Erin’s expression remained serenely unreadable. “Aye. I thought ye might.”
Lennox, who had clearly noticed the shift before either of them spoke, pushed off from the wall behind them and looked toward the yard as if he had just now remembered his duties.
Iona smoothed her hands down her skirts once, then started across the courtyard before she could think long enough to lose the nerve.
And the closer she drew to Frederick, the more impossible it became to pretend she felt nothing at all.
He noticed her before she reached him.
He straightened from where he had been correcting a man’s stance, his attention shifting fully, sharply, as though the rest of the yard had ceased to matter the moment she stepped onto the packed earth. The warrior he had been instructing took the hint and moved away without question, leaving the space between them open and unguarded.
Iona kept advancing.
Each step felt deliberate, though her thoughts were anything but. The words she had meant to bring with her tangled somewhere behind her ribs, caught between fear and stubbornness and something far more dangerous that she did not care to name.
Tell him.
The echo of Erin’s voice pressed at her, steady and insistent.
But as she drew closer, as Frederick’s presence sharpened and filled the space around her, that resolve faltered. Her pulse picked up, her awareness narrowing to the man before her, to the way the morning light caught along his shoulders, to the faint sheen of sweat at his skin, to the quiet authority in the way he simply stood and waited.
She stopped a few steps away.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
She could feel his gaze on her face, steady and searching, as though he expected something more than a casual approach. He always expected more. That was part of what made him so difficult to face.
Say it.
Her throat tightened.
Instead, the first thing that came out of her mouth was entirely the wrong thing. “Teach me how to fight.”
The words left her in a rush, far less composed than she would have liked, and for a heartbeat, she nearly winced at herself.
Frederick’s mouth curved, not quite a smile but close enough to irritate her. “Aye?” he said, his voice low with amusement. “Like mother, like son.”
The words struck deeper than he likely had intended, and guilt flared, sharp and unwelcome, curling low in her chest and refusing to leave.
I should tell him now.
She did not.
Frederick stepped closer.
“Stand properly,” he said, the humor fading as his tone shifted into something more instructive. “If ye wish to learn, ye will need to listen.”
“Iamlistening,” she snapped, though she adjusted her stance anyway.
His hand came to her arm, firm but controlled, turning her slightly.
“Nay, ye are arguing,” he said. “There is a difference.”
Her jaw tightened.
“I daenae see why I must stand like a statue to throw a punch.”
“Because if ye daenae ken where yer weight is, ye will be on the ground before ye land the blow.”