Wicked Passions (Highland Menage Book 1) Page 3

Surely not Lady Isla?

  Callum weaved his way through the growing crowd so he might get a closer look. The woman was similar in height to him, her slender form encased in a costly scarlet velvet gown with jeweled girdle and heavily embroidered sleeves. Hair as black as night peeked out from under her gable hood. She did not smile and her creamy skin held the pallor of someone uncomfortable in their surroundings, but her emerald eyes near gleamed with defiance and fierce intelligence.

  When her gaze settled on him, he caught his breath at the jolt of awareness that passed through his body.

  Then she winked.

  Startled, he laughed, and when she smiled in return, one full of mischief and barely leashed sensuality, he blushed like a virgin.

  Alastair elbowed him and Callum winced at the gouge to his ribs, while appreciating the reminder to behave like a gallant and not a simpering fool. But his attraction to the lady was entirely unexpected. If his heart had long ago settled on Alastair, why did he now feel like it could expand and make room for her as well?

  Troubled, Callum looked away. How typical to be having such thoughts when there were countless obstacles in his path. Namely the thirty or so knights, lords, and lairds in this Hall who would fight to the death for a prize like Lady Isla Sutherland.

  The chance of him winning her hand was very small indeed.

  Who were they?

  Isla forced herself to remain on the dais with the king and queen, rather than leaping into the fray of men to meet the two who had caught her attention.

  One was of average height, beautifully dressed, fair-haired, possessing a merry grin and an air of such gentle sweetness that she was torn between wanting to hold him close and corrupting him with the naughtiest behavior she could think of. The other was a tall, brawny, brown-haired man in plain but well-made clothing, who gazed at her with cool sternness. Not dislike, just wary caution. The way he stood half a step behind the other man, his eyes darting about and assessing potential threats reminded her greatly of Sir Lachlan’s protectiveness toward his wife and mistress, which made him even more interesting.

  She wanted to talk to both of them at once. Discover their names, their character, their reason for entering the tourney.

  Kiss them.

  Isla blinked at the startling thought. Apart from worshipping Sir Lachlan, she’d never really been tempted by the men—young or old—around her. The goal of returning to her clan in triumph as a warrior had been all-consuming; only improving her sword fighting had mattered. Besides, no fine arse, large cock bulge, or broad shoulders could compare to the heady thrill of victory. It was a glorious moment indeed when all the failures, the aching limbs and blisters and cuts, the will to be better and faster and more skilled, resulted in a conquered opponent.

  Yet these men, she wanted. And not one or the other, but both. Her former sword master kissed two women. Why could she not kiss two men?

  “Lady Isla?”

  She forced her gaze away from the strangers, to look at the king. “Your Grace?”

  “We shall begin. I’ll introduce you, then draw the tourney events from the sack held by Queen Margaret. If you would read aloud each card to confirm the event and order, I would be most obliged.”

  “Of course,” she said, as her palms grew damp. No turning back now.

  James clapped his hands together twice, and a hush descended on the Great Hall. “My queen. Lords, lairds, and knights. Honored guests. I am delighted to introduce Lady Isla, youngest daughter of the Earl and Countess of Sutherland. As you can see, she is a true Highland lass of beauty and spirit who will make the tourney winner a splendid wife. Now it is time to announce the events. As this is Scotland, they shall be activities popular in this realm and no other. There will not be a joust.”

  Murmurs echoed in the Hall; some men looked disappointed while others were relieved. In truth Isla shared that relief; many years ago an older cousin had died after an opponent’s lance found a gap in his armor and pierced his flesh. The wound had putrefied, poisoning his blood, and she would not wish that slow and agonizing passing on anyone.

  “And so,” the king continued, “let us discover the first event to be held on the morrow. My queen?”

  Margaret, elegantly clad in pale blue velvet, gold girdle, and jeweled gable hood, smiled and held up a small black satin sack. He rummaged inside and pulled out a card, then gave it to Isla to read.

  She took a deep breath. “The first event is…a foot race! There shall be six races, each with five men competing over a half-mile distance. The first three men in each race shall progress. All others must retire from the tourney.”

  The murmurs rose to a low roar, and Isla stifled a smile at the shocked dismay on certain faces. She was pleased to note that her fair-haired favorite and his squire had brightened at the news.

  In quick succession, the king handed her three more cards to read, each event progressing men or sending them home. The second day would be archery, the third a heaving of the stone put, the fourth an occasion of revels; music and dancing. Even from her place on the dais she could see frowns and glares and gritted teeth at the choices the king had made, but if the entrants were surprised, they did not know their sovereign at all. James was a modern king and expected others to follow his enlightened lead.

  As each event was called her favorite relaxed further, even grinning at his squire, and her heart leaped. One more. All they needed was one more event he might excel at, and there was a chance she could wed a man she very much liked the look of.

  The king paused until the Hall became silent again, allowing the tension to build before handing her the fifth parchment card.

  Isla beamed. “The final event shall be…sword fighting! It is anticipated four men shall remain on the last day, so there will be preliminary fights in the morning and a final fight for the two victors in the afternoon. The grand winner of the tourney shall gain my hand in marriage, my dowry, the friendship of the Sutherlands, and a gift of cloth from the royal household.”

  Cheers echoed loudly, the din almost deafening, and Isla curtsied. While her head remained modestly bowed, she allowed her gaze to flick up to the two men in the audience, eager to see their reaction to the final event that would win her hand.

  They weren’t smiling now. In fact, both looked grim.

  Her heart plummeted. What on earth was the matter? Every knight, lord, and laird could fight with a sword; they were taught as lads, and with Scotland being Scotland, had ample opportunity to hone such a skill throughout their life.

  James called for silence once more. “A final warning. This tourney will be judged by me, and my champion, Sir Lachlan Ross, who will cast a very stern eye over proceedings. Apart from a squire, or healer in the event of injury, entrants are permitted no other assistance. Deception, evil deeds, or other mischief will not be tolerated. Anyone committing such acts shall be banished in disgrace or even imprisoned. I will have an honorable husband for this lady, not a scoundrel. Now. My lawyer shall read out all the names, and each entrant may make himself known to Lady Isla.”

  The long line of men soon became a blur, and she couldn’t even say if she nodded or smiled or even replied to those who bowed and kissed her hand. The only two she wanted to meet were her fair-haired favorite and his brawny friend; especially to inquire why they’d looked so unhappy at being asked to sword fight.

  Naturally, they were the very last names on the list.

  An hour later, with the Hall empty apart from the king and queen who were warming their hands in front of one of the five fireplaces, Isla finally stood alone with the two she wished to. This close they were even more handsome, and her mind waged a war against her body; the desire to know everything about them against the desire to stroke and caress.

  Hurling good manners out the window, Isla looked impatiently at both. “Your names again, sirs? Why did you look so miserable at the thought of swords?”

  The fair-haired man bowed over her hand. Intriguingly, his eyes were almost silve
r. “I am Callum MacIntyre, clan chief and Lord of Glennoe. From the Western Highlands, on the shores of Loch Etive, my lady. This is my squire and close friend, Master Alastair Graham.”

  The brawny, brown-haired man inclined his head, his watchful eyes as blue as a summer sky. “Lady.”

  Her whole body tingled with excitement. What was it about these two that interested her so? They weren’t the most important men in the tourney, nor the wealthiest, or in possession of the most land. “You looked pleased at the events until the last. Why is that? You’re a Highland laird, Glennoe!”

  Those beautiful gray eyes met hers for the longest moment, as though he might see into her soul, then he shrugged. “In truth, my lady, while my late father was a renowned swordsman, I am his gravest disappointment: a scholar. Aye, I can run, shoot an arrow, dance and play a tune, maybe even heave a stone a little distance. But I’ve never been skilled with a sword and Alastair fights best with fists or dagger. I fear that, even if by some miracle I made it to the last event, I would be soundly defeated.”

  Isla wanted to howl in dismay. This laird had answered her honestly, but what comfort could she offer? He spoke the truth. There was no way a poor swordsman would win the tourney.

  Unless…

  What if she disobeyed the king’s rules and offered training in secret? Next to Sir Lachlan, no other could better assist Glennoe. Yes, honorable reluctance would be understandable, but if they were intrigued by her enough to risk it, if they would accept a woman’s guidance…

  All she could do was wait for a pause in conversation, then casually make an offer. The next step would be up to them.

  He’d not thought this situation could get any more complicated than being in love with Callum, and half-supporting, half-loathing his quest for a wealthy bride to secure the clan’s future.

  He was wrong.

  Alastair observed in silence as his laird and Lady Isla continued a frank discussion about swords. There was a spark of mutual interest and awareness between them that made his heart clench. But far worse…he wanted this rebellious lady swordfighter, this beauty with flashing green eyes, black curls to tangle his fingers in, and small breasts to close his mouth around. In his bed, bent over a desk, braced against a wall…begging him to fuck her harder, for she would be no shy lass in her needs.

  But he couldn’t have her. Either he and Callum would return to Glennoe with nothing to show for the journey and expense, or his laird would have a new bride belonging to him alone. Then his existence would be the torture of watching the man he loved with a woman he desired; forever excluded by the little intimacies of marriage, the glances and smiles, casual touches and private conversations. Forever aware that at night Callum would use that willing tongue, eager hands, and unflagging cock to ensure a happy wife.

  Once again, he would be alone.

  “I know you have a special gift with swords, Lady Isla,” said Alastair abruptly, ashamed at his irritable, bitter tone yet unable to halt it. “But why do you care if my laird does not?”

  She looked at him with those wide emerald eyes, but rather than flaring with affront or anger, her gaze was thoughtful. “For one reason,” she replied, her voice hushed so it didn’t carry to royal ears. “I should like to help.”

  “Why?” he repeated, folding his arms and pinning her with a glare.

  Lady Isla raised an eyebrow, utterly unbothered by the stance, and his admiration for her unwillingly grew. “I suspect, Master Graham, for the same reason you are so protective. I like him.”

  Callum’s indrawn breath echoed in the cavernous expanse of the empty Hall, and Alastair coughed to ensure the king and queen did not grow suspicious and join them in conversation. They probably had only a few moments more to talk, then the lady would be escorted back to her family or maybe a private gathering for high-ranking courtiers.

  “How do you mean…help?” whispered Callum, his brow furrowing a little. “The king specifically forbids it in the tourney rules.”

  Lady Isla cast a furtive glance at James and Margaret before straightening her shoulders. “You told me a truth of yours, allow me to return the favor. I would have been content to continue my lessons with Sir Lachlan, to one day fight for my clan or Scotland, even act as an envoy for the king. I never sought a husband, and only suggested this tourney to delay a forced marriage to a rotten apple whom I would never love, and would never love me.”

  Alastair nodded in reluctant sympathy. Wealth smoothed away many cares, but it was men who gained. Daughters of great houses were seen as tools to advance the family, not as people deserving of love or happiness. Women of humble birth might have few material comforts, but when it came to choosing a husband or lover, they had much greater freedom. “The lot of a noblewoman.”

  “Indeed. But then I saw Glennoe. He laughed at my wink, blushed at my regard, answered my question honestly, and you are loyal unto him in a way that commends his character. That makes me think there is a chance for me to have a happy future.”

  A glance across the Hall confirmed that the king watched them even as he laughed at something his young queen said. But curiously, he remained beside the fireplace. Did James approve of Callum as a suitor? Or did he have devious motives yet to be revealed?

  Alastair gripped his arms so tightly he left imprints on his skin. “And so, lady?”

  “Glennoe states he can run, shoot an arrow, dance, play a tune, and heave a stone a little. Thus, an even chance of progressing through the early events—”

  “More than even,” he growled. “My laird is a man of many talents.”

  “Alastair,” chided Callum, but his gaze was warm.

  “Forgive me,” he said stiffly. “I mean no offense.”

  Lady Isla tilted her head. “I know you don’t. I’d wager Glennoe has far more talents than many would guess, and is far too modest to list them. However, he confesses a weakness in his ability with a sword. One talent I will never hide, nor be modest about, is swordplay. I was Sir Lachlan’s best student until my tumble from grace. What I am offering is…lessons. In secret. If you wish, Glennoe. If marriage to me, knowing how unconventional I am, might be something you truly desire.”

  Sword lessons!

  Alastair met Callum’s troubled gaze, knowing he would be torn at such an offer. Honor demanded they obey the king’s rules; yet both knew if Callum did manage to reach the last four, with his current ability he would have no chance in winning the tourney. The other entrants had fought in vicious clan battles, committed daring border raids against the English, and stood shoulder to shoulder with the king as he quelled uprisings. Thanks to years of cruelty; the mockery and beatings that had followed each defeat by his father, other clan members, or his cousin, Callum hated to even pick up a sword. But with Lady Isla as a tutor, maybe he could learn some new skills or improve his stance and grip and footwork just enough to hold his own against the other men.

  Alas, they had no more time to discuss the matter, for the king and queen now approached.

  “The minutes have flown in the company of a fine lass,” Alastair said too-heartily, bowing to Lady Isla. “Laird, we should go and begin preparations for the foot race on the morrow. The competition shall be fierce.”

  Lady Isla held out her hand to Callum. “It was a great pleasure to meet you, Glennoe. I look forward to hearing your opinion on a great Highland pastime. Good fortune to you and your squire in the tourney.”

  Callum bowed over her hand, then rather daringly for him, kissed it. “Thank you, my lady. I hope—”

  “Isla!” said Margaret as she joined them. “Your father and mother eagerly await you. Do not tarry in this Hall any longer.”

  The lady didn’t express annoyance at her fourteen-year-old queen’s scolding by even a glance or twitch, yet somehow Alastair could feel it and he admired the restraint. He felt much sympathy for the king and the sacrifices he’d made to ensure the unholy alliance with England succeeded. Everyone in the realm knew James didn’t love his Tudor wife, b
ut he was always courteous, and to placate her further, he’d sent his mistresses and all the illegitimate children he doted on far away from Stirling Castle.

  “Yes, Your Grace,” Lady Isla said, curtsying deeply. “Good day, all.”

  The king smiled as he watched her leave the Great Hall. “A great treasure for the worthy winner of my tourney. Are you pleased with the five events, Glennoe?”

  Alastair tensed at the seemingly innocent question. He remained wary of their sovereign’s indulgence of time just now, and what purpose that might serve. For James would certainly have a purpose. Their king might be younger and far more amiable than most, but he had already proven himself a formidable, shrewd, and practical man. Much like Callum, James was forced each day to mend the mistakes of his father as best he could.

  Callum inclined his head. “They honor the character of my king perfectly, I believe. Part warrior, part gallant. So yes, Your Grace, I shall be pleased to demonstrate a range of skills in the quest to win the hand and heart of Lady Isla. And to provide a spectacle for the enjoyment of my queen.”

  “Well said, well said,” murmured the king. “I expect great things from you, perhaps more so because you will not be expected to progress far. Prepare your laird well, Master Graham.”

  “Aye, Your Grace,” he replied, understanding the dismissal for what it was.

  Lest anything they said be overheard and repeated to spiteful ears, Alastair and Callum departed the Great Hall in silence, and held their tongues crossing the outer close also. Several of the other entrants remained outside, clearly hoping for further time with Lady Isla, or even a private audience with the king. From the expressions on their faces, they were furious that such a lowly laird had been permitted both—none more so than wretched Red MacDonald, who gave them both a dagger glare.

  “Well,” said Callum eventually, as they descended the steep path toward the cottage. “That was interesting. I have much to think about this evening.”

  Ha. Interesting was a woefully inadequate word for an afternoon where they’d met a bold, beautiful woman who offered the world…if they broke the rules. But his laird preferred to mull matters over before making a judgment, so there was no hurrying the conversation.