Just in Time for a Highlander by Gwyn Cready Page B

beyond himself?
    He looked at her, so purposeful, so sure. What had she given up to take on this role? He thought of his own self-interested life, working hard, playing hard, pursuing any and every amusement he found interesting.
    “I—I dinna have the words, Lady Kerr. I’m no speechmaker.”
    “For this, I am Kerr,” she said gently but in a manner that brooked no deviation. “I stand for every Kerr who lived and breathed and every one who will live and breathe. The sentiment must be yours.”
    He closed his eyes and searched, but found no feelings to put into words. Then he thought of Abby, alone and determined, and something stirred in his chest.
    “I swear to your purpose, Kerr, whatever it may be. I swear to protect you in the best way I know and to get to know better ways—the best ways. I swear to put your needs before mine in all things. I swear myself to you for as long as I am with you.”
    “Longer,” she said quietly. “Forever.”
    “Forever.”
    “If you’re a spy, MacHarg, I shall cut out your tongue and stuff it down your throat.”
    “I’m not.”
    He opened his eyes, and a smile had come to rest on her mouth.
    “Well done—er, I mean to say you did well.”
    “Do I get knighted?”
    She chuckled, a beautiful contralto trill that reminded him of something out of one of the Bach concertos his grand-da used to play. “I do not knight people, MacHarg. I am nae a queen.”
    “No, a queen does not require quite so much sacrifice.”
    The chuckle turned into a full-throated laugh.
    “Surely I get something for such a pledge.” He knew what he’d have chosen had the world been a different place.
    She pulled an arrow from her quiver and laid the tip on his shoulder as if it were a scepter. “You are a clansman of the Kerrs. You are of us and with us, as if you’d been born to a Kerr mother. Your blood is ours and your body is ours, just as our body is yours.”
    She made no acknowledgment of the other meaning one might derive from the last of her words, though he knew she had realized it because her voice had changed just the tiniest bit when she said it.
    “Are ye ready, MacHarg?”
    “Yes.”
    “Then stand. ’Tis time for your first lesson.” She started down the rise again, toward the chapel.
    He climbed to his feet and brushed off his plaid, looking around. “What can I learn here?”
    “ Och , there’s always something to be learned from a church, don’t ye think?”
    “I…guess.”
    She walked to the back of the chapel and stopped. After a look around, she removed a ring of keys from her pocket.
    “I thought you said the chapel was abandoned?”
    “I said it was in ruins, MacHarg, not abandoned. Scots do not abandon things that are useful. Dinna make me doubt you’re a Scot.”
    She stripped off her quiver strap and laid it and her bow against the chapel wall before dropping to her knees. Closing her eyes, she stretched her arm behind some brambles that hugged the corner of the structure. He heard the scrape of metal and against metal. Then she withdrew her hand, returned the key ring to her pocket, and reached back. She withdrew one sword and then another from the place she’d unlocked.
    “Hidden storage. Impressive.”
    She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “One never knows when a few weapons will be needed.”
    He picked up the sturdier of the two swords. It was considerably plainer than Bran’s sword. Nonetheless, it was serviceable and striking, with a well-honed edge to the blade. He didn’t dare swing it. Not after what had happened the last time. “Are they both for me?”
    She chuckled. “Neither is for you. Unless you earn one, of course.”
    “And how might I do that?”
    She picked up the remaining sword and swung it hard enough to have sliced his belly wide open had he not leaped for his life.
    “What the fuck ?”
    “That’s a verra impolite word, MacHarg. Have you forgotten there’s a woman present?” She swung the blade again,