Wicked Passions (Highland Menage Book 1) Read online

  Oddly enough, archery was the event that concerned him least. With his average height and lean build, the short bow had always been his weapon of choice; fast, deadly, and best of all, it allowed distance between him and whatever he was trying to shoot. He had little chance with fists, mace, or battle axe, but bow and arrow…he could be quietly confident. Even the most judgmental members of his clan admitted that he had talent with this weapon, although they would never give it equal rank to skill with a longsword.

  A warm, familiar hand settled on Callum’s shoulders, and it took all his will not to lean back against Alastair, or even turn and rest his cheek against his squire’s chest to hear the comforting thump of his heartbeat. After their lusty play with Isla, then his first sword lesson, he’d slept like a cat on a sun-drenched window seat last night. Probably why he felt so calm. Unlike many here, he was well rested and refreshed.

  “Are you ready, laird?” murmured Alastair. “And by ready, I mean primed to crush all comers like they are fresh herbs and you a mortar and pestle?”

  Callum’s lips twitched. “Don’t tempt the devil to spite me. With the dampness in the air, our arrows could fly in any direction.”

  “You have three for each target, so can correct if necessary. Your band of adoring followers—noble and commoner—expect great things.”

  At last, a laugh escaped him. “I shall endeavor not to disappoint.”

  Soon afterward a trumpet blast echoed around the field, and Sir Lachlan called the entrants to prepare for the start of the archery. Their first target was a straw man, wearing an old linen shirt with a large red circle painted on it, set at a distance of eighty yards.

  One by one, each man drew back and released his arrow. All eventually succeeded in hitting the target, although a few were outside the circle, and some men needed a second attempt. Then Callum stepped up, took a single arrow from his quiver, and set it to his bow. Keeping his gaze unwaveringly on the red circle, he drew the string taut with three fingers, one above the arrow and two below. Then, with a deep breath to slow his racing heart, he let it fly. The arrow traveled toward the straw man so fast it was almost a blur, before embedding itself near the center of the circle.

  The crowd applauded, and he allowed himself a small smile. A good start.

  Their second target was much closer at sixty yards away but half the size; a fat cushion painted to look like a shield and held taut between two wooden poles with rope.

  Again, Sir Lachlan arranged them in a line. “You have three attempts. If you succeed, you move to…the final target. If not, you must…retire from the tourney.”

  One by one each man released his arrow, although more needed a second attempt this time. A knight in front of Callum missed with his first and second…then his third. The crowd gasped as he let out a loud string of Gaelic curses and was unwillingly escorted from the field by two burly guards.

  When the noise eventually waned, Callum stepped forward. Once more he set himself carefully, his gaze on the center of the cushion, before releasing his arrow. It flew straight and true, and pierced the middle of the false ‘shield’. Only then did he allow himself a swift glance at Alastair, who grinned and nodded. When he looked at the pavilion, Isla raised her goblet in a discreet salute and even the king applauded.

  But now came the third target, one that would take their full measure as archers. Although it sat at a distance of just forty yards, it was the size and shape of a goose, atop a wooden pole lodged in the ground. The other entrants grumbled among themselves as they formed a line, and even Callum gulped. Each time he blinked, the target seemed to grow smaller and move farther away. But he wasn’t alone in these thoughts, for in the first fifteen archers, several required two arrows to succeed, and five more were forced to leave the field after all of their arrows missed the goose entirely.

  “Next…the MacDonald of Carnoch!”

  To the sound of loud cheers, Red unleashed his first arrow.

  And missed.

  Elation surged through Callum, but he forced himself to remain still and quiet. When his turn came, he could easily do the same. Besides, his cousin had not missed the target by much, perhaps a few inches at most.

  Red’s second arrow hit the outside of the goose, but rather than lodging in the taut stuffed fabric, it fell to the ground.

  “Fail!” called Sir Lachlan.

  Clearly shocked at the judgment, Red jerked around to glare at the king’s champion. “How can you say that? My arrow was true.”

  “Nay. The rule is…an arrow must pierce and remain. You have one last chance, MacDonald. If you miss…you retire.”

  Callum’s heart near pounded out of his chest as Red set his stance and took aim with his third and final arrow.

  Miss. Miss. Miss.

  The arrow flew through the air, the short feathers rippling in the slight breeze. Everyone understood the gravity of the moment; not a soul on the field moved or made a sound, not even the young children or those selling refreshments.

  Miss. Miss. Miss.

  The arrow thudded into the false goose.

  Wild applause erupted, and the people chanted Red’s name as they threw sprigs of purple heather onto the edge of the field. Red waved and bowed before turning and walking to Callum.

  “Did you see that, cousin?” he said in a low voice, his eyes gleaming. “My arrow pierced that goose the way my cock will take Lady Isla’s virginity. Hard and deep.”

  Callum’s fingers clenched around his bow. “Do not speak of her so.”

  Red laughed and leaned down to speak directly into Callum’s ear. “Oh-ho! Has the lady a protector in the little laird? Do not delude yourself, there is no chance you will take her to wife. Lady Isla and her coin shall be mine. She’ll soon know who her master is, and if she is slow to learn…I’ve a whip to assist. That proud, defiant bitch will learn her place.”

  A startlingly feral snarl tore from Callum’s throat; he jerked away from his cousin and threw his bow to the ground, wanting nothing more than to tear the man limb from limb.

  Until a heavy hand clamped on his shoulder.

  “Something the matter, Glennoe?” growled Sir Lachlan.

  Callum gulped. Only a damned fool would succumb to Red’s deliberate baiting. If he hit his cousin as his fists itched to do, he would be thrown out of the tourney and Alastair and Isla would rightly think the worst of him. The king’s champion had just done him a great service, even if it did not feel like one.

  Closing his eyes briefly to regain composure, he then turned and faced the judge. “Nay, Sir Lachlan. My bow…slipped from my hand, but all is well.”

  “Good. Rory MacDonald, you have progressed…to the stone put. No need to remain. Return to your tent. Now.”

  Red’s lip curled, but he inclined his head the barest distance and walked away.

  Abruptly Sir Lachlan turned to the royal pavilion and beckoned one of the men at arms. “Bring a new goose! This one has…too many holes.”

  Startled at the unexpected boon of time, Callum leaned down to retrieve his bow. First, he tested the tautness of the draw, before adjusting the leather guard protecting his left forearm. Slowly, his rage dwindled and his thundering heart calmed. In truth, Sir Lachlan had done him two services this day, far more favor than he deserved. But why? The Lord of Glennoe was certainly the least important title remaining, and it wasn’t like he’d led an army for the king, built a splendid palace, or discovered some wondrous elixir to cure all ills.

  “Our last entrant, Callum MacIntyre, Lord of Glennoe!”

  Callum stepped up.

  Now or never.

  Would it be so wrong to heave Red MacDonald from the ramparts of Stirling Castle?

  Alastair watched the man stalk back to his tent. Whatever he’d said to Callum, it had provoked a strong reaction. For a laird renowned as cool and calm and a man of peace to throw down his bow and appear ready to let fists fly…

  He folded his arms, lest he get himself into trouble. Sir Lachlan had
intervened on the field; to confront Red and spark that flint again would be unforgivable. Especially when it was Callum’s chance to progress to the stone put event on the morrow. Plague take it, he could scarcely bear to watch, even though he knew how talented his laird was. Six men had already departed the field in defeat this day and after Red progressing by the narrowest of margins, it would be a travesty if Callum did not. Yet there was nothing he could do. Prayer seemed rather pointless, it wasn’t like he and God were on particularly good terms.

  The crowd hushed as Callum set his arrow and drew the bowstring back taut. A chill wind swept across the battlefield, ruffling his laird’s shirt and hair, and it was enough to make Alastair wish he could paint or sketch. This was a moment to be captured, one of fierce concentration, courage, and leashed strength, representing the man that so few saw, but he knew intimately.

  So very intimately.

  Callum released the arrow, and as though guided by angels themselves, the tip pierced the goose so deeply that it rose in the air before tumbling to the ground.

  All eyes darted to Sir Lachlan. He in turn gestured to the royal pavilion for the king’s decision.

  James laughed and thumped his hand on the wooden frame. “Glennoe, you have quite killed my goose! And just one attempt! What a fine arrow. I hereby declare you lord of the bow, and wish you good fortune in the stone put.”

  Noise erupted around the field, the din near deafening as the crowd clapped, stomped their feet, and yelled Glennoe! Lord of the bow!

  Callum waved awkwardly; even from this distance his scarlet cheeks were clear to see. His laird was bashful at the public celebration of his victory, for it happened so rarely. In truth, it was galling that Callum could be feted here in Stirling for merely piercing a stuffed goose with an arrow, when everything he’d done for the MacIntyre clan was viewed with indifference at best and outright suspicion and disdain at worst. The clan measured success in one way: battles won and lost. Not kindness and self-sacrifice, meetings attended, ledgers balanced, or treaties negotiated and signed.

  “Well, squire, it seems we shall remain in Stirling another day.”

  Alastair did not reply. Instead, with triumph and relief and aching need coursing through his veins, he ushered his laird into the privacy of the tent, cupped his face and kissed him forcefully.

  Callum’s hands gripped Alastair’s shirt as he surrendered for a long, sweet moment, before pulling away. “We can’t. Not here.”

  “Forgive me,” he rasped, swallowing hard against a rush of bittersweet lust, for it seemed this would forever be his lot: stolen moments of forbidden passion.

  But for how much longer?

  Wickedly unconventional Isla had allowed him to watch as Callum pleasured her. Had touched herself as he fucked Callum’s mouth and spent down his throat. Yet he did not dare hope for more. As Callum and Isla, they might permit him to join their play. But if this tourney led to a wedding, and a new alliance with the cold and haughty Sutherlands, the Lord and Lady of Glennoe might feel quite different when the harsh reality of duty set in.

  Would he ever truly belong somewhere?

  “Lord of the bow!” came a voice from outside the tent. “It is Lady Isla. May I enter and offer my congratulations?”

  “Of course,” said Callum too-heartily.

  She trudged in, one hand pressed to her belly, and Alastair frowned.

  “Are you well, lady?”

  Isla winked. “Alas not, Master Graham. I have a terrible stomach ache and fear I shall be resting this night rather than feasting with the king and queen, and honored guests in the Great Hall.”

  “Sad news indeed,” said Callum solemnly, his eyes glinting.

  “Very sad,” echoed Alastair. “Be sure to have some, now what is it your mother recommends, laird? Boiled water with peppermint?”

  “Aye. Peppermint for belly gripes.”

  “Thank you,” said Isla, as her lips twitched madly. “Your concern is most kind. Glennoe, I wonder if you might show me your trusty bow? I should like to admire your grip."

  Alastair pressed his fist to his mouth and coughed. Pure mischief danced in Isla’s eyes, she knew perfectly well the ribald meaning in her words. Plague take it, why did the woman who might overturn his precarious place in the world have to be so damned likeable?

  “Here, lady,” said Callum, picking up his bow and a single arrow, and settling himself into the correct stance for the benefit of anyone walking past the tent entrance. “See how I hold this at chest height?”

  “Oh indeed,” she replied, before moving closer and lowering her voice to the barest whisper. “I’ll come to your cottage once the feast begins. My manservant Leith shall fetch me after he has delivered messages to Stirling, so less time than yesterday. I can offer some further swordplay advice, but nothing more. Much as I would like that.”

  Her cheeks went pink at those final words. All three exchanged heated glances; it seemed they remembered the previous afternoon’s pleasures as vividly as he.

  Alastair met Isla’s gaze. “Why don’t you hold the bow, lady? We should like to see your grip.”

  “I would enjoy that,” she replied with such a falsely demure smile, he coughed once more.

  When Isla demonstrated that she handled the weapon as well as any man earlier, she leaned close again. “I am curious, Callum. What did the MacDonald of Carnoch say to you after he succeeded with his final arrow?”

  Alastair snorted. “Knowing Red, it would have centered around himself.”

  “You are acquainted with the laird? Oh, wait. Of course, you must be. Your lands are both in the Western Highlands?”

  “Red’s lands border mine to the north east,” said Callum stiffly, all amusement gone from his face. “He is also my cousin. His mother is my late father’s older sister.”

  “What did he say, Callum?” she whispered. “For I saw it angered and distracted you, and that cannot happen again.”

  “I’d rather not repeat something so vile. But Red would not be a good husband unto you.”

  Isla put her hands on her hips and glared. “Listen carefully, laird. I welcome friends who stand beside me or protect my back. But friends who stand in front of me in a misguided attempt to protect my maidenly eyes and ears will get a firm kick up the arse. I am a Sutherland. I know the twists and turns of court, and the worst impulses of men. I’ve heard the jests, and the threats. What do you think was said when my fall at St. Andrews revealed I was a lass? Do you think they cheered and said well done, Isla?”

  Alastair sent his laird a stern look. “Tell us.”

  Callum rubbed a hand across his jaw. “Forgive me. I do not mean to belittle, only to spare you distress.”

  Her gaze softened. “You have a gentle soul. But I will expect my husband to share all with me. The good and the bad. To trust me, as I shall trust him.”

  Leaning forward, Callum beckoned them closer, so their faces almost touched. “He said a proud, defiant bitch needed to learn her place. With whip if necessary. See, I told you it was vile.”

  Alastair’s stomach turned. He’d never liked Red. As the only son of the MacDonald laird, he’d been spoiled which had turned him cruel and spiteful. When he’d grown into a tall, bullish man and then became laird himself, those flaws only worsened. Red’s decisions were made for the benefit of Red and no one else. He was about as far apart in character from Callum as it was possible to be; if Alastair had not known both men nearly his whole life, he would not believe they were even related.

  “Hell-spawned devil,” he snarled under his breath.

  “Indeed,” said Isla, as she handed back Callum’s bow. “That is why it is even more important you improve your longsword skills, Callum. Expect a lad to visit your cottage.”

  “Good day, lady,” Alastair bellowed. “We both hope you feel better soon.”

  “Thank you, kind sirs,” she replied weakly over her shoulder as she trudged back outside to the field.

  When they were alone, Alast
air attempted a teasing grin. “Come, lord of the bow. The king will have another gold coin for you, then we must oil that sword of yours.”

  Callum’s answering smile was grim at best.

  The stakes were only getting higher.

  “Maybe I shouldn’t go to the feast. Maybe the king would be impressed and offer further favor if I stayed and sat with you. He is difficult to read at times.”

  As her mother paced and pondered aloud beside her bed, Isla resisted the urge to shriek with frustration. Anne Sutherland had not coddled an upset, scraped knee, or belly gripe in her entire life; she had servants for that. But tonight she thought to play at cooing and fretting?

  “I just need to rest, Mother,” Isla replied, careful not to let any irritation show. That would only invite suspicion, and then she would never get to Callum and Alastair’s cottage. “And have someone sing my praises at the feast. Who better than you?”

  Anne nodded. “That is true. Your father will spend all his time discussing politics or battles, then jest that you could defeat the entrants in swordplay. Imagine that, your greatest flaw beside your wretched willfulness, pronounced as a virtue! No, you are correct, daughter. I must go and ensure they all know that despite your unfortunate looks, to take you to wife is to receive a great dowry, a great alliance, and with my own example and that of your sisters, an excellent chance of a fertile womb.”

  Under the quilt, Isla’s fists clenched. “Yes, Mother. Dowry. Alliance. Womb. That is the best of me.”

  “Rest now,” said her mother, but she was already halfway across the chamber. “Should you need anything, Morag will assist.”