"Gather 'round," Connor called out. "If I hear any more grumbling, you'll all spend the night in the dungeon with the rats."
The young men went silent.
"The MacLeods will shred ye to bits if ye don't learn to fight better than this - and soon," Connor continued. "Your lives are my responsibility, and I don't intend to see that happen. Now, ye will give me your best, or go home to your mothers."
None of them wanted that humiliation. They shuffled their feet as Connor's steel-gray gaze moved from face to face.
"Are ye prepared to become warriors worthy of Clan MacDonald?" When they remained silent, Connor raised his claymore into the air and shouted, "Are ye?"
"Aye! Aye!" the lads shouted back.
Connor directed them to form two lines, one in front of Lachlan and the other in front of him. During the long period in which the castle was in the hands of the MacLeods, Lachlan had led practices with small groups in fields, with someone keeping watch. He had discovered he was good at training others in the skills of war, and it gave him satisfaction.
As he worked through his line, practicing with each would-be warrior in turn, he kept one eye on Connor. Again, he begrudgingly approved. Unlike Sorely, Connor never ridiculed the lads' mistakes. He was patient, but persistent. He corrected, praised, and pushed each young man to improve his skills, which could make the difference between life and death for them one day soon.
After a couple of hours, Connor raised his hand to call for a rest. Lachlan started to sheath his blade, but Connor stopped him.
"Let's give them another kind of lesson," Connor said, with a glint in his eye. "I've been dying to fight ye since the day ye arrived and knocked Sorely on his arse."
Unease settled in Lachlan's belly. Though Connor was smiling now, Lachlan was fairly confident that the chieftain would not like being knocked on his own arse in front of the men.
"Pay attention, lads!" Connor shouted and faced Lachlan in a crouch with his sword in his hands.
Sweat broke out on Lachlan's forehead as it occurred to him that if he was going to kill Connor, he should do it now. He could slide his blade between the chieftain's ribs and be done with it. He heard his father's voice in his head, saying the words he'd said to Lachlan from the time he was a bairn with a wooden sword in his hands.
One day, you will avenge your mother and restore our honor. You must kill him. Kill him! Kill him!
As they circled each other, Lachlan was aware of the shouts and cheers of the men gathered about them. But once Connor sprang at him with a series of powerful blows, he no longer heard the other men - or his father's voice. He had grown accustomed to being better than every man he fought, but he soon realized Connor MacDonald was his match. The practice with the others had not shown Connor's skills to their fullest. He was good. Very good.
The chieftain should be tired after hours of training, but he showed no sign of it as he slammed his sword against Lachlan's time and again. And he was enjoying himself! Lachlan had not had an opponent who truly tested his skills in a long while, and to his surprise, he began to take pleasure in the fight as well. When Connor leaped over Lachlan's blade after Lachlan was dead certain he had him, Lachlan smiled in appreciation of his opponent's quickness.
They spun and pounded each other back and forth across the courtyard. Finally, Lachlan got lucky and landed a blow with the flat of his sword against Connor's thigh. He hit him hard enough that the blow should have knocked Connor off his feet - but it didn't. Before Lachlan could recover from the force of his swing, Connor spun in a circle.
The next thing Lachlan knew he was lying on his back with Connor's foot on his chest.
"That was good," Connor said, grinning down at him. He was breathing hard and beads of sweat were rolling down his face, despite the cold, misty weather.
It was not until Connor held out his hand to help him up that Lachlan saw the blood soaking through the chieftain's shirt.
Someone shouted, "The chieftain's been hurt!"
Lachlan froze. In a practice, a man was supposed to fight hard, but never strike to kill. Had Lachlan forgotten himself in