Page 77 of Promised to the Cursed Laird

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

The next day, the courtyard rang with the clash of practice blades, dust rising gold in the late morning light, and Neilina stood at the fence a while simply watching before she made her way toward it. She couldn't take her eyes off Marcas as he moved through a line of his men with the easy, economical precision, correcting a stance here, driving a blade wide there while Fearchar stood near the gate with his arms crossed, observing with assessing stillness of a soldier judging another soldier's men.

"Ye're nae going tae simply watch," Marcas said, catching sight of her without breaking his own rhythm, disarming a young warrior with a twist of his wrist that made the man swear and bend to retrieve his blade.

"I wasnae planning tae."

"Ye're wanting a sword, then."

"I'm wanting the lighter sword," she said, crossing the yard toward the rack, "and I'll thank ye tae remember which one that is this time, given the last one nearly took my own arm off before I'd learned tae hold it properly."

Fearchar's head turned sharply at that.

"She's been training," he said, to Marcas, disbelief in his voice

"Every morning, when the weather allows it." Marcas tossed Neilina the lighter blade, and she caught it clean, settling into the stance he'd drilled into her over a dozen sessions now. She kept her feet wide, weight even, grip firm but not clenched. "Yer sister asked me herself, when she first arrived. Said she'd nae go anywhere unarmed and unprepared again, whatever road she found herself on."

Fearchar said nothing further, only watched, arms still crossed, as Marcas raised his own practice blade and nodded her forward.

"Show him, then," he saidquietly, for her alone. "Everything I've taught ye. Dinnae hold back on my account."

She didn't. She moved through the drills they'd practiced together. She executed the parry that turned a strike aside rather than meeting it head-on, the low sweep that unbalanced larger opponent, and the quick pivot that put her at an attacker's flank rather than directly in front of him. She felt, with each clean execution, a fierce pride at how far she’d come.

"Again," Marcas said, circling her, correcting her elbow with a light touch as he passed. "Yer guard drops when ye pivot. Keep it high."

"It didnae drop."

"It dropped a hand's width. I felt the gap when ye passed."

She adjusted and tried again. This time, when he came at her with a controlled strike, she caught his blade at an angle that sent it skittering wide. She followed through with the low sweep, bringing the flat of her sword against his ribs before he'd fully recovered.

"There," he said, breathing a little harder now, his voice warm and unmistakably proud despite the blade she'd just landed against him. "That's it exactly."

One of the younger warriors, a broad lad named Iain, volunteered himself for a turn against her, squared up with rather more confidence than the display so far should have earned him, and Neilina turned to face him with a small smile.

"Dinnae go easy on me," she told him, "or I’ll take it as an insult."

Iain grinned, clearly unbothered by the prospect of making the laird’s bride work for every inch of ground in front of half the garrison.

"Ye asked for a proper fight."

"Aye."

"Then ye'll get one."

He came at her.

The first strike was fast enough that she barely got her blade up in time. Steel struck steel, the impact jolting through her wrist. She gave ground, boots scraping through the dust, and Iain followed without giving her a moment to settle.

She remembered what Marcas had told her.

Do not meet strength with strength.

She turned his next strike aside rather than trying to stop it, but he recovered quickly and caught her across the shoulder with the flat of his blade.

"Dead," Iain said.

Neilina sucked in a breath.