Wicked Passions (Highland Menage Book 1) Read online

  Aye, she would. As she always had, because Morag cared in truth, not when it made her look favorable in front of others.

  After the chamber door closed, Isla counted to one hundred, then bounded out of bed and discarded her shift. From the bottom of her trunk she pulled Callum’s hose and shirt that she had kept for this purpose, and after donning the hose, stood with her arms outstretched as Morag expertly bound her breasts with a length of linen bandage.

  “He’s a handsome one, that Glennoe,” said the servant with a sly grin. “You should have told me it was him you liked. Leith says the king praises him often. Learned and steady. That is the kind of man a wild lassie needs; he can cool you, and you can warm him.”

  “Oh, hush,” said Isla, rolling her eyes. Naturally, when she’d approached Leith for assistance, he’d told his wife. But not even they knew all of her mischief at the cottage.

  All of her wickedness.

  Leith and Morag had half the tale: a bold lady liking a laird and deciding to help him with sword lessons in secret. They certainly didn’t know she’d spied on that laird being pleasured by his squire. Or that the laird had licked her cunt until she screamed in ecstasy. Or that she’d then touched herself while watching that laird suck his squire’s cock and swallow his seed.

  Not even her two loyal servants would assist if they knew that. Breaking the king’s rule about assisting an entrant was bad enough, but doing so and disobeying her coldly pious mother and father to swordfight and perform lewd acts with two men…that was far too much troublemaking, even by Isla Sutherland standards.

  “There,” said Morag as she fastened the end of the bandage with a small knot. “How does that feel? Firm enough?”

  Isla nodded and pulled the shirt over her head. After Morag braided her hair and twisted it into a tight ball at the nape of her neck, Isla donned a short cloak and one of Leith’s soft velvet caps. “Young lad?”

  “Aye. Now run. Leith has more messages than he thought; the king asked if he might add a few private letters to his satchel. I believe one is for the bishop. If you don’t leave now, you’ll be out for the entire evening and then your mother will have all our heads on a pike.”

  Leaning forward, she wrapped her arms around Morag. “I wish you were—”

  “Here now, don’t be sniffling all over me,” the servant replied, patting her arm. “I’ve mending to do and a large dish of marzipan to eat. Away with you.”

  Blowing her a kiss, Isla dashed across the chamber before peering out the door into the wide, torchlit hallway. About twenty feet away, Leith leaned against the cool stone wall, his fingers drumming impatiently against his satchel, and she closed the chamber door, then hurried over to him.

  The silver-haired man smirked. “You’re looking remarkably well for someone with belly gripes.”

  “Shhh,” she replied archly. “You’re as tart-tongued as your wife.”

  “Except she gets a roaring fire and a dish of marzipan. You conceded to all her demands, didn’t you?” Leith said with a mournful sigh.

  Isla shook her head at the theatrics and dug into her cloak for a large handkerchief-wrapped square. “I brought you some, before you groan like an old oak tree in the wind.”

  He brightened, tore the handkerchief away, then devoured the entire sweet treat in two bites. “Mmmm.”

  “May we proceed?”

  “We may,” said Leith happily, as they descended the steps and crossed the inner close of Stirling Castle.

  The sun was just beginning to set, giving the golden lime-washed gleam of the Great Hall a peach hue. Deliberately, Isla lifted the collar of her cloak and widened her step as the lads did. The last thing she needed was someone glancing out one of the windows and recognizing her.

  The armed guards at the gate made her throat as dry as a desert, but they merely inclined their heads and waved them through with a polite, “Leith. Laddie.”

  When they were far enough away for privacy, Isla exhaled unsteadily. “That was easier than I thought.”

  Leith shrugged. “I come and go frequently with messages for your father and mother, but now the king is making use of my fine thoroughbred legs, the guards are especially courteous.”

  “I’m convinced Morag wed you for those legs alone.”

  “Quite overcome at the turn of my calf, she was,” he agreed fondly. “And my hedgerow eyebrows.”

  Not for the first time, envy surged at the deep, abiding love Leith and Morag had for one another. Twenty-five years they’d been wed, and although she knew their lack of children hurt their hearts, it had never stopped them lavishing care and affection on each other, or waifs in their path.

  Could she have a marriage like that? With a man like Callum, it certainly seemed possible. Aside from Leith, he was the kindest, warmest soul she knew, with a magical tongue and a brilliant brain. Alastair would be quite a different husband; protective, earthy, and raw. He wouldn’t softly chide a tart wife, he’d be a stern master who ordered her onto her knees to take his cock in her mouth until she swallowed every drop of his seed. Or tease her swollen pearl mercilessly with his fingers while whispering lewd things in her ear, but withhold release until she begged and begged…

  Isla nearly stumbled on the path.

  Saints alive. Where had that thought come from?

  She was a strong, unconventional young woman, as Morag had said, in need of a learned, steady husband. Not a rough and brawny squire with blue eyes to drown in and paw-sized hands that could both tenderly caress a cheek or possessively grip the back of a neck.

  I want both. Together.

  This time she did stumble, only halted from a face-first tumble down the steep path into Stirling village by Leith curling a hand under her elbow.

  “Here now,” he said with a furrowed brow. “You’re not actually ill, are you?”

  “No,” she mumbled. “Quite well.”

  Ha. But she could hardly confess to her manservant the things she’d seen and experienced at that cozy cottage nestled near the bottom of this hill. Or that her increasingly wicked and forbidden wedding night wish was not just her husband bedding her…but her husband and their lover.

  Really though, she didn’t have time to ponder a wedding night, not when she had no idea who would win the tourney. Her heart and soul screamed for Callum, and he’d been nothing short of magnificent with bow and arrow in hand, but there was still the stone put and the revels to navigate before the final event of swordplay. Good men had left in defeat earlier, and vile men like that MacDonald of Carnoch had succeeded. Such was the nature of a tourney.

  All she—all they—could do was take each day as it came.

  “Here ye are then, lassie,” said Leith as he halted outside Callum and Alastair’s cottage. “I’ll be back to fetch ye before nightfall; I have no wish to walk that hill with naught but moonlight to guide my way. Besides, we must return before the feast ends—”

  “Or Mother will have all our heads on pikes, I know, I know,” Isla replied with a faint grin.

  “I’ll knock thrice on the door. Teach him well.”

  “I shall,” she promised.

  Her very future depended upon it.

  Chapter 6

  “I’m rather envious at the care you are lavishing on that blade. Are you hoping to impress me or Isla?”

  Alastair glanced up from where he sat on the chaise, polishing his laird’s sword to a gleaming shine. “I want it to look like the weapon of a champion.”

  Callum tilted his head. “You didn’t answer my question.”

  What was he supposed to say?

  Yes, I wish to impress her. Also not just watch, but pleasure your future lady wife. Fuck her until she screams herself hoarse then hold her in my arms as I held you.

  “Of course, I wish to impress. A poorly kept blade will hardly find favor with a swordfighter.”

  “Alastair. I know you desire Isla. You don’t have to conceal it to protect me. In fact, I wish you wouldn’t because I don’t want an
y secrets between us. Unless your desire for me has cooled?”

  He stilled. Callum was rarely so blunt. Then again, this was an unusual situation. “No,” he said forcefully. “Never. But while I do lust for her, I won’t make trouble or insist you choose…look sharp, laird. A lad approaches the front door.”

  “Then we should let the lad in,” said Callum, smoothing his linen shirt, and his hair, for about the twentieth time.

  It made Alastair want to kiss him; to disturb that perfect surface. Yet now he wanted to do the same to Isla. To leave his mark on her, let all and sundry know she was his and he would fight beside her unto death.

  “Welcome lad,” he called as Callum ushered Isla into the cottage.

  She grinned and bowed. “Why thank you, kind sir. I see you are doing good work there.”

  Alastair gave the sword blade one last rub with the rag, twisting it one way and the other to ensure no oil spots or finger marks remained. “I pray it shall be deemed worthy of a warrior.”

  Isla discarded her cap and cloak, then sauntered toward him. His breath caught at her sheer sensuality; the confidence she had when wearing hose rather than the gowns she hated. Naturally, his thoughts turned carnal, imagining Isla naked on her hands and knees in front of him, his fingers tangled in those pitch-black curls, teasing her sweet cunt while his thumb penetrated her arse to heighten release…

  “Why Alastair,” she purred, raising one winged black eyebrow. “Whatever were you thinking just now?”

  A polite lie slid onto his tongue, but much like Callum didn’t want secrets between them, he didn’t want a lie between him and Isla, even a small one.

  “Lewd things.”

  “Oh?” Isla replied, looking interested rather than offended. “Such as?”

  “You, naked, on your hands and knees. Your hair tangled about my wrist. Teasing your wet cunt while I press my thumb deep in that perfect peach arse of yours,” he said abruptly.

  Absolute silence filled the room. Then she pressed her thighs together.

  Alastair’s lips twitched. Isla was indeed a hot-blooded lass. “’Tis a shame we have little time today. After you teach Callum, we could have taught you.”

  “We have time,” Isla whispered. “The king gave my manservant Leith private messages to deliver also. He’ll be back to fetch me at nightfall so I return to my, er, sickbed before the feast ends. His wife Morag is guarding the chamber from concerned visitors.”

  “Well then. Callum? Shall we strike a bargain with the lady? Sword lesson for pleasure lesson?”

  His laird joined them in the space cleared for practice. “Only if you wish, Isla. I am grateful you are here at all, for I know the risks you are taking to help me.”

  Isla smiled. “Oh, I wish to. Very much. As to the risk…all the more reason to do as much as I can in the time that I have. So let us dance, Callum. Today I will show you the best ways to defend yourself. Alastair, fetch your sword. I need you to be the devilish beast that he may face on the battlefield.”

  He handed her Callum’s sword before unsheathing his own and taking up a stance in the center of the room. “One devilish beast at your service, lady. Do you require sounds? A few growls or snarls maybe?”

  Isla giggled, and the delight on her face, warmed him to the core. “But of course. Callum, watch closely.”

  “Yes, lady,” his laird replied, brow furrowing into that endearing look of complete concentration.

  “Now. You remember the correct grip, your right hand closest to the crossguard, your left directly below it for the most force? Good. Then let us begin with the best stance; holding the sword beside your head, the hilt level with your cheek. This is especially helpful when you are unsure of your opponent, for it allows you to move easily into attack or defense. See?”

  Alastair’s jaw dropped as her sword flashed about his body and head, cutting and thrusting with such precision, such control, he felt a slight breeze when the steel passed by his flesh. He’d known she would be good—anyone praised by the legendary Sir Lachlan would have to be—but Isla was a master. She wielded the sword as though it was part of her body, yet every movement had purpose, control, and aggression; nothing loose nor lazy, no wide arcs or extravagant flourishes here. In true battle, this lady would have your head or innards on the ground before you’d even raised your arm.

  “Well, sir?” said Isla, as she stepped back and rested the sword on her shoulder.

  Alastair dropped to one knee. “In this, I yield.”

  “How did you even do that, Isla?” asked Callum.

  She patted the sword hilt fondly, like it was a small child. “I learned from the best. Years and years of practice. I was gifted my first wooden sword aged four and pestered everyone to teach me. Leith first, then an indulgent uncle who wanted to annoy my father. Later, a few Sutherland men at arms, followed by a gentleman from Rome hired for my brothers, all whom I bribed with coin. When I heard about Sir Lachlan’s training school, I told my mother and father that I needed to go to St. Andrews to learn piety. Instead, I encountered my toughest and most gifted tutor, honing my skills for months before…well, you know what happened.”

  “I thought that only strength mattered,” said Callum slowly. “But you demonstrate that speed and skill can triumph.”

  Isla’s expression turned serious. “Let me be clear…strength does matter. However, it is not the only path. Great swordfighters have strength and speed. Strength and skill. And they are often fighting an opponent who has none. Also, the line between victory and defeat is very narrow. It could be one move you did or did not do, and the same for your opponent. It is easy to become tired and lose concentration. Perhaps be fooled by a false step, take too long to respond, or allow the other to get too close.”

  Alastair gazed at her in awe. If anyone was unclear that swordplay was Isla’s passion, hearing her speak, seeing the way her face lit up, watching her demonstrate her expertise, would end that uncertainty. She was a truly remarkable woman.

  Yet this knowledge brought with it unwelcome feelings, the kind he did his best to quell each and every day. That his whole life was a lie. That he knew nothing, was nothing, and would amount to naught. Aye, he looked the part of devilish beast. But what else did he have to offer? Behind the oak door remained the little boy he’d once been: starving, abandoned, trying desperately to belong, the one who’d mastered no skill as a grown man but fucking and massage.

  Eventually, Alastair cleared his throat. “How then…” he said hesitantly, the words bubbling up from somewhere deep and dark inside him, unable to be halted, “how do you keep fighting when all is against you?”

  “Not all is against me,” said Isla, reaching out and gently squeezing his free hand. “I am not hungry, penniless, or without a home. My family might see me as no more than a body to sell for favor and position, but Morag and Leith care. Sir Lachlan, Lady Marjorie, and Lady Janet kept my secret and urged me on. Many men would have mocked my offer of help, sure a woman could teach them nothing, but you and Callum accepted. Rays of sunshine can find their way to light even the loneliest path.”

  That made him flinch. Callum and Lady Maude were his rays of sunshine, the only two people who had ever cared for him. He wanted their happiness and prosperity more than anything, but the key to that was Isla. And while he felt a fledgling trust and affection for her alongside the lust, the Sutherlands loomed as a cold, malevolent force behind her. They did not believe in tender sentiment, and were renowned for opposing the unconventional. Not in a thousand years would they countenance their daughter’s husband bedding another man. What if a marriage, the dowry and alliance hinged on his removal from Glennoe Castle? It wasn’t as though he was an actual MacIntyre…

  “Enough talk,” Alastair growled, despair awakening a true devilish beast. “Fight.”

  Isla’s steady gaze held far, far too much understanding. “Very well, Master Graham,” she said softly. “Let us dance.”

  Pain. So much pain in Alastair’s eyes, Isla
could scarcely bear it.

  But if she’d learned one thing being around Highland men her whole life, it was that they loathed to share what hurt or grieved them. They brooded, then either fought or fucked.

  She wanted to know what haunted Alastair, to hold and soothe him the way Morag held her when she raged at injustice. But he did not want that. Fortunately, she could be an opponent—with more than enough skill to play until he grew weary, or disarm him if necessary.

  “I said,” she repeated, challenging Alastair with a haughty raised eyebrow, “let us dance. Callum, I hope you are watching carefully, for I am about to show you how to manage a devilish beast with a burr in his paw.”

  The squire scowled and took up his stance. Then he lunged.

  Isla delicately sidestepped, easily deflecting his blade with her own. But Alastair wasn’t a fool, and when he turned, he attempted to deceive her with a false cut left before thrusting right. She nodded in approval even as a simple flick of her wrist turned the attack away, her blood heating at the familiar and arousing sound of steel kissing steel. “Better.”

  “Don’t you dare be kind,” he snarled. “Pity me at your peril.”

  In response, she pointed her sword tip directly at his throat. “I pity no one on the battlefield.”

  Again and again, the squire lunged and retreated. What he lacked in honed skill was bolstered by a power she knew all too well: pure stubborn hurt. Alastair had the heart of an ox and would keep trying until injury or his legs collapsed. Each time she parried his blade, and when he began to tire, she performed a downward cut followed by a straight thrust that would have gutted him had she not halted the movement.

  Alastair took a shuddering breath, pausing to dash a shirtsleeve against his damp forehead. “I should thank you for allowing my innards to remain beneath skin.”

  Isla inclined her head then turned to Callum. “An important lesson. The only place for a wide arc or flourish in swordplay is on the stage with a wooden weapon. On the battlefield they leave your chest and belly exposed for a death thrust. Understand?”