meaningfully, and Callum’s cheeks heated.

“Er…”

“Callum. It must be wiped after each use. Sweat, blood, spit…all corrode the steel.”

“It is rarely oiled for it is rarely used,” admitted Callum, looking away in shame. What kind of laird avoided a longsword because it provoked so many memories of snarling lectures, cut and blistered hands, beatings, and cruel taunts? His father had eventually given up in disgust, instead loudly praising Red and the other lads in the clan for their fighting prowess. To Donald MacIntyre, only one skill had mattered: that with a sword.

Gentle fingers grasped his chin and turned his head, urging him to look at her.

“Have you had a bad experience?” asked Isla, her brow furrowed. “Tell me plainly. Perhaps a sound defeat? There is no shame in that; I have landed in the dirt with a sword tip at my throat more times than there are stars in the sky. But as Sir Lachlan used to say, on your feet and try again. Tomorrow, you shall be better.”

“You had a far superior teacher, then,” said Alastair with a dark scowl.

Callum sent him a quelling look. “No need to dig that body up—”

“Ah, a bad training experience then,” said Isla briskly, yet her gaze was kind. “That is important for me to know, for now I understand where the reluctance stems from. Are you confident in your grip?”

He hesitated. “I believe so. My right hand is my strongest so it sits closest to the crossguard. But I have little force.”

“That relies on where your weaker hand sits. For more force, it must be directly below your stronger hand. For flexibility, slide that weaker hand down to the end of the grip.”

“Sounds too easy.”