Wicked Passions (Highland Menage Book 1) Page 4

  Tomorrow, however, would be a different tale entirely.

  Chapter 3

  Isla sat up in bed with a start, her heart pounding and limbs trembling.

  For a moment she wondered if she’d cried out, but all around her was quiet, her father and mother still fast asleep on the other side of the chamber. After untangling the linen sheet and quilt from around her legs, she lay back on her pillow and let her eyes adjust to the faint flicker of smoldering fireplace and candle stubs in the pre-dawn gloom.

  That dream.

  Her cheeks flushed. She was no green girl; a virgin yes, but she’d seen and heard things that a youngest child tended to see and hear because others forgot she was there. Not to mention the ribald conversations and cock-waving jests made by the lads during rest times at St. Andrews. Yet her mind had taken that knowledge, Glennoe’s kiss to her hand that had jolted her fair to her toes, and Master Graham’s gruff questions and brawny folded arms, and blended it into something wickedly erotic.

  She’d been naked, the men fully clothed. They had held her wrists behind her back while teasing her nipples to hard points, kissing her neck and lips before parting the bush of black hair that covered her mound, and caressing the tender pink pearl nestled there. As she’d whimpered and writhed at the sensual torment, each had taken one of her hands and guided it to their hose-covered cocks, telling her in blunt, raw terms what she must do to please them.

  Naturally, that was the moment she’d woken. And now she needed to touch herself more than anything in the world, to ease the restless, pulsing ache at her center, something she usually only did after victory in a swordfight when her whole body burned with wild elation. In the past there had been a forbidden element to her pleasure, for in the absence of a man who heated her blood, it had been the thought of Sir Lachlan returning to the manor and bedding Lady Marjorie and Lady Janet that had brought her release. Now, all she could think of was Glennoe and Master Graham tearing away her shift and nightgown, roughly parting her thighs and holding them wide open as they explored the slick folds of her cunt.

  “Yes,” she whispered, turning onto her front before sliding a hand down between her legs to coat her fingertips in honey and rub her swollen pearl. “Please.”

  Hot tingles danced along her skin, as in her mind, the men each eased a finger into her tight channel. When she did the same, thrusting two fingers to the first knuckle, in and out and in and out, Isla had to muffle her gasp of release into the pillow.

  Saints alive.

  Flopping onto her back, she fought to catch her breath and not wake her father or mother. Thankfully no others shared their well-appointed chamber; their servants were in a small adjoining room. But even in here she dared not show a preference for Glennoe and his squire, let alone anywhere else in Stirling Castle or on the tourney field. The laird did not meet any of her family’s requirements for a spouse. Sutherlands did not wed for love, kindness, interesting conversation or lust. They wed for wealth, land, and power. But she’d seen her fill of cold marriages, where the only thing that brought them satisfaction was destroying others.

  She wanted warmth. Tender touch. The freedom to be her true self. So once again, her rebellious side had marched onward and she’d offered sword lessons in the hope that if Glennoe progressed to the final event of the tourney, he might win and take her to wife.

  Would he accept her offer?

  Isla burrowed under her quilt. Any decision to disobey the king needed time and much thought, but she hated not knowing Glennoe’s mind.

  Callum’s mind.

  Unwilling to say the names out loud, Isla wrote them instead across her quilt with a fingertip. Callum MacIntyre, Lord of Glennoe. Isla MacIntyre, Lady of Glennoe, and her lover Master Alastair Graham.

  Heat scorched across her cheekbones. Somehow writing the forbidden wish was far more scandalous than what she’d imagined while touching herself. And yet already, her heart had decided this must be the way forward. All she had to do was convince Glennoe to accept her offer…

  “Daughter! Get up. We’ll be late for chapel.”

  Isla’s eyes flew open at the sharp reprimand and she peered out from under the quilt. No. Her mother was wrong. Surely it couldn’t be dawn. But weak rays of sunlight were beginning to lighten the chamber, which meant another endless day of formal court dress rather than the airy woolen hose and linen shirt that she’d worn while living and training at St. Andrews. Not a moment went by when she didn’t think of those months of freedom; how she’d pretended to live with a noble family but instead rented a room from an elderly widow nearby who feigned ignorance as long as three rules were followed: home by nightfall, coin paid each Sunday, and her ale left untouched.

  All at once Isla’s quilt was yanked away, and she yelped as the morning chill cooled her warm skin. “No need for that! I’m awake, Mother.”

  Lady Anne Sutherland glared at her, looking so elegant in her rose-pink velvet gown, gold girdle, and pearl-encrusted gable hood that Isla scowled. Her blue-eyed, fair-haired mother had been the celebrated beauty of her day, with marriage offers from across the realm and even England and France. It was decidedly unfair that her older sisters inherited that coloring while she resembled her father.

  “Awake is not up, sponge-bathed, or dressed. Your sire has already departed to attend the king, I’ll not have us late to chapel and be looked down upon by that puffed up child queen. I cannot believe James wed a Tudor; they’ve held the English throne all of five minutes. Any other royal bloodline would have been superior, even if the mother was a York. French, Spanish, Portuguese, even one of the Low Countries. It sticks in my craw to curtsy to her.”

  Familiar with this particular rant and well aware she was not required to reply, Isla merely nodded. In all honesty, she did not want to earn the queen’s displeasure with a second scolding, not when she held such power by virtue of her position. Instead, Isla climbed out of bed, discarded her nightgown and shift, and hurried over to the washbasin to give herself a swift sponge bath. Thankfully, their longtime servant Morag had heated the water over the fire. “Which gown do you suggest I wear? To, ah, look nice.”

  And by look nice, I mean helpful in persuading Glennoe to accept sword lessons.

  Anne blinked, her icy demeanor thawing a little. “The dark green will become you well, and the silver girdle to show off your narrow waist. A little padding to enhance your bodice—”

  “No padding.”

  “When God is less then generous in his bounty, we must help ourselves.”

  “No padding,” Isla repeated. She would not pretend to have curves. Her body was her body, honed by countless hours of sweat-inducing sword fighting, and that was not something she would ever feel shame about.

  Instead, she completed her sponging before Morag expertly dried her with a linen towel and assisted her into a fresh shift embroidered with roses at the neck.

  Ugh. Dressing for court took forever.

  Silk stockings affixed with garters. Linen kirtle. The dark green velvet gown with its square neckline, wide, fur-lined sleeves, low waist, and a train she found especially bothersome, for she often forgot it was there and dragged it through mud rather than hooking it up. Then the jewel-encrusted silver girdle around her waist. Lastly the tangles were combed from her unruly curls, and the cumbersome gable hood with a black velvet veil to cover her hair, was settled atop her head.

  “Hmmm. You are too pale. No man wants a sickly-looking wife,” said Anne, pinching her cheeks.

  At last Isla was declared ready for chapel. Her stomach grumbled, but there was no point asking for bread and butter or small ale, there wasn’t enough time.

  “Will all the tourney entrants be at mass, do you think?” she asked carefully as they made their way from the chamber to the castle chapel at the edge of the inner close.

  Anne nodded, her eyes gleaming. “If they are wise, they will be. I was pleasantly surprised at the quality of the men, considering you are the prize. Some great lords inde
ed. Enough land and position to ensure our clan remains high and mighty as we should and deserve to be. You have a favorite?”

  “No, no,” Isla replied quickly. “It’s too soon. And so many men. I shall know better after the foot race, I think.”

  A lie, but under no circumstances would she reveal her preference. Knowing what her mother was capable of and how easily she could strike made Isla’s stomach roil.

  She wanted to help Glennoe and his squire, not hurt them.

  He’d known it wouldn’t take long for the games to begin—the jests, the pointed questions, the exclusion from gatherings of other entrants—but that ‘noble’ men could be so petty never failed to irritate him.

  Alastair ground his teeth as weak rays of sunlight attempted to warm the cobblestoned inner close of Stirling Castle and Callum explained, once again, that he was a laird. Yes, he owned castle and lands. No, the members of his clan weren’t cows, sheep, and rabbits. No, he didn’t require a wooden block to stand on so he might be seen. And all the while, that hell-spawned Red MacDonald stood and smirked rather than offering even a hint of family loyalty.

  His laird had the patience of a saint. If their positions were reversed, there would be a pile of high-ranking men at the foot of the cliffs surrounding the castle. And Red would be at the very bottom of that pile.

  “Tell me, Glenbow, is it?” said one ruddy-cheeked border lord. “What are your thoughts on the foot race, this day? Not anxious that you’ll be trampled, are you?”

  Callum smiled. “Glennoe. I look forward to testing my skill against the other four men in my race.”

  “No doubt. Could be quite an advantage being so small and slight.”

  Red chuckled as he lounged against the steps of the Great Hall. “All those years being chased by chickens will finally bear fruit, cousin.”

  Raucous laughter echoed in the inner close, and it took several deep breaths for Alastair to contain his temper and not rearrange the collection of weak jaws. Earlier in the morning the noblemen had been on their best behavior in the cool, dark, incense-scented chapel, all devout and stately as though envoys of God himself. Then they’d turned into fawning flatterers as they’d greeted Lady Isla and her mother, praising everything but their toenails. The only gratifying moment had been the way Lady Isla’s forced smile turned genuine when it rested on him and Callum. Ah, she was a beauty.

  But out here in the large paved space between the King’s House and the Great Hall, it seemed all gloves were off, and entrant’s claws unleashed. He’d had quite enough and was ready to accept Lady Isla’s offer on Callum’s behalf no matter what objections he had. None of these pompous fools deserved a bold lady sword fighter at their side and sharing their bed.

  “We shall see you on the field at noon,” said Alastair shortly. “Good day to you all.”

  Callum inclined his head. “My lords. Sirs.”

  Somehow, he managed again to hold his tongue until they were on the path back to the cottage. “They may all go—”

  “Wait for thick stone walls,” said Callum. “Please.”

  By the time they were inside the cottage and had the door latched, Alastair’s head was on the verge of explosion.

  “Why?” he burst out. “Why do you let them speak to you like that? Especially Red? I know you prefer to be a peacemaker, but sometimes you must let loose that warrior inside you.”

  “Ah, Alastair,” said his laird, sinking into a wooden chair, before pouring himself a goblet of wine, and downing it in a single gulp. “I think you may be the only soul on this earth apart from Mother who believes that I’m a warrior. Affection blindfolds you.”

  “You pay far too much heed to your father’s words.”

  Callum frowned. “If I did possess a fighting spirit, I would be skilled with a sword. I’m not.”

  “So, you’ll accept Lady Isla’s help, then. Excellent.”

  “I have not made that decision as yet.”

  Alastair rubbed an impatient hand against his bearded jaw. How did he convince Callum of his worth when he judged his whole existence on what his late father had declared acceptable or nay? As often happened after an old laird passed, feats and victories were made greater, while weaknesses were set aside. Weaknesses like a hot temper, closed mind, or favoring a nephew over his own son because Red was taller and stronger and preferred fighting over learning.

  But there was no point arguing. Not now, at least, when there was an event to prepare for. “Shall I bind your feet for the race?”

  Callum smiled gratefully, although it was hard to know whether for the offer, or the change in subject. A subject they would return to, if Alastair had his way.

  “Please. There are some linen bandages in my satchel, also a little clove oil to numb the soles of my feet. Then I won’t feel it so much if they get cut or bruised. Fields can be traps for the unwary, no matter how green and welcoming they look.”

  “Clever,” said Alastair, finding the items, then returning to kneel on the thick rug. “Give me your foot.”

  “There are many benefits in having a mother who is a healer,” Callum replied as he removed his shoes and lower stockings and placed his right foot in Alastair’s lap. “I find it reassuring that there are ways to ease all manner of ills, natural and unnatural.”

  His laird’s foot was narrow and smooth yet quite large, and unable to halt himself, Alastair began with a gentle massage to warm the flesh. A low gasp made him raise his head to see Callum shudder and part his thighs a little. Emboldened, Alastair slid his hands up, rubbing the younger man’s ankle, his calf, his knee, until Callum moaned.

  “If I didn’t know better,” he murmured, “I might think you love this, that you crave my touch.”

  Callum swallowed hard. “It’s just…it’s just preparation. For the race.”

  “Is it? I’m reminded of that night I fucked you over and over, where I learned every inch of you with my fingers and tongue.”

  “Alastair. You swore never to speak of it again.”

  He leaned forward so his mouth was next to Callum’s ear as his fingertips stroked the younger man’s hose-clad inner thigh. To remind Callum who he truly belonged to, Alastair recklessly continued: “I wonder if you remember how it felt to have my cock in your mouth. In your arse. To be sticky with my seed and yours…”

  Callum’s finger’s gripped his shirt, but eventually he pushed Alastair away. “Of course I remember,” he said hoarsely. “Every single day. Never have I known such pleasure, or peace. But having you in my bed is a luxury I cannot afford. Only a wealthy bride and a strong alliance will save my clan. If by some miracle I won the tourney, do you think Lady Isla would wed me if she knew I sucked my squire’s cock, that I’d begged him to fuck me harder? What do you think the Sutherlands would do?”

  Alastair flinched. “The lady is unconventional. She might understand, even if her family disapproved…”

  His words trailed off, for even he understood how foolish they were. Few wives would accept that their husband lusted after men as well as women. One of the reasons he’d not yet wed.

  To distract himself from the harsh truth, Alastair took the small glass bottle of clove oil, shook some of the strong-smelling concoction onto a cloth, and dabbed it onto the underside of Callum’s right foot. Then he did the same with the left. The skin went a little pink and blotchy, and having had this treatment before the removal of a splinter, he knew how odd and uncomfortable it felt. But as his laird had noted, it was far better than the alternative.

  Once the oil had dried, he wrapped Callum’s feet in a layer of linen bandage, under the arch and around the ankle, thick enough to provide some protection, but not so much it would impact mobility at all.

  “There,” he said at last. “Now you’re ready to win a race and a bride. We should go to the field.”

  Callum took his hand and squeezed it. “Thank you. I know this is difficult. But without your support I have even less chance of success. That you are choosing to assist means
the world to me. It is so very noble.”

  Alastair grunted. Maybe that would drown out the sound of his heart shattering into a thousand pieces. “After this morning, the less said about nobility, the better. If you don’t leave those puffed-up peacocks—including your damned cousin—far behind, I’ll thrash you myself.”

  “Aye, Master Graham.”

  The tender warmth in Callum’s gaze hurt like the cauterizing of a wound. He would trade his soul for such looks every day, to be able to claim this man as his own, in bed and out, for the rest of his life. “Then let us march to the field of battle. At least in the foot race you must face just four other men, and defeat two, to proceed to the second event. After which you will make a decision on Lady Isla’s offer. Swear that, at least.”

  His laird nodded slowly. “I do so swear.”

  Alastair repacked the satchel of salves, oils, concoctions, and bandages, but also added a small flagon of wine, and a cloth-wrapped parcel of dried fruit and chunks of soft white bread from the larder, as they would probably be hungry later.

  But for now, Callum had a race to win.

  Their very future depended on it.

  While the king hosted the tourney, the Sutherlands had funded it and spared no expense.

  Callum halted, both impressed and overwhelmed. When he and Alastair first arrived in Stirling, this large field west of the castle had been a peaceful grazing spot for cows and sheep.

  Now it was a battleground.

  To their right, directly in front of the craggy cliffs and deep green vegetation of Castle Hill, sat the hastily constructed royal pavilion. Under the canopied roof were cushioned chairs for the king and queen, Lady Isla and the Sutherlands, honored guests like Lady Marjorie Ross and Lady Janet Fraser, privy councilors, and foreign envoys. Servants scurried about with trays of food and drink, as well as messages and documents for the king. Either side of the pavilion were long, tiered, wooden stands to accommodate wealthy spectators, and past those were large fenced areas where villagers crammed in to stand and watch. There were also refreshment stalls, and enterprising men and women walked about with trays selling small ale, meat pasties, and thick slices of fruit cake.