Page 15 of Tempted by a Highland Beast (Tales of Love and Lust in the Murray Castle #9)

CHAPTER EIGHT

T he clash of steel rang through the courtyard as Constantine moved among the MacLean warriors, his blade catching the pale winter light.

Rowena stood at the edge of the training ground, ostensibly watching from the castle steps while she worked on mending a torn banner.

Her needle moved absently through the fabric, her attention drawn instead to the deadly dance unfolding before her.

Constantine commanded the space with an ease that spoke of years of practice.

His movements were sharp and measured, never wasted, each strike and parry flowing into the next with lethal precision.

The warriors around him, all seasoned men who more likely had fought in countless battles, struggled to match his pace.

He wasn’t merely skilled. He was in complete control, reading his opponents’ movements even before they made them.

“Again,” his voice cut through the morning air, calm and commanding. “Ye’re announcing yer strikes, Duncan. I can see them coming from across the courtyard.”

The younger warrior flushed but nodded, adjusting his stance.

Constantine circled him like a predator, his blade held loosely at his side.

When Duncan lunged forward, Constantine sidestepped with fluid grace, his sword coming up to tap the man’s ribs; a killing blow, had they been fighting in earnest.

“Better,” Constantine said, stepping back. “But ye’re still thinking too much. Trust yer instincts.”

Rowena found herself holding her breath as she watched.

The way he moves is mesmerizing… he is mesmerizing.

His shirt clung to his frame, damp with sweat despite the cold, and she could see the play of muscle beneath the fabric as he demonstrated a particularly complex maneuver.

“Focus on yer footwork,” Constantine called to another warrior. “Yer sword is only as good as yer foundation.”

He demonstrated the proper stance, his feet planted shoulder-width apart, his weight balanced on the balls of his feet.

The movement was simple, but there was an elegance to it that spoke of absolute mastery.

Rowena watched his legs, noting the way his muscles coiled and released with each step, as well as the rhythm of his breathing as he moved.

The training session lasted another hour, with Constantine pushing his men tirelessly but never harshly.

He corrected mistakes patiently, demonstrated techniques accurately, and gradually improved each warrior’s performance.

By the time he called an end to the session, the courtyard was filled with tired men, and the sound of metal clashing still echoed in the air.

“Well done,” Constantine said, sheathing his sword. “We shall practice again tomorrow.”

The warriors gradually dispersed, some heading to the kitchens for food, while others tended to their equipment.

Constantine stayed behind, wiping down his blade with a cloth, his movements gentle.

Rowena watched him from the steps, noticing how he handled his weapon with the same care he gave everything else.

She should have gone inside. But something kept her rooted to the spot even as the courtyard emptied out. When the last warrior disappeared through the archway, curiosity finally won out over propriety.

Rowena glanced around to ensure she was truly alone, then set down her mending and descended the steps. She positioned herself where Constantine had stood, trying to recall the sequence she’d observed.

Left foot forward, weight balanced, then that quick pivot he used tae avoid that lad’s blade.

She attempted the movement, stumbling slightly as she tried to mirror what she’d seen. Too fast. She tried again, slower this time, focusing on the way Constantine’s shoulders had remained level even as his feet moved beneath him.

“Yer stance is too wide.”

Rowena spun around, heat flooding her cheeks as she found Constantine leaning against the archway, arms crossed over his chest. A smirk played at the corner of his mouth, and she realized he’d been watching her fumble through his techniques.

Rowena’s heart skipped. “I was only curious,” she said quickly.

“I have never seen sword fighting up close before.”

“Never?” Constantine’s eyebrows rose. “Nae even demonstrations? Festivals?”

“Me faither believed in keeping me away from such things,” Rowena said, which was true enough. “He believed a lady ought tae concern herself with more... refined pursuits.”

Constantine nodded slowly.

“‘Tis different than I expected,” Rowena continued, emboldened by his lack of judgment. “More graceful. Like dancing, almost.”

“In a way, it is,” Constantine agreed. “Both require balance, timing, rhythm. The ability tae read yer partner’s movements and respond accordingly.”

He gestured toward the empty courtyard. “Would ye like tae see what it feels like?”

“Aye.” The word was out before Rowena could stop it.

Constantine blinked, clearly surprised by her immediate acceptance. “I meant just the footwork,” he clarified. “Nae actual sword fighting.”

“I ken what ye meant,” Rowena said. “I am nae utterly daft.”

Her heart raced but she held her chin high.

“The basic stance,” he said, moving to demonstrate. “Feet shoulder-width apart, weight evenly distributed. Ye want tae be able tae move in any direction without losing yer balance.”

Rowena tried to mimic his position, but her feet felt clumsy, her balance uncertain. She’d spent years learning to walk gracefully in heavy gowns, not to fight in them.

“Like this?” she asked, wobbling slightly.

Constantine moved closer, his hands hovering near her shoulders. “May I?”

At her nod, he placed his hands on her shoulders, adjusting her posture. His touch was gentle but firm, and Rowena felt a shiver run through her at the contact. The touch of his hand felt good, and Rowena prayed that he couldn’t see how much he affected her.

“Better,” he said, his voice lower now. “Now try shifting yer weight from one foot tae the other. Slowly.”

Rowena did as instructed, swaying slightly as she found her rhythm. Constantine’s hands remained on her shoulders, steadying her, and she was acutely aware of his proximity. She could smell the clean scent of his skin beneath the leather and metal and could feel the warmth radiating from his body.

“Yer feet are still too wide,” Constantine said as he circled her like a predator. Did that make her his prey? That simply wouldn’t do.

“Me feet are perfectly positioned,” Rowena shot back.

“Fer what? Planting turnips?” He stopped in front of her, arms crossed. “If ye want tae learn tae fight, ye need tae stop fighting me on every correction.”

“I’m nae fighting ye. I’m simply pointing out that perhaps there’s more than one way tae hold a sword.”

Constantine lifted a brow. “Ah, forgive me. I hadnae realized I was in the presence of a master swordswoman. How many battles have ye won with yer superior technique?”

“Well… none,” she admitted, then added with a sweet smile. “But I havenae lost any.”

A bark of laughter escaped Constantine. “Ye’ve got a smart mouth, lass,” he moved closer, adjusting her grip on the wooden sword. “Now, when I come at ye like this?—”

He demonstrated a slow attack. Rowena immediately tried to counter with an elaborate move she saw one of the men perform earlier.

“What in God’s name was that?”

“A spinning parry?”

“Tae get yerself killed in the most graceful way possible.”

Rowena caught the hint of a smile.

“Here. Simple parry. Block the blade, dinnae perform a ballet.”

She tried again, this time following his instruction. The move worked, deflecting his practice strike.

“Better,” he murmured, and she felt an odd flutter of pride. “Though ye still look like ye’re afraid the sword will bite ye.”

“Ye certainly seem fond of using it tae make yer point.”

“Only when words fail me.” He stepped back, giving her space. “Which, around ye, seems tae happen with alarming frequency.”

“I have that effect on people.”

“Dae ye now?” His voice dropped lower, taking on an edge that made her pulse quicken. “And what effect would that be?”

Rowena lifted her chin, meeting his gaze directly. “I make them forget how tae think clearly.”

“Is that what ye’re daeing tae me?” The question hung between them, charged with something that had nothing to do with sword fighting.

“I wouldnae presume,” she said, though her voice came out breathier than she intended. “After all, I’m just a lass who holds her sword wrong and fights like she’s planting turnips.”

Constantine’s smile was slow and dangerous. “Aye, ye are.”

“Because I’m such a poor student?”

“Because,” he said, stepping close enough that she could feel the warmth radiating from his body, “ye’re the first student who’s ever made me forget what I was supposed tae be teaching.”

Rowena’s heart thundered in her chest, but then Constantine turned around and barked another command at her as if he hadn’t felt the… whatever that was between them.

“Good,” he murmured when she moved into position. His mouth felt closer to her ears, and his breath was stirring the hair at her temple. “Now try a simple step forward, then back. Keep yer guard up.”

Rowena raised her arms as she’d seen the warriors do, trying to imagine holding a sword. She took a step forward, then back, her movements cautious but increasingly confident.

They stood there for a moment, the air between them charged with an electric tension. Rowena felt her breath catch, her heart hammering against her ribs. Constantine’s gaze dropped to her lips, and she saw his jaw tighten as he fought against some internal battle.

The spell broke when Rowena stepped back suddenly, her cheeks flushed and her breathing uneven. “I should… I should go,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

Constantine nodded, his own breathing not entirely steady.