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“Not all day,” James replied. “Just a good part of the morning.”
“I thought the men of God’s army trained and fought tirelessly,” Malcolm teased.
“They do. ’Tis a harsh life, far more difficult than the easy one the Highlanders lead.” James eyed his brother, wondering how quickly he could get a rise of temper from him.
“I see that ye still enjoy training with the youngest, untried recruits. ’Tis hardly difficult to display skill and agility when one is partnered against an inexperienced youth.”
The taunt had its desired effect, for it was the sort of comment James knew his brother would be unable to resist.
“Teaching our men to fight is but one of my pleasures,” Malcolm replied tersely. “Care to join us?”
“I might.” James assumed a disinterested stance. “If ye can find me someone worthy to spar against.”
“Sir Malcolm is our best swordsman,” one of the lads proclaimed, as a murmur of agreement spread through the crowd.
“Is he?” James glanced over his shoulder at his father and the McKenna nodded. “Then I suppose he is the one I shall train.”
Any hint of humor faded from Malcolm’s expression. “I’d be pleased to face ye.”
“Yer mother willnae like it,” the McKenna stated bluntly, coming to stand between his sons.
James lifted his eyes to the sky, noting the position of the sun. “Does she not usually attend Mass at this hour of the morning?”
His father looked at him, the corners of his mouth lifting slightly. “She does.”
“Then we best hurry.”
Several of the men shouted and clapped their hands in excited anticipation and James could hear friendly wagers being made. He was not surprised that very few favored him to win, for it was not the McKenna way to bet against the clan heir. Yet as James donned his helmet he was determined that those few who had bet that he would be victorious would be rewarded.
And all would see clearly that he, too, was a worthy son of the laird.
James grinned as he heard the satisfying hissing sound of his brother’s sword being drawn from its scabbard. Muscles taut and ready, James used the element of surprise to gain the advantage. Instead of raising the usual battle cry, he charged, silently, the steel of his blade whistling through the air.
He caught Malcolm square in the gut with the flat of his sword, knocking the breath from his lungs. Malcolm released a loud grunt. Though off balance, he managed a clean sword swing, aimed directly at James’s head.
James ducked and spun around so quickly his brother barely had time to blink. Yet the blade had come close enough that James swore he could feel the breeze on his face. James feinted left, then swiftly swung his sword right. Malcolm was prepared, bringing his weapon up to block the strike.
Steel struck steel in sharp clangs. Again. And again. There were cheers from the crowd at the sound. Each man moved agilely, their power and strength nearly equal. James could feel the sweat pouring down his back as he and Malcolm crossed swords up and down the yard. His brother had the advantage of height, yet James knew he was quicker.
Curses fell from Malcolm’s mouth as time and again he came close, yet failed to gain an advantage. James felt the blood pounding through his veins. His battle-hardened senses were humming as he drove forward, striking again and again. Malcolm successfully deflected each blow, but he could see his brother was tiring.
Then suddenly, Malcolm caught James’s blade on an upward stroke. James planted his feet firmly, but could not stay upright. He crashed to the ground in a jarring bounce. For an instant his sight blurred, but he recovered just in time to see Malcolm’s blade slicing through the air toward him in a clean arc.
Howling, James raised his sword to meet the blow. It came down hard, much harder than he expected. Pain shot up James’s arm and he swore he could feel the vibration in the soles of his feet. Tucking his chin to his chest, he rolled to his side and leaped to his feet. Ducking low, he threw a fist into Malcolm’s stomach.
“Did ye ever see a man move so fast?” the McKenna asked in an approving tone.
Malcolm doubled over. Staggering clumsily on his feet, he lifted his chin, his eyes stirring with grudging admiration. “Ye are far more skilled at swordplay than I remember, little brother.”
Appreciation for Malcolm’s none-too-subtle attempt to distract him flashed in James’s eyes, yet his concentration never wavered. Nor did his determination to win.
Marshalling his strength, James circled left, hoping to pull Malcolm off his feet with the next strike. But as he raised his sword, his mother’s angry voice filled his ears.
“Why are James and Malcolm fighting?” she cried.
“The lads are just having a bit of fun,” the McKenna explained.
“By hacking each other to bits?” Aileen retorted in annoyance.
