Page 37 of Claimed By a Savage Scot
“Whatever ye get up tae, make sure tae stay inside the castle walls,” he gruffly instructed before leaving her by the doors.
“Aye, I will,” Catriona called softly after him, feeling forlorn as she watched his retreating back. Still, she could not help admiring his tall, powerful physique as he walked away.
Malcolm had not wanted to leave Catriona at all, which was exactly why he had made the decision to do so. Now, as he donned his training gear and walked out into the yard, he felt ready for a good, hard sparring session to shake off some of the tension that gathered inside him every time he was near her.
Ewan was already there, supervising a group of trainees who were sparring with each other using a variety of different weapons. Masculine shouts rang in the air, and the swinging blades of halberds, axes, and swords glinted in the weak sunlight. When Ewan spotted Malcolm, he immediately broke off what he was doing and came to greet him with a grin and a brotherly slap on the shoulder.
“Where have ye been?” he asked, his eyes twinkling. “Let me guess what kept ye. Cat. We all saw ye walkin’ across thecourtyard with her practically arm in arm earlier, so dinnae try tae deny it.”
“Away and boil yer head,” Malcolm told him in no uncertain terms.
“Och, so touchy!" Ewan teased, clearly enjoying himself, much to Malcolm’s chagrin. Switching to a more conspiratorial tone, his brother then hung an arm around his shoulders and wheedled in his ear, “Now, come on and tell me what ye were talkin’ tae her about that made her look at ye with such soft eyes. Whisperin’ sweet naethin’s intae her shell-like ear, were ye, eh?” He chuckled before punching Malcolm’s arm and adding, “Ye sly dog.”
Looked at me with such soft eyes? Did she?
True or not, the words landed hard with Malcolm, their implication—that Catriona might actually care for him—simultaneously beguiling and terrifying. In truth, he had not dared look at her after they left the stables for fear of what he might say or do if he did. Indeed, it scared him to think that if not for the stable boy butting in, he might have tossed her into the hay and had his way with her.
Determined not to betray anything of his real thoughts and encourage Ewan’s teasing, he directed his pent-up energy and frustration at him.
“Are ye goin’ tae spar with me or keep on talkin’ shite?” he demanded, shrugging off Ewan’s arm. Facing his brother witha fierce expression, he hoisted his targe and unsheathed his claymore.
“I’ll gladly spar with yer, Braither, but dinnae get all gloomy when I beat ye,” Ewan warned playfully, following suit with his weapons and squaring up to Malcolm. They fell into a fighting stance, circling each other watchfully with blades poised, Malcolm scowling and Ewan grinning.
Malcolm’s sudden roar split the air as he fell upon his brother, reining savage blows down upon him, knowing he could take it.
Half grunting, half laughing, Ewan deftly turned each strike aside. The squeal of metal sliding against metal, the smash as the handguards clashed split the afternoon. Each violent flurry of answering strikes ended with them ruthlessly ramming each other, shoving themselves apart, both of them starting to pant and sweat.
Such was the intensity of the match, neither of them took much notice of the men who had ceased training and gathered around to watch the spectacle. Bets were hastily placed on the outcome of the contest, a hard call to make with the brothers so well matched. The pair fought fearlessly, as if they would battle to the death, just as they had done since first taking up wooden swords in their childish fists many years before.
“Och, ye have a lot of steam tae blow off, Braither, eh?” Ewan taunted through heavy breaths. “Admit I’m right about what’s botherin’ ye.”
He danced backwards laughingly as Malcolm’s blade smashed down to block his uppercut then tried to ram him with his targe, baring his teeth fiercely.
“Yer mouth is what’s botherin’ me, so shut it and fight,” Malcolm growled as they grappled with each other, then shoved themselves violently apart, both staggering backwards before regaining their feet.
Ewan let out a low whistle. “I’ve never seen ye like this before, man. But then again, Cat’s so very bonny, nay wonder she’s gettin’ under yer skin,” he taunted, lunging forward and catching the front of Malcolm’s padded jerkin with the tip of his claymore. “That’s a point tae me,” he added, laughing at Malcolm’s black scowl.
“Ye were lucky, that’s all,” he ground out, wiping the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve. “Ye fight like a lass.”
Ewan laughed raggedly, feinting left and right to dodge his brother’s determined strikes before launching another assault, which Malcolm expertly parried. They shoved apart, facing each other, panting heavily, sweat running down their faces.
“Och, ye must mean a certain bonny lass with big green eyes and long auburn hair,” Ewan replied, tossing his own hair like a coquette.
Malcolm felt the tension within in him dissipating at his brother’s antics, and a smile ghosted his lips. “Well, there’s quite a few tae choose from. Ye’ve bedded most of them around here.”
They both cackled knowingly, for it was true.
Taking advantage of Ewan’s minute loss of perfect concentration, Malcolm darted forward and sliced the front of his brother’s chest, to the left then, with a flick of his wrist, to the right, leaving a large hole gaping in the padding of Ewan’s vest.
“Two points tae me,” he said, nimbly dodging backwards to avoid Ewan smashing him in the face, meeting it with a resounding thud that shook them both.
“I’m nae one fer livin’ like a monk as ye dae, that’s true,” Ewan replied. “I’m nae ashamed of it. When I see a lass I like, and she likes me, well, why fight it? But ye, Braither, ’tis like ye’ve been savin’ yersel’ fer someone special all this time.”
“Aye, old Betty down in the village. She’s always had a soft spot for me,” Malcolm joked to deflect Ewan from the truth. He referred to the famously aged, toothless woman who had sold her baskets in Fochabers market every weekday since before they could remember.
They clashed again, locked in a storm of fast-moving steel, striking and parrying, pushing and shoving.
“Betty prefers me, I think ye’ll find,” Ewan puffed raggedly. “Nay, I can tell by the way ye look at her that ye’re stuck on a certain lady.”
