Wicked Passions (Highland Menage Book 1) Read online

  “Dear boy,” said Maude fondly, stepping forward to smooth a lock of Alastair’s windswept hair, as she’d done since they were children. An act he’d always longed to do, but never dared.

  Instead, Callum took a deep breath to quell his arousal and relief at Alastair’s nearness, and smiled in greeting. “What news from the market? Red just informed us he travels to Stirling on the morrow to win some prize. Mother and I hoped you might know more, for he would not say.”

  His closest friend did not smile in return. In fact, he looked pained.

  “You must travel too, Callum.”

  “What? Why?”

  Alastair folded his massive arms. “Red goes to take part in the royal tourney that was just announced. All unwed men ranked knight, lord, or laird may enter, with a squire to assist.”

  “A tourney?” said Maude, her eyes gleaming with curiosity. “James has not held one in a long time. A boon for the queen?”

  “Nay, to decide the husband of a wayward noblewoman. The lady suggested it herself; the prize is her hand in marriage, substantial dowry…and the friendship of her clan.”

  “Who is the lass?” asked Callum abruptly. “Which clan?”

  Alastair hesitated; his blue eyes stormy with an unnamable emotion. “Lady Isla Sutherland.”

  The last Sutherland heiress!

  His shoulders fell. Marriage to Lady Isla would solve all his woes, but he may as well wish to conquer the sky. Men would come from all corners of Scotland to compete for such a treasure. Skilled, athletic warriors, worthy of her hand.

  Devil take it. A failure he would remain.

  And his clan would be slowly destroyed.

  After twenty-eight summers on this earth, he’d learned one thing: those he loved were destined never to love him in return. His mother and father. His clan.

  Callum.

  Alastair Graham leaned against the cool stone wall, just to keep distance between himself and his laird. Any closer and he would be tempted to gaze into those near-silver eyes that reminded him of spring rain, stroke his hair, and listen to his cares so he might thrash whoever had displeased or harmed him. But Callum didn’t want that; he’d made his thoughts quite plain after their unforgettable night together. Since then, a fierce battle raged within Alastair each day: to stay and endure this half-life or leave to no life at all. He always remained. Never would he abandon his laird, not when he needed him so much. But plague take it, this choice was difficult to bear.

  If he had any regrets, it was that one night. Protecting his laird, assisting him each day would be so much easier if he didn’t know the heaven of hot kisses, the sweet sound of Callum’s pleasured moans, the feverish ride to release followed by the peace of embracing until dawn. Since his banishment from Callum’s bed he’d been in a terrible state, desperately needing the release of a good fuck and yet unwilling to take another, lass or lad. He couldn’t. Not after having Callum.

  Sometimes he wondered if Lady Maude guessed that the friendship between her only child and the lad she’d fostered had gone further. She never said a word about it; yet the clan healer saw far deeper into the souls of men than they liked or wished. Those fathomless violet eyes missed nothing.

  “Callum,” said Alastair eventually, when the silence in the cozy library stretched too long. “You must try for Lady Isla’s hand in the tourney. Not just for the dowry and a friendship with the Sutherlands, but the lass herself. She’s bold and strong and would give you fine children.”

  The words actually hurt to say. But he had to set aside the frustration and jealousy at the thought of Callum with another, for the clan that had saved his life and given him the only home he’d ever known, were in the worst kind of trouble. He would do whatever it took to ensure the survival of the MacIntyres, even if that meant losing the man he loved forever.

  His laird sighed. “I fear it would be a wasted journey. What chance would I have?”

  “Every chance,” he said too-fiercely.

  Lady Maude glanced his way, but merely nodded. “Listen to Alastair, my son. It won’t be one of the English tourneys that your father so loved. James is a modern king. A scholar, much like yourself. He won’t risk death or serious injury to the most important men in his realm, it will be a tourney in name only, an occasion for pageantry and color to show all comers that Scotland is not inferior, but a great kingdom.”

  “You think?” said Callum, looking unconvinced.

  “Aye. James uses force when given no choice, but at heart he is a gallant. Lady Isla could not have suggested a more pleasing idea, for in the guise of granting her a boon, he helps himself far more. You and Alastair must go. I beg you.”

  Silence again filled the library, and when Alastair sent Callum a pointed glance, the younger man sighed and held up his hands in surrender. Many would hear Maude’s words as no more than a motherly lecture, but they knew better. She’d seen something in the mist of her mind. It didn’t happen often, but her words always came to pass. He had more reason than most to be grateful for the gift; it was the reason he’d been found all those years ago and brought back here to the castle.

  “Very well,” said Callum. “But what of you, Mother?”

  “I shall remain here and guard your lands, of course,” said Maude in a lofty tone that suggested it had been a foolish question.

  Alastair almost smiled. The Lady of Glennoe might be English, but she was as bold and brave as any Highland woman. If Lady Isla was of similar character—as she’d been caught disguised as a lad and sword fighting, he couldn’t believe otherwise—then a laird with complementary traits like an even temper, kind heart, and scholarly mind, might make a favorable impression at least. But success would all depend on what the tourney events were.

  “There’ll be men at arms to assist you, lady,” he said, more to ease Callum’s anxiety. Despite a fractured relationship with his father, he’d been grief-stricken at his death. But to lose his beloved mother as well…that, Callum would not recover from.

  “I shall go and advise them now,” said Maude, dipping into a curtsy. “Do not forget to take your satchel of herbs, salves, and poultices to Stirling, my son. On the morrow, I shall bless your journey and bid you both farewell with a glad heart. Good day to you. And you, Alastair.”

  After she departed, Callum walked across the library to his favorite ‘thinking’ window. As he’d discarded his mantle in the warmth of the fire-heated room and wore only an embroidered doublet and hose, his unhurried gait offered prime viewing of his perfect arse.

  “A tourney in Stirling to try and win a rich wife,” Callum said, absently tracing a pattern in the cool stone with his elegant fingers. “Not how I foresaw my next few weeks.”

  Alastair moved closer, attracted like a moth to flame. “Leave such gifts to your lady mother. She is never wrong.”

  His laird nodded. “She did bring you home, after all. And also assumed you would travel with me to Stirling. But I shall ask. Will you be at my side for the tourney?”

  At your side? Always.

  “Yes,” he rasped, placing one paw of a hand on his laird’s narrow shoulder. “Callum—”

  The younger man inhaled unsteadily. “I feel all at sea not even knowing what events I must take part in, and there’ll be men twice my size from all over Scotland eager to humiliate me on the field. After that, if by some miracle I win, my reward is wedding a stranger.”

  Unbidden, Alastair’s other hand rose to rest on Callum’s shoulder, and he kneaded the rigid muscles. Once upon a time his laird had welcomed regular massages; he had an unfortunate habit of sitting hunched over documents and manuscripts until his back seized up. But since that night, touch had become too much of a temptation, and Alastair rarely allowed himself the pleasure. “We’ll take each day as it comes. But I will need to work on these slabs of stone—”

  “They are. I miss your massages,” said Callum softly.

  Alastair gritted his teeth. He missed giving them, for he preferred touch to words in
demonstrating care. But for his own peace of mind, he couldn’t torture himself like that. “Well. You’ll need one after each event, or you’ll be too stiff the following day.”

  “Each event? Now that is confidence, presuming I will succeed. Far more likely I’ll be one of the unfortunates riding away in the dead of night after being soundly defeated in the first round.”

  “Continue thinking like that, and you will be,” said Alastair irritably, hating that Callum thought so little of his own abilities thanks to the long shadow of his late father. “I doubt all events will reward brute strength. Some perhaps, but we know the king also values intellect and strategy. Besides, you really think all those trying for Lady Isla’s hand will be part mountain? Not everyone in the realm is Sir Lachlan Ross.”

  “Or you,” said Callum, tilting his head back to look up, his cheeks pink.

  Plague take it, he loved that blush. Callum was too-often bound by harsh reality, but his sweet soul always found a way to shine through. Yet another reason he craved his laird so helplessly.

  Alastair cleared his throat. “Speaking of Sir Lachlan, he is to be the chief judge, so at least the contests will be fair. He would never permit trickery…well, apart from letting a lass dress as a lad to learn sword fighting from him.”

  “What?”

  “I should have said earlier. That is the reason for the tourney; Isla told her father and mother she traveled to St. Andrews to learn piety, instead she disguised herself as a lad for months and attended Sir Lachlan’s trainings. I hear she is uncommonly good with sword in hand; but she is not permitted to fight any longer. Poor lass. Imagine having great skill at something and being forbidden from doing it…”

  Like bedding my laird.

  “Anyway,” Alastair continued, “There’ll be a feast at Stirling Castle on Sunday to announce the five events and introduce all the lords, lairds, and knights. Then one event each day where men will either progress or retire, before Lady Isla weds the winner.”

  Callum nodded thoughtfully. “I’ve never met a lady sword fighter. She does sound interesting.”

  Jealousy flared again.

  It was a terrible thing and quite unworthy of their longtime friendship, that he wished for victory to gain the money and alliance, but defeat so he would not lose Callum forever.

  Alas, he suspected that Lady Isla Sutherland might just turn their entire existence upside down. For a man who spent every day striving to earn his place at Glennoe, an unnerving thought indeed.

  Chapter 2

  Stirling

  The number of people gathering in anticipation of the tourney was staggering.

  From the relative safety of the modest but comfortable two-roomed cottage provided by a distant cousin of his father’s, Callum watched the frantic activity down in the village proper. It seemed half of Scotland had arrived already; musicians, tinkers, blacksmiths, and pie sellers all jostling for space with lasses offering everything from mending to healing elixirs to a quick fuck. Indeed, anything could be purchased…apart from lodgings, as increasingly angry travelers with overstuffed luggage wagons were discovering.

  He shook his head. There was as much chance of finding rooms in Stirling now as the kings of England and France swearing fealty to James. This cottage was perfectly placed though; probably no more than a few hundred yards to the castle gates, and next door there was a stall for the horses, generous supply of hay, and a small well for water. They’d also secured the services of a young lad to feed and walk them each day. Inside the cottage boasted a well-stocked larder, even proper beds with straw mattresses and thick quilts rather than wooden pallets. He and Alastair had been fortunate to get so close; Stirling Castle was unusual in that it had few rooms for guests. What it did have was the largest and most magnificent Great Hall in Scotland, a newly finished, lime-washed structure that shone like gold and could be seen from miles around. It was there they would meet Lady Isla today, before the tourney began in the morning.

  “Shall we go and register, then?”

  At Alastair’s voice in his ear, Callum near-trembled. The long ride to Stirling had been punishing, he’d insisted on short rests so they might have a few days here before the tourney started. But staying here together in a private dwelling with thick stone walls, all he could think about was that night in his bedchamber when his closest friend had owned him body and soul.

  How long could he choose duty when faced with such overwhelming temptation?

  “Yes, we should register. Far more chance of winning a bride if I’m on the lists,” he jested weakly.

  “You look well. Prosperous.”

  Callum glanced down at his dark brown hose, fine linen shirt embroidered at the cuffs and neck with sprigs of heather, blue velvet doublet, and black cloak. It was true, even if he lacked the size of a warrior or the wealth of a grand lord, at least he looked the part of a laird. Before the latest raid, the garments created in his weaving house had been the finest in Scotland; the clan especially noted for quality hose and stockings. His coffers might be nearly empty, but the wooden closets, chests, and drawers were full. “Aye. The falsehoods fine clothing can tell.”

  Alastair snorted. “There’ll be many men hiding empty purses behind clothes and jewels this week. You think they all came to Stirling to win Lady Isla for her wit or fair face?”

  “God’s blood, I felt the scolding lash of that eyebrow raise from here. I surrender the point.”

  “Only the point, alas.”

  Yearning nearly crushed him. Nothing would raise his spirits and calm his nerves more than pleasure. Those sturdy beds were right there…

  Swallowing hard, Callum straightened his shoulders. “We must go.”

  While it was a short walk to the castle, the path grew much steeper as they neared the imposing gray stone structure perched atop Castle Hill. It offered a breathtaking view of the surrounding lands, and in the distance the River Forth twisted and turned in several directions, like a lady’s hair ribbon dropped on the ground. Several burly men at arms guarded the gates, and when he and Alastair approached, one stepped forward.

  “Good morrow. State your name and purpose, sirs.”

  “Good morrow,” said Callum, holding out his right hand to show he held no weapon and came in peace, and also to display his hereditary gold ring with the clan crest stamped upon it. “I am Callum MacIntyre, clan chief and Lord of Glennoe, here to register for the king’s tourney. This is my squire, Master Alastair Graham.”

  “Welcome,” said the man, inclining his head. “The king is in the Great Hall, but you must first register in the outer close. We are all eager to watch the events. Good fortune to you.”

  “My thanks.”

  There was something special about Stirling Castle. While the Great Hall and the forework with its towering gatehouse and conical roofs were new, there were parts of the castle that were hundreds of years old. It had withstood siege and war, not to mention many changes of ownership between Scot and Englishman. The tales those thick stone walls could tell!

  Alastair cleared his throat, giving him a look that said he’d tarried too long. Cheeks heating, Callum entered the short, dark tunnel under the forework, before emerging in the wide empty space of the cobblestoned outer close.

  Struck speechless, he could only stare in awe at the massive Great Hall in front of him. After the darkness of the tunnel, the limewashed stone gleamed like heaven itself.

  “Glennoe!”

  At the unexpected hail he turned to see the King of Scotland approaching, black velvet mantle fluttering in the light breeze, and the heavy chain of state clinking about his neck. How on earth did James remember him? They’d only met twice; the last time several years ago at a meeting of Highland lairds.

  “Your Grace!” Callum replied, as he and Alastair dropped to one knee before kissing the gold ring on the king’s outstretched hand, a renewed pledge of loyalty to the crown.

  “I’m pleased you are entering my tourney,” continued James in excellen
t Gaelic. “You and Master Graham are most welcome to Stirling Castle. My condolences on the loss of your father, but I hear great progress has been made in talks and trade. Sometimes a warrior is needed. Sometimes a gentler touch, eh?”

  The king was extremely well-informed.

  Stunned, Callum rose to his feet. “Thank you, Your Grace. I was just admiring the buildings. Old and new together.”

  James beamed. “As it should be. Honor the past, welcome the future. ’Tis the only way to secure Scotland’s place in the world. Now. Go and register, then come into the Hall. I shall be announcing the five events very soon.”

  Still reeling from his audience with their sovereign, brief though it was, it took a nudge from Alastair to get him moving to the trestle table where two stern faced men clad in black robes stood. Ugh. Lawyers. “Good morrow, sirs. I am Callum MacIntyre, clan chief and Lord of Glennoe. This is my squire, Master Alastair Graham.”

  “Good morrow. Write your name here,” said one of the men briskly, pointing to an empty line near the bottom of a large piece of parchment. Gah. So many names already, including his wretched cousin.

  “Very well.”

  “Then make your mark in the red wax with your crest. His Grace takes no responsibility for injury or death resulting from this tourney. Do you understand and consent?”

  “I do,” said Callum, only his mother’s reassurance about the probable events suppressing an involuntary shudder at the ominous words.

  The lawyer added a drop of wax to the parchment, and Callum pressed his ring into it. There. He was officially on the lists.

  “You’re doing the right thing,” said Alastair as they walked to the Great Hall and ascended the front steps.

  “Remind me of that on the morrow when I’m curled up in a corner…”

  His words trailed off, for at the other end of the Hall on the dais reserved for royalty and honored guests, stood King James, Queen Margaret…and a captivating stranger.