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already suffered through humiliation and defeat.
       The older woman's eyes narrowed. "My lady could send ye to yer maker before ye could even begin to defend yerself."
       "Aye." He dipped his head in true remorse.
       "She would not hesitate to do so if ye insult her thusly again."
       "Agreed."
       "I'll talk to her on yer account." She relaxed her rigid posture. "Life has been hard for Scotia since her mother's death many years ago. I beg ye not to make things any worse."
       "I give you my word, I shall cause her no further trouble," Ian pledged in a solemn tone.
       The woman nodded. "See that ye doona or ye'll have cause to regret it."

 
     
     
     
     
     
    Chapter Five
     
       Scotia sat at the head table in the great hall as the rest of her household gathered around her for their evening meal. The hum of voices usually calmed her. This eve it had no such effect. An empty trencher sat on the table beside her, an unnecessary reminder that her guest had chosen to remain in his chamber alone, despite the fact he had asked Maisie to stay so he could continue his training.
       With a nod of her head, Scotia set the meal in motion. Burke shouted orders at the scullery maids. Moments later, the fragrance of roasted chickens and onions permeated the hall as serving trays were brought forth and trenchers were filled.
       Scotia stared down at her chicken leg surrounded by turnips and onions and realized she had no stomach for food. No doubt due to the MacKinnon.
       Her gaze shifted to the empty chair beside her. Your methods are arcane and ridiculous . The words still stung. She should be glad at his absence, and yet she could not argue that what he had said had a spark of truth. The training methods she had shown him earlier were arcane, but they were not ridiculous. She ripped off a section of bread from the corner of her trencher, reducing it to a pile of crumbs.
       What would he think of the new techniques she had created over the last five years? Dexterity, she had found, was at least as important as strength when battling. For some time now she had wanted to share her newfound knowledge with someone other than the members of her own army, but no one from the clans had come to train.
       Until the MacKinnon.
       A murmur of noise brought her attention to the back of the room. He had decided to come down for supper after all. He strode toward her table as though her thoughts had summoned him forth. Unbidden pleasure rippled through her. He had changed his clothing to a simple muslin shirt that laced up the front of his broad chest. Fawn-colored trews encased his legs, revealing muscular thighs that had been hidden beneath the pleats of his plaid. Damp tendrils of pale blond hair fell forward across his brow.
       "Forgive my tardiness." He greeted her with a slight nod of his head. "A bath seemed appropriate after our battles this day. May I join you ?” he asked, his tone sincere.
       Unable to reconcile the change in him, she nodded. His manners had been barbaric and gruff before, but no longer. He took his place beside her with the charm and refinement of a lord. Scotia could not wrestle her gaze from his clean-shaven cheeks or the sight of his damp hair as it curled against the nape of his muscular neck. He had bathed before joining her. Most men would not have bothered.
       Oblivious to her appraisal, he filled his trencher with half a chicken, several helpings of vegetables, two apples, a generous slice of cheese and two fruit tarts. He spared her not a glance as he tore off a hunk of chicken and popped it into his mouth. His eyes drifted closed as he chewed. "All that training has left me famished," he managed between bites.
       With an effort, Scotia forced herself to gaze out among the occupants of her hall. Why would he not meet her eyes? Did he harbor resentment that she had defeated him?
       She bristled at the direction of her thoughts. Did she care if he did? Her