Once a Warrior (11 page)

“Good evening.”

The hall grew hushed as all eyes turned to MacFane. He stood straight and tall at the bottom of the staircase. His expression was calm, but Ariella thought she detected a faint clenching of his jaw.

“I am pleased by everyone’s accomplishments today,” he began. “Not just in training, but also in the work done on the castle. I have given Duncan orders to arrange for the production of wooden swords and shields, so that tomorrow we can begin the basics of swordplay. When you have mastered your technique, we will graduate to real swords, which will be newly forged.”

A murmur of excited anticipation rippled through the hall.

“Eat well tonight, and get some sleep,” he advised. “Tomorrow’s training begins at first light.”

He turned, grimacing slightly, as if the action cost him more than he had expected. Using the wall for support, he moved up the stairs with slow deliberation, manfully trying to minimize his limp. The MacKendricks watched him in awkward silence. Finally the door to his chamber closed.

“It seems the day’s training has taken its toll on our revered teacher,” drawled Niall.

“If I didn’t know better, Niall, I would think you actually enjoyed seeing him in pain,” Ariella snapped. “Either that, or you are hoping he will fail in his attempt to train us.”

She grabbed a pitcher of wine from the table and hurried up the stairs, unwilling to hear any explanation he might choose to offer.

“Enter.”

She found him standing before the low fire burning in the hearth. Once again his carriage was strong and upright, his body betraying no sign of the discomfort he had endured only moments earlier. As soon as she closed the door, he braced his hand against the mantel and painfully lowered himself into the chair, all attempts to pretend he was fine abandoned now that he knew it was only Rob.

She went to the desk and poured him a generous cup of wine. “The clan seems very pleased with their training today. You made them feel able, whereas yesterday they felt incompetent.”

Malcolm drained the cup, desperate to numb the pain streaking through his leg and back. “More,” he demanded, holding out the vessel. Rob filled it again, and Malcolm emptied it. Soothing liquid heat began to spread through his chest. It did not ease his discomfort, but the faint promise of relief was there. “Again.”

The boy hesitated, then filled the cup. This time Malcolm limited himself to just a swallow.

“I was accustomed to training men who dreamed of nothing other than becoming warriors,” he began, shifting to ease the weight of his left side. “Men who had lifted toy swords and axes from the time they could walk. Their fathers demanded that they be bold and hard, and punished them severely if they showed any sign of weakness or fear. Yesterday it became clear I could not expect the same behavior from gently reared artisans and poets who have been taught from infancy that a wall head is a place from which one can admire the sky.”

Ariella watched him as he stared pensively into the amber flames of the fire. His dark brows were clenched, and the lines of his face seemed more deeply etched. Tonight she recognized his expression not as one of anger, but a reflection of the battle he constantly waged against the torment of his body. The clear blue pools of his eyes were shadowed, as if he were recalling some memory that stirred him. He was not talking about the warriors he had trained, she realized.

He was talking about himself, and the unyielding demands of his own father.

“The MacKendricks encourage their children to look for beauty in the world, and then find a way to add to it,” she said. “I never understood how clans who war all the time can accomplish anything. Being at peace allowed us to focus on creating, rather than destroying.”

“It has also made you vulnerable.”

“For the moment,” she agreed. “But should we have spent a hundred years training for war, just for this one moment?”

He stared into the fire, considering. “You are asking a man who was a warrior. For me, the answer must be yes.” He shifted his body again, then grimaced as pain pierced his back.

“Where does it hurt, MacFane?”

A bitter laugh escaped his lips. “It would be easier to say where it doesn’t hurt.”

“How long has it been like this?”

He took a deep swallow of wine. “Over three years, now. I led my men in a battle for King William against a troublesome English baron. A warrior ran his spear through my horse’s belly. I was caught beneath the animal as he fell, shattering the bone in my leg and injuring my back. I continued to fight, but I was trapped. That made it easy for the bastard. He slashed at me with his sword a few times, but just as he was about to finish me, Gavin killed him.” He stared at the flames, remembering how the ground had grown warm and wet with his blood. Then he shook his head, banishing the memory. “The next thing I knew, Gavin was stitching me closed.”

“Did he set your leg right away, or did he wait?”

“I don’t remember. I assume it was a few hours after it happened.”

“What about your arm? Did anyone do anything for it after Gavin stitched it?”

Malcolm regarded the boy over the rim of his cup. “Why this sudden interest in my wounds?”

He shrugged. “I told you before, MacFane, I’m skilled in the art of healing.” He slouched in the chair opposite him. “You saw how well I stitched your arm the night you killed the thieves. Your other injuries are old, but there are ways we might try to ease your discomfort, if you’re willing.”

“When we got home, our healer attended to me. My body was on fire, so he bled me, to rid me of the unhealthy blood. Then he covered my wounds with some foul-smelling potions and herbs. I was unconscious for a while, so I don’t know what else he did. When I was finally lucid again, he just told me to rest.”

“For how long?”

“I don’t know. Until I felt better.”

“I mean, how long until you began to work your arm and leg again?” Rob persisted.

“The gash to my arm had severed the muscles. When I tried to work it, the pain was intolerable. The healer told me I had to accept the fact that my right arm would always be smaller and weaker than the other.”

“You should have worked it anyway,” the boy informed him impatiently. “The sooner the better. What about your leg?”

“You can see for yourself,” snorted Malcolm. “It’s the leg of a cripple.”

“But when did you begin to exercise it after the bone had healed?”

“I began to walk as soon as I could stand the pain. Gradually the pain eased somewhat. But never enough to allow me to walk normally again.”

“I don’t just mean walking, MacFane. Didn’t this healer have you perform exercises to strengthen the muscles?”

“Walking and riding should have strengthened them.”

“Walking and riding are not enough,” the boy retorted. “My mother taught me that when a limb is broken or badly injured, you must perform specific exercises just for those muscles. These exercises should be done many times a day, for short periods of time. Gradually, as the muscles strengthen, you can increase the amount of exercise. That’s how you repair the damage.”

“I have accepted that the damage can never be repaired,” drawled Malcolm wearily. “At this point, I just want the pain to stop.” He took another hearty swallow of wine.

“Then it’s time to try something other than drunkenness.”

Malcolm raised his eyes to the insolent lad. He did not understand why he tolerated the boy’s rudeness. Perhaps it was because young Rob was so disarmingly honest. Strangely, Malcolm found comfort in the fact that Rob always said exactly what he felt.

“What did you have in mind?”

“A hot bath,” announced Rob. “To relax your muscles.”

“I don’t find baths relaxing,” countered Malcolm.

“Because you are accustomed to bathing in the cold water of a loch or river,” said the boy, heading toward the door. “This will be different.”

He was gone before Malcolm could protest further. After a few minutes Graham and Ramsay appeared, bearing a heavy tub. A parade of MacKendricks followed, carrying wooden buckets filled with hot water. The girl named Agnes brought him soap and towels, which she deposited on the chest before nervously curtsying and hurrying from the room. Malcolm remained in his chair and regarded the steaming tub with indifference, certain it could do nothing to ease his suffering.

After a few minutes Rob returned.

“You’re supposed to get in it while it’s still hot,” the boy complained, looking exasperated. He went to the tub and emptied the contents of a brown bottle into it. A sweet, pungent aroma drifted through the air. “The herbs in this oil will help ease your pain,” he said, stirring the water with his hands. “You must stay in the water until it grows warm, but not cool. Once you are out and have dried off, I will return to—”

His gray eyes grew wide with shock.

Malcolm limped naked past him and stepped into the tub, bothered by the fact that the boy found the sight of his battle-scarred body so disturbing. Obviously the lad had never seen a man with such extensive injuries. Rob turned away and began to snatch up the clothes Malcolm had carelessly shed onto the floor. Malcolm closed his eyes and leaned back, allowing the water to close over his head. Surprisingly, it actually felt good to have his body surrounded by liquid heat. When he emerged again, Rob was carefully folding his plaid. His small hands moved expertly over the woolen fabric, reducing it to a neat square within seconds. Malcolm found the care he took with the clothes peculiar in a lad, particularly one who showed such a complete lack of interest in his own bedraggled appearance.

“I’ll leave you to your bath,” said Ariella, risking a glance at MacFane now that his enormous body was safely hidden in the tub. She had planned to rub his back and leg with soothing liniment. But the sight of him standing powerful and naked before her had left her strangely flustered. All she wanted at that moment was to be away from him.

“Wash my back before you go.”

“I—I’ll send Agnes to do it,” she stammered.

“Agnes acts like a frightened hare when she is near me,” grumbled Malcolm. “I do not want her tending to me. Here,” he said, holding out a dripping cloth.

She didn’t move.

“Are you so afraid of getting a little soap and water on you?” he snapped.

Reluctantly, she went to him and took it.

“God forbid I might see your hands clean,” he muttered as she dropped the cloth into the water beside his hip.

“You didn’t look much better when I first met you, MacFane,” Ariella reminded him, rubbing soap into the cloth. “I hardly think you’d be one to complain about my appearance.”

“My standards have changed since then. And I don’t see anyone else here, children included, looking nearly as dirty and tangled as you.”

“How I look is my affair, not yours.” She slapped the hot cloth against his back and began to scrub vigorously at the broad, scarred expanse of muscle.

“Jesus Christ,” he swore, his jaw clenched.

Ariella saw his muscles lurch beneath the taut skin. “Forgive me,” she murmured, instantly lightening her touch.

She dipped the cloth into the water and slowly drew it up his back, trailing a soothing stream across the sun-bronzed skin. When the stream eased, she moved the cloth down his back and soaked it in the water again, then pulled it up once more, skimming across his aching, injured flesh in gentle swirls. The water was hot and fragrant with herbs and soap; it trickled down his neck and across his shoulders in silvery beads that dripped into the pool at his waist. MacFane leaned forward slightly and sighed. Ariella repeated the motion again and again, washing away the tension and the pain, covering him with fragrant heat and wet until she began to feel the grip of his pain ease slightly. Beneath the fabric of the cloth she was acutely aware of the structure of him, the even ridges of his ribs, the rippled chain of his spine, the firm depth of his flesh. The muscles of his upper back were so locked in spasm, she could almost imagine it was warm stone beneath her fingers rather than a man. Knowing this area was one of great pain, she let the cloth slip from her fingers so she could massage the knotted tissue. Her mother had taught her well—how to apply pressure without discomfort, how to use her fingers to knead the tension from the fibers, how to bring blood to the stiff flesh, reminding it what it was like to be relaxed. And so she leaned closer and shut her eyes, letting touch be her guide, pressing and caressing the rigid muscles, slowly, gently, feeling the damage of years of spasm, and listening to the low, suppressed groans MacFane made as she administered this soothing mixture of pleasure and pain.

Little by little the spasm began to ease, at first almost imperceptibly, like a pinprick of air escaping from a massive stone wall. Her touch grew firmer, more demanding, encouraging the muscle to relent, to let go of the tight clutch it had maintained for so long. And then, knowing she could not possibly erase the spasm in one night, she allowed her hands to seep outward, kneading and caressing the surrounding flesh of his scarred back, which shifted and rippled beneath her touch, as if starving for the relief she offered. Down his spine, up his sides, across his massive shoulders, she allowed herself to explore him, listening to the soft groans he made as she brought the heat and gentle persuasion of her hands to his battered, angry body.

Malcolm sighed with pleasure as Rob expertly massaged his tired, aching muscles. He had never been touched with such gentle, confident skill, not by any healer, and certainly not by any woman. It was as if the boy knew exactly where the pain was in every area of his back. He also understood just how much pressure to apply, and for exactly how long, to make the muscles respond, not with more pain, but with something akin to a sigh. It was as if they had long awaited for someone to soothe them in this firm, healing way, to release them from the bondage of their ache. He sat there with his eyes closed, inhaling the fragrant steam of the scented water, his naked body drenched in liquid heat. Slowly his flesh began to waken, not just to the gentle touch being ministered on his back, but to the unexpected sensation of being stroked in a way that was gradually becoming more tentative and searching.