Wicked Passions (Highland Menage Book 1) Read online

  “As far as anyone knows, I am perusing the market in Stirling with trusted servants. Now you can visit your sister, Morag, and when the time comes to return to the castle for supper, I’ll be waiting here for you.”

  Morag didn’t look fully convinced, nor did Leith. But they nodded and continued down the path to the village.

  Glancing both ways to ensure no one watched, Isla straightened her shoulders and approached the front door of Glennoe’s cottage. Leith knew where all the tourney entrants were lodged—he’d had to deliver messages at various times—and this information was proving invaluable, for she hadn’t needed to ask anyone and create suspicion.

  She raised her hand to knock, but the door wasn’t properly latched and swung open. Not wanting to be seen loitering, Isla stepped inside the cool stone building and latched the door behind her.

  Just about to call a cheerful greeting, the words died in her throat.

  Saints alive.

  At first glance, it appeared that a seated Master Graham attended to a small wound on his half-naked laird’s lower belly or hip. But no. Glennoe’s hose rested about his knees. His hands were braced on his squire’s shoulders, his head tilted back in ecstasy as his fully erect cock was roughly handled.

  Saints ALIVE.

  Isla had seen cocks before; the lads in her training group had never been shy when needing to relieve themselves, or for a jest. But a grown man’s? At full mast? Never.

  She sank against the wall, unable to tear her gaze away from the shockingly erotic sight of one man pleasuring another, for now Master Graham teased Glennoe’s cock with long, slow laps of his tongue, before engulfing the entire head in his mouth.

  The laird made a sound of such delight that Isla scarcely suppressed a moan of her own. Her horrid green gown felt several sizes too small as it chafed her taut nipples, and the heavy fabric combined with her kirtle meant she couldn’t easily access the throbbing pearl between her legs, begging to be stroked.

  All she could do was watch.

  Watch and yearn and imagine.

  Isla pressed her knuckles to her mouth as Glennoe shuddered and panted, his fingers tangling in Master Graham’s luxurious hair as he thrust. They gazed at each other with lusty tenderness, the way Sir Lachlan and his ladies had, and envy nearly choked her. She wanted to join them. To have Glennoe’s cock in her mouth, his fingers in her hair, and Master Graham’s talented tongue buried in her wet cunt.

  “Alastair,” Glennoe rasped. “Feels so good…I’m going to spend…”

  Master Graham continued to rub and squeeze the laird’s swollen cock as he sucked and lapped at it. A moment later a raw, brutal cry echoed in the room as the laird’s back arched and pearly seed erupted from the tip into his squire’s mouth and onto his bearded chin.

  Aroused beyond measure, a low wail of agonized need tore from her throat.

  Time nearly halted. The two men looked at her with horrified dismay as they hastily disengaged, cleaned themselves with a linen cloth and righted their clothing, before walking toward her.

  Isla couldn’t move. Couldn’t even flee as shamed guilt and unfulfilled desire turned her usually nimble feet to stone. She could only stare, her heart nearly thumping out of her chest, her cheeks hot enough to boil water.

  “Lady Isla,” said Glennoe, his face ashen. “We did not expect…that is—”

  “Forgive me,” she blurted. “I’m here to…the sword lessons…I did not mean to watch. But I could not look away. I’ve never seen such passion.”

  The two men stilled and exchanged a glance.

  “You are not distressed?” asked Master Graham warily.

  Isla shook her head so hard her gable hood fell to the floor. “I have seen women kiss,” she began, not wanting to reveal who, for that was Lady Janet and Lady Marjorie’s tale to tell. “Not like friends, like lovers. If they kiss and touch each other, then of course there must be men who do the same.”

  “Indeed,” murmured Glennoe, his tension easing a little.

  “But…those women also kissed a man with the same passion. So I think some people like to kiss both. Do you only like to kiss each other, or, er…women too?”

  It was a bold question, far too bold for such a short acquaintance. Yet she had to know. A husband who did not desire her would be most unwelcome, no matter how kind. She had needs.

  “Both,” said Master Graham, looking remarkably unruffled by the question. “Callum…my laird and I also enjoy kissing women. Bedding them.”

  “Do you bed them together? As three?”

  His eyes widened. Then his gaze heated to pure sapphire. “We have not,” he replied softly. “Yet.”

  Isla whimpered, pressing her thighs together in a futile attempt to ease the ache in her throbbing center. After what she’d watched and this wicked conversation, she desperately needed release.

  “Would you like to sit, Lady Isla?” asked Glennoe as he held out his hand, his gray eyes glittering.

  She stumbled forward like she’d made merry with an entire barrel of wine, near-feverish with lust. The laird’s hand was smoother than hers but surprisingly strong, and she accepted his assistance gratefully as he led her over to the chaise. When she sat down on the cool beaten leather surface, a new scent teased her nose. Musky. Earthy…

  Oh.

  The cloth they had used to wipe his seed away rested on the low wooden table beside the chaise.

  Isla bit her lip, her limbs trembling.

  The laird frowned. “Are you frightened, lady?”

  “No,” she said bluntly. “I’ve never felt unsafe with you or Master Graham. But my cun…”

  The word died on her lips. It was so commonly used, but some men pursed their lips if a noblewoman said it. While she didn’t think that these two would chide her, it was never wise to assume anything.

  Master Graham leaned against the fireplace. “Pray continue. Be honest and say your sweet little cunt is soaking wet and requires relief.”

  Isla nodded, almost miserable in her acute need. “It aches. I touched myself in bed this morning, but that is such a long time ago.”

  “Do you often do so?”

  “Yes. It feels nice. I like to, even if it lands me in trouble. Actually, the thought of trouble has never halted me from doing something. But you know that already.”

  Both men laughed.

  “Well,” said Glennoe, his gaze approving. “If you wish to touch yourself, we certainly won’t stop you. It shall be our secret. Or…”

  “Or?” asked Isla breathlessly.

  Master Graham smiled. “Or, you might ask Glennoe to assist. He has a wicked tongue, and if you’ve not had your cunt licked before, let today be the day you learn such pleasures.”

  Her body screamed ‘yes’. But her head warned caution. “Just that? I mean, I cannot do more.”

  “Just that,” said Glennoe firmly. “If you wish. I would use my lips and tongue between your legs until you gain ease. Alastair would watch.”

  “Yes,” she said. “Yes.”

  “Then lift your gown,” said Master Graham. “Now.”

  On another occasion she might have played coy; raised it slowly to tease. But her need was far too great. Instead, Isla yanked up her gown, kirtle, and shift, before spreading her thighs wide in invitation. The scent of her arousal perfumed the room, but rather than any dismay, both men gazed at her reverently. Hungrily.

  Glennoe dropped to his knees between her legs, parted the bush of dark hair and exposed her tender pink flesh. Then, without further ado, he leaned forward and licked her.

  Isla bucked at the intense jolt of sensation. But the gentle laird was ruthless as he dragged his tongue back and forth along her slick folds, circling her pearl, even penetrating her tight entrance and darting inside. It felt good. No, far better than good. Divine.

  A ragged gasp escaped her lips. “More.”

  “Yes, Callum,” rasped Master Graham. “Fuck her with your tongue. Lap up all that sweet honey.”

 
; Isla moaned. “Your cock is hard. Touch it if you want to.”

  The squire slowly pulled down his hose, revealing an enormous thick erection. As he began to caress it with those paw-sized palms, the lewd sight combined with the heavenly suction of Glennoe’s lips on her delicate pearl, hurled her over the edge. Isla ground hard against Glennoe’s mouth and chin as bright starbursts exploded behind her eyes, crying out with pleasure as she gripped the chaise arm and writhed in bliss.

  Saints alive.

  Only her best swordplay victory could possibly compare to that.

  He’d finished second in his race and progressed to tomorrow’s archery event. Alastair had brought him to a thunderous release with his mouth and hands. Now he’d made Lady Isla cry out with pleasure, and had the heavenly taste of her spiced honey on his tongue.

  All in all, a splendid day.

  Gulping air to calm his racing heart, Callum leaned against the arm of the chaise and watched Alastair handle his engorged cock, the strain of release denied apparent on his face.

  “Will you spend in my mouth, Alastair?” he asked. “Then I’ll have the taste of both of you there.”

  “Please do,” said Lady Isla hoarsely. “The two of you together takes my breath away.”

  His squire stalked toward him like a rampant beast, and Callum went up on his knees to receive the thick length dripping with pearly moisture. One of Alastair’s huge hands curled around his neck and gripped it, a show of dominance so arousing he shuddered.

  “Suck me, my laird,” growled Alastair, easing his cock into Callum’s mouth.

  Heady excitement rushed through him. Tasting his squire’s cock, being ordered to pleasure him while Lady Isla watched avidly and touched herself…he’d never felt quite so necessary. So wanted. His hands moved up Alastair’s thighs, one to circle the base of his cock, and one so he might stroke his heavy balls. Then Callum closed his lips around the warm, pulsing flesh, using his tongue to tease the underside of Alastair’s cock, and hollowing his cheeks to increase the tug and pull. The earthy seed was delicious and he sucked greedily for more.

  Alastair groaned, the smooth, shallow thrusts becoming unsteady, rougher and deeper, until that glorious hardness fucked Callum’s mouth. He breathed through his nose, kept his throat relaxed, unwilling to surrender even a moment of being owned in this way. The other man’s sounds of enjoyment filled the room, but Callum could also hear fingers penetrating slick cunt, and the lusty scents of feminine honey, sweat, and seed hardened his own cock again.

  Alastair turned to Lady Isla. “My laird’s mouth is a priceless treasure, wouldn’t you agree?”

  “Yes,” she gasped. “P-perfection. Now fill it. Make him take your seed. Every drop.”

  His squire thrust harder. “Heed the lady. Every drop.”

  Callum moaned, feverishly sucking and licking, and when he delved further between Alastair’s legs to stroke his back entrance, a guttural roar nearly shook the furniture. Warm, sticky seed gushed into his mouth and he swallowed it down; Lady Isla’s wild cry of release prompting his own to soak the front of his hose.

  After carefully withdrawing his cock, Alastair sank onto the chaise next to Lady Isla. Callum swayed and sat back heavily on his arse, his head resting on the chaise. None were capable of speech.

  It might have been minutes or hours later, but abruptly Lady Isla giggled.

  Callum turned his head to glance up. “What amuses you?”

  “I lied my way here from the castle for swordplay…not quite the swordplay I thought, though.”

  He didn’t laugh. “You call yourself unconventional, but you are a jewel, Lady Isla. Rare and fine. Any man should be proud to have you on his arm—at court in a gown, or in hose and shirt with sword in hand.”

  “Just Isla in private,” she said softly, as she rose to her feet.

  “Then we are Alastair and Callum,” said Alastair. “Are you…must you leave?”

  “Ha! You might wish it soon enough; it’s time for a sword lesson. Callum, put on fresh shirt and hose, and lend me some too, if you please. Alastair, would you assist me in removing my gown and kirtle?”

  After a swift sponge bath Callum dressed himself, then selected some choice items of clothing for Isla and brought them out to her. She stood near the fire wearing naught but stockings.

  God’s blood.

  Her body was so lithe. Long legs, flat belly, small breasts with surprisingly large nipples, and a tight arse. Her skin was Highland pale, which made the contrast of her green eyes, rosy nipples, and black hair and bush even more prominent.

  “You are staring, Callum,” she said archly as she tugged on the borrowed hose, but there was uncertainty in her gaze.

  “Because you are beautiful.”

  “I am not. My mother and sisters are. Fair-haired angels all, with breasts and hips to cushion a lover.”

  “Not everyone seeks that,” said Alastair as he watched her pull on a fine linen shirt. “Some find a wild lass with green eyes and a perfect arse very fine indeed.”

  Isla looked genuinely astonished. “Oh. Well. I…ah…shall we clear a space inside? Is there a private courtyard behind the cottage?”

  Callum shook his head. “Nay. And close neighbors besides.”

  “Then in here it shall be. We don’t need much space today, for I’ll show you grip and stance to begin with. It may sound dull, but every tutor I’ve had spent a great deal of time on this. As I must be back at the castle before the supper hour, fetch your sword, please.”

  When Callum retrieved his longsword and handed it to her, Isla unsheathed it in one smooth, expert movement and examined it closely.

  “Hmmm,” she mused. “Good balance. Nice weight. But I must scold you for your care of it. How often do you oil the blade?”

  Alastair coughed meaningfully, and Callum’s cheeks heated.

  “Er…”

  “Callum. It must be wiped after each use. Sweat, blood, spit…all corrode the steel.”

  “It is rarely oiled for it is rarely used,” admitted Callum, looking away in shame. What kind of laird avoided a longsword because it provoked so many memories of snarling lectures, cut and blistered hands, beatings, and cruel taunts? His father had eventually given up in disgust, instead loudly praising Red and the other lads in the clan for their fighting prowess. To Donald MacIntyre, only one skill had mattered: that with a sword.

  Gentle fingers grasped his chin and turned his head, urging him to look at her.

  “Have you had a bad experience?” asked Isla, her brow furrowed. “Tell me plainly. Perhaps a sound defeat? There is no shame in that; I have landed in the dirt with a sword tip at my throat more times than there are stars in the sky. But as Sir Lachlan used to say, on your feet and try again. Tomorrow, you shall be better.”

  “You had a far superior teacher, then,” said Alastair with a dark scowl.

  Callum sent him a quelling look. “No need to dig that body up—”

  “Ah, a bad training experience then,” said Isla briskly, yet her gaze was kind. “That is important for me to know, for now I understand where the reluctance stems from. Are you confident in your grip?”

  He hesitated. “I believe so. My right hand is my strongest so it sits closest to the crossguard. But I have little force.”

  “That relies on where your weaker hand sits. For more force, it must be directly below your stronger hand. For flexibility, slide that weaker hand down to the end of the grip.”

  “Sounds too easy.”

  Smiling jauntily, Isla swung his longsword up in a perfect arc to rest on her right shoulder. If he tried that, he would lose an ear. But Callum couldn’t stop staring at her pose, the expert grip, the long legs encased in hose, the fine linen shirt that in no way disguised her large pink nipples. Thoroughly distracting.

  “Laird,” she said patiently, “I’ve already removed your head in battle.”

  Alastair cleared his throat. “He’s not going to be facing those pretty nipples in battle.”
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  “More’s the pity. I will admit to binding my breasts in the past. And wearing a longer, much coarser tunic. Now, show me your footwork.”

  “Or you could show me how it’s done?” Callum asked hopefully.

  “Very well. Stand back. There are several critical steps in sword fighting. Advance, retreat, sidestep, diagonal step and false step. First, I shall show you a proper advance…”

  He watched in awe as Isla moved the sword from her shoulder to a fighting stance, the grip level with her cheekbone, then demonstrated steps going back, forth, and side to side.

  “Do you stop to brace for an attack?” asked Alastair curiously.

  Isla shook her head. “If I am moving, my opponent never knows what I am about to do. There is also less chance of them landing a deadly blow. But this does not mean you should dance about, tiring yourself. Every step must have purpose. Now. Both of you, fight with imaginary swords. Show me your feet. How would you sidestep to avoid an attack? How would you lure your opponent into a mistake with a false step?”

  As a tutor, Isla was nothing like his father. Apart from her staggering expertise, she offered praise and encouragement as they repeated the same movements over and over until Callum was sure he’d be stepping in his sleep. It was humbling to know she taught him the easiest of skills, some she’d probably mastered as a child, for he could certainly see Isla convincing someone to teach her. Even more humbling that he would never reach her mastery of the sword, not in a thousand years.

  But these lessons gave him the chance to improve himself, win the tourney and Isla’s hand, and save his clan.

  A chance for he, Isla and Alastair to be together for always?

  Callum quickly suppressed the thought.

  That would be hoping for far too much.

  Chapter 5

  The second day of the tourney dawned cool and cloudy after overnight rain, and did not grow warmer as noon approached.

  Callum glanced at the men who stood to the left and right of him. Eighteen including his cousin remained for the archery, and while Red laughed and jested with the other entrants, most looked uneasy now that the king had announced the day’s rules. Rather than everyone attempting to hit the center of one large target like a tree trunk, or a covered mound of earth known as a butt, they would be roving. James had arranged three targets of varying size and distance away, and each entrant would have three attempts to hit it with an arrow. If they succeeded, they progressed to the next target. If they missed…their tourney ended and they had to leave the field.