Lords of the Isles

by Le Veque, Kathryn

  “Stop right there,” a guard clipped out. He stepped to the center of the top stair and regarded Macrath with disdain.

  Macrath stopped where he stood and held his hands out to the side, showing them he was unarmed. The entrants who’d not yet gone to their respective tents started to turn their attention toward him. A spectacle that didn’t involve themselves was addicting to watch.

  “What do you want?” the guard asked.

  Keeping his arms to the side, Macrath said, “Lady Beatrice asked me to attend her.”

  All six of the guards burst into laughter. One of them laughed so hard he doubled over.

  “Right, and I’ve got flames shooting out of my arse,” the one who’d spoken to him before said, adding an eye roll and purse of his disgruntled lips.

  “Might want to get your friend a bucket of water,” Macrath said with a confident grin. “For ’twould seem today, his arse is on fire.”

  The men ceased their laughter, their faces taking on menacing glowers. “Best take yourself off, pig-fart. The lady has yet to return and we’ve an itch to give a man a beating.” They clenched their fists, as if to show they meant business.

  It looked to be more than an itch. These arseholes wanted to pound him into the ground simply for sport.

  “Apologies, but I will have to disappoint you.” Macrath shrugged. “I spoke with her at the list field and she asked me to wait in the great hall.”

  The men exchanged glances. Had the woman asked men to meet her in the great hall before? The way they hesitated gave him cause to believe it was so. And then again, perhaps they just weren’t sure how to proceed.

  “Come on up. We’ll escort you,” the guard said, his grin promising much more than a simple escort.

  Hell. Macrath had a feeling he was about to get a beating. Only to make matters worse, his stomach growled painfully.

  “Let us get on with it, then,” he said. After what he’d witnessed today, he was more than happy to pound a few of these bastards into the ground.

  The guard stepped to the side and bowed slightly, his hands motioning toward the door. “Enter at your own risk, warrior,” he said, his voice entirely too sweet.

  A tremor of dread circled around Macrath’s spine. He was brave, he was strong, but the games were a completely different world. He’d dealt with his cruel stepmother, his evil half-brother, but these people—they were without souls. And he had no recourse. No men at his back. He was on his own.

  But, if he was going to get an arse beating, he was going to damn well take a few of them down with him.

  Drawing in a deep breath, cracking his neck and rolling his shoulders, Macrath put his foot on the first step. The guards’ smiles deepened as he ascended the stairs. They reminded him of hungry dogs watching as their master dangled a meaty bone. As soon as he reached the platform, they grabbed onto his arms. He remained loose, not wanting to fight here where they’d only draw the attention of more guards. There were only six of them; he’d taken on as many men before. And a few more last winter.

  “Shall we, gentlemen?” Macrath grinned at them knowingly.

  That only seemed to make the guards hungrier for blood. They yanked open the doors and thrust him inside. The shove against his back had been hard, and they obviously wanted him to fall, but he’d been expecting it. He shuffled on his feet, keeping his balance and whirled around in the darkened entryway.

  “You let go of my arms,” Macrath taunted, holding out his hands. But the dimly lit vestibule was not the place to fight. He wanted more space, more leverage—like a table and benches. The great hall was perfect.

  He ducked when one of the guards swung out his fist—taking note of the stiff metal rings sewn into the knuckles of his leather gloves. He took note that each of the guards had now donned a pair.

  Well, that wouldn’t feel good connecting. Would likely tear a bit of his flesh, too. The guards weren’t going to play fair. No quarter given. Seemed to be the motto in all things.

  Macrath ducked when another man swung, but he did not make contact himself. Didn’t even try, that would only aggravate the bears and he wasn’t ready to fight yet. Not until they reached the great hall.

  “Come now, I thought you were escorting me to the great hall? Would Lady Beatrice want me to be bloody when she finally returns?”

  “You can stop pretending the lady asked for you. We know you came along just for a good buggering.” The main guard curled his lips, resembling a silent snarl. He gripped his cock within his plaid and gave a waggle.

  Macrath had to keep his foot firmly planted on the stone floors, else he kick the man right in his ballocks.

  “And you could tell that just by me asking to be taken to await her ladyship?” Macrath asked.

  The men all nodded, advancing on him from all sides.

  Macrath narrowed his eyes, suddenly suspicious that perhaps that was exactly what she’d ordered. A conspiring code.

  “I assure you, while you all look like fine lads, I’m simply not in the mood to play cock-swords.”

  The men laughed, their gazes shooting to their leader who was closest. “But you see, my friend,” the man said, “you’ve not got a choice. Grab him!”

  Macrath braced himself as the six guards jumped on him at once. Their hands were rough, but he was rougher. He punched, kicked, rolled and head-butted. He didn’t pause for a moment, but kept on fighting through the pain of their attempts. But six guards intent on subduing him in small quarters proved to be too much. They pinned him to the ground, their weight holding him down—three on his legs, two on his arms and one on his abdomen.

  “A fighter we’ve got, lads.”

  “ ’Twill make it all the more fun to see him bleed.”

  “You bastards won’t think it so funny when I’ve got your heads on spikes,” Macrath said through gritted teeth. “Let us fight like men. Put me down, cocknibblers.”

  The main guard smiled and shook his head. “We’re going to have a lot of fun with you, bastard of Argyll.”

  Macrath stilled, the haze of his anger clearing and replaced by apprehension.

  “That shut you up, now didn’t it?” The man sneered and put his face close enough to Macrath that he could smell whisky and onions on his breath.

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about.” Macrath hoped the men were merely guessing at who he was.

  Had Lady Beatrice planned to send him here all along?

  “Oh, but,” the man slid a leather covered finger down Macrath’s cheek, “we do.” He stood from where he’d sat on Macrath’s chest, making it easier for him to breathe. “Take him to the great hall.”

  They hoisted him, none too gently off the ground, and half-carried, half-dragged Macrath through a second set of doors and down three or four stairs. They tossed him onto the floor, his shoulders hitting the hard wood before his backside. Taking a moment to glean his surroundings, Macrath stared at the torches on the stone walls, the tapestries bearing the clans of victors past and the waiting feet of a man and woman by the dais behind him.

  “Looks like the fun’s going to have to wait, bastard,” the guard grumbled.

  Macrath pushed himself up and turned slowly. Two people he wished to never see again, stood with smug expressions on their hated faces.

  Leticia. Victor.

  Macrath kept his grimace inward and feigned boredom. There was no sign of his father.

  “Did you not say we’d meet again, Macrath?” Leticia said, her cruel voice dripping with honeyed vinegar.

  Mo chreach. Aye, he’d said it, but he’d hoped it was after he’d won the games and could flaunt her hatred in her face by the fact that he’d won.

  Forcing a smile he was certain resembled more of a grimace, he said, “A pleasure to see you again, my lady. I pray your journey was comfortable?”

  Victor snorted and Leticia shook her head with contempt. “We did not come for idle chatter. We came to watch you die.”

  And ever so subtle. He resisted th
e urge to roll his eyes heavenward. “How thoughtful of you,” Macrath said. He folded his arms over his chest, but refused to say more—especially his burning question—when would that be? Now? In an hour? Tomorrow?

  At least he wasn’t being buggered by the six guards, though he might have taken that over speaking with his hated family members.

  “Where is his lordship?”

  A flash of irritation centered in Leticia’s eyes. Had she asked him to come and he’d refused? Was Macrath correct in seeing a bit of tension where the subject was concerned?

  “He had many duties to attend to,” she answered. “Did not see the point in wasting his time on you.”

  “Ah, but I see you did.” He grinned.

  Leticia scoffed, displeased that he’d turned her words around.

  “Lady Beatrice has informed us you’ve taken a liking to one of the female warriors.” Victor licked his lips and Macrath could already picture him tearing into Ceana.

  But Ceana wasn’t a meek maid like many of the women Victor tormented. If he went after her, Macrath had confidence Ceana would cut off his ballocks. All the same, he needed to use caution where she was concerned. How had the lady gleaned the information and shared it with his family so quickly? Had they been here all along? Was he being followed?

  Macrath kept his expression grim. “Aye, and now she’s dead.”

  “Dead?” Victor raised a brow while Leticia merely studied him with that cunning and cruel gaze she’d used on him since he was a child.

  “Aye. Dead,” he repeated. He sent a prayer up to the gods to protect the kitchen maid Leticia had forced into the games.

  “Who?” Leticia said coolly, an over plucked brow arched. The bitch was forever trying to keep up with the Sassenachs.

  “Rhona, of course.”

  “Ah, Rhona…” Leticia stepped off the dais and sauntered toward Macrath. “Poor, poor Rhona. What will her boy do now?”

  Macrath kept his unsettledness at her approach to himself. He looked his stepmother right in the eye when he said, “Hopefully get as far away from you as possible.”

  Leticia laughed, pressed her body against Macrath’s. Her breasts pushed into his chest, nipples hard, and her bony hips bumped against his thigh. Sourness coated his tongue. “And what about you? What will you do?”

  Macrath kept his mouth shut, because to tell his stepmother he wanted to rip her limb from limb and feed her head to the wolves, would likely get him excluded from the next round of games, and ultimately lose him the victory.

  She shifted in front of him, and gripped his belt. Her claws slid downward, scraping nails over his cock. She gripped his ballocks tight and revulsion almost had him doubling over. Almost. They’d been in this situation before, and he’d learned to keep still. To not vomit.

  “I could rip these off if I wanted to,” she said.

  He kept his eyes steady on hers. “Likely you should rip off your sons, afore he populates the whole of his clan like his father.”

  Fury flamed in her eyes and she tightened her grip painfully. He probably should have stayed silent, but she’d goaded him to the point of no return by putting her vile hands on him. The woman was sick and twisted. Evilness came in all forms. And she’d passed it down to her eldest son.

  “Lady Leticia, so good of you to come.” The chill voice of Lady Beatrice broke through his stepmother’s anger and she quickly stepped away from Macrath, leaving him with throbbing balls and a hatred that threatened to burn the castle to the ground.

  “My lady.” Her voice was back to honeyed vinegar. Over the top and discernibly phony. Leticia bent into a low curtsy and Victor, too, bowed toward the royal council woman.

  “I see your stepson and you have already been reacquainted.” Lady Beatrice’s voice was cold.

  Macrath chanced a glance at the woman to see her shrewdly observing them. Had she seen what happened before she interrupted them? Or simply guessed that his stepmother abhorred him? Perhaps, she didn’t even care. Perhaps her disdain of Leticia stemmed from elsewhere.

  “Indeed,” Leticia said. “He’s still alive.”

  “ ’Tis a pleasure to meet you, Lady Beatrice.” Victor stepped forward to kiss her knuckles. “We’ve heard so many admirable stories about you.”

  Lady Beatrice cocked her head. “Have you? Such as?”

  Victor faltered, but quickly recovered. “About your victory and rule. You are much revered in the Highlands. My mother has very fondly regaled us of your wisdom.”

  Lady Beatrice smiled tightly. “Hmm.”

  Macrath would have given a chest full of silver to see inside Lady Beatrice’s mind and to know her thoughts.

  “To what do we owe your presence?” Lady Beatrice asked. She flicked her fingers toward a servant who jumped forward to hand her a cup of wine. “Drink?”

  Leticia and Victor took the proffered cups, while Macrath was bypassed.

  His stepmother and half-brother each looked more nervous with every passing moment. “We have come to watch the games,” his stepmother said, followed by a charming and calculating smile.

  “And to cheer on your entrant?” Lady Beatrice flicked her gaze quickly at Macrath. “I’m afraid your female has already passed on.” She casually sipped at her wine as if she’d been relaying something as mundane as the weather.

  “Yes, I’m afraid we heard about that,” Leticia said. Her voice lacked any remorse.

  “Pity,” Victor chimed in. He, too, did not give a fig about Rhona’s death, or the little boy who’d been orphaned by it. A boy Macrath suspected was fathered by his disgusting half-brother.

  Macrath wanted to smash their heads together. To watch them bleed. To see them gutted as the women had done to each other.

  “Have you been given accommodations?” Lady Beatrice asked. “You’d be considered a guest of honor and housed within the castle.”

  And whatever rooms they had, Macrath would see scoured with flames when he took his seat.

  “Indeed, the chatelaine saw us to it.” The look of cruel enjoyment that momentarily passed over Victor’s face only added to the rage inside Macrath. Seemed his half-brother had already availed himself to the help. Vile bastard.

  Lady Beatrice held her eyes steadily on Victor. Macrath had the distinct impression that she already knew exactly what had happened. Would she uncoil that whip and see it used on Victor’s back?

  As much as he wanted her to, Macrath knew in reality it wouldn’t do for a council member to lash the son of an earl for a cause that couldn’t be proved. No servant would come forward to say they’d been raped by a wealthy nobleman.

  “We wish you every comfort,” she said. “The council feast will begin shortly. I’ll have you notified of when to return to the great hall to join us.”

  Leticia’s eyes widened, her mouth forming a surprised O. She did not hide confoundedness well. Macrath kept his joy at that hidden. The bitch was being dismissed and she didn’t like it. Hadn’t seen it coming.

  Well, he enjoyed it a hell of a lot.

  As much as he disliked Lady Beatrice, he was pleased that she’d so easily batted his relations away.

  The same servant, who’d served them wine, stepped forward and lifted the cups from both Leticia and Victor’s hands. They could not hide their dumbfounded faces as they dipped into a bow and curtsy respectively.

  “My lady,” they each murmured.

  And, just as they seemed to be doing everything in unison, they each glowered at Macrath as they passed. He felt their hatred all the way to his bones. But it didn’t bother him. In fact, the shield of iron he’d set up around himself since he was a boy deflected their blows and turned it back on them. When he was Prince of Sìtheil, he’d find a way to make them suffer for all they’d done to him and the lesser members of the clan.

  Just to make them angry, he beamed a smile. “A goodnight to you both,” he said.

  Victor took a step forward, but then thought better of it when Lady Beatrice cleared her throat. Ma
crath disliked that it appeared he was hiding behind the woman’s skirts, then again, his half-brother hated women, so he also liked that a woman was pushing him away. Hard to say, but he thought he just might let her take the lead from now on where his family was concerned. They could care less about Macrath’s reactions. But a royal council woman? That was a bite in the arse.

  “Come with me.” Lady Beatrice did not look his way, simply whirled from his relations and walked in the opposite direction past the trestle tables.

  She disappeared through a small arched doorway on the far side of the great hall before Macrath could make his feet move. He hastened toward the door, and once through was left alone in a darkened stone stairwell.

  Had she gone up or down?

  “Macrath!” Her voice carried from above.

  He took the circular stair two at a time, checking at the first level he reached, but not seeing her. On the next, he saw her standing in the corridor waiting. Her foot tapped and irritation pinched her lips.

  “You did not fight today. You should have plenty of strength to traverse the stairs.”

  He nodded, not entirely sure what it was she wished him to say.

  “Do not make me wait again.”

  “Aye, my lady,” he murmured.

  Lady Beatrice turned her back on him again and walked down the darkened corridor as if by memory. Shadows jumped out at him as they passed thin arrow-slitted windows, curtained alcoves and several closed doors.

  At the end of the corridor, she took out a long key and centered it in the iron lock. His stomach tightened. Was she going to put him in a cell?

  He was not shackled. Arms free, he could easily tackle her to the ground if she chose to… What?

  The door opened with a creak and Macrath had no real choice accept to walk through the door. Blackness blanketed the room until he heard the click of the flint stone and saw the spark. She set a fire in the hearth and then moved slowly to light several candelabras around the room, revealing a chamber he wished he’d never stepped into.