Lords of the Isles

by Le Veque, Kathryn

  He could run.

  But he’d only be caught.

  “Stand against the wall,” she demanded, pointing right behind him.

  Macrath turned to see an iron ring up on the wall, a chain, ending in shackles, dangling from it.

  “Is this necessary?” he asked. “I only stitched Ceana MacRae.” He prayed the lie was not visible on his face.

  “It is entirely necessary. Now turn around and put your arms up.”

  Macrath did as she asked, his belly against the stone wall. She clicked the shackles into place around his wrists.

  “I’m going to undress you.” The lady’s voice had taken on a throaty note.

  Either he was about to be flogged, or raped. He wasn’t sure which, only knew that this was entirely out of the ordinary and that he wished to take flight.

  “And you’re going to do exactly what I say.”

  Macrath nodded. What else could he do? He was shackled to the wall, in a locked chamber, inside a castle, surrounded by enemies.

  He might not have fought on the field today, but he was certain he was about to do battle now.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The feast for the winners of game two had been small and quiet.

  And lonely.

  Ceana felt the loss of Macrath’s presence acutely. There was a coldness beside her that could only be warmed by him.

  Aaron had done all that he could to make her comfortable, signaling for the servants to fill her trencher with meat, bread and candied fruits, her cup was never empty of sweet wine. Nevertheless, Ceana had no taste for it. She ate because she needed to replenish her energy. She drank, at first, because she was thirsty, and then because the warmth of the wine had helped to ease her worry over Macrath.

  But now, in the quiet of her tent, with the fading light casting gray shadows all around her, she stared at the ceiling. Sleep eluded her, and a chill surrounded her heart.

  Her wounds throbbed; her mind was clouded with guilt and sadness. She was exhausted. Utterly drained.

  But worst of all, was the nagging feeling inside that something was wrong. She felt extremely unsettled. On edge.

  Where was Macrath now? What did Lady Beatrice want with him in the castle?

  She rolled onto her side, unable to get comfortable. Wind blew against her tent, ruffling the fabric and causing a draft to blow over her prone form. Flashes of torch flames, mixed with the light of the moon, seeped into her tent with each burst of wind. The air smelled like rain and the smoke of banked fires. Judging by the chill and aggressive gusts, they were in for a nasty storm.

  “Where are you, Macrath?” she whispered to the tent wall.

  The wind picked up, shaking her tent. The wooden stakes holding it up swayed, threatening to collapse. At this rate, she’d be using the tent as a blanket rather than for shelter.

  Somehow, she’d managed to power through the war games to this point. But lying here in the dark, alone, injured, and having more than just her own life at stake, the trauma of it all was pushing through the wall she’d set up around her heart.

  Waiting was the hardest part. They were through two games, three to go, and yet she didn’t know when the next game would begin or what it would entail. How long would the war games last? How long did she have left to live? And where, in bloody hell, was Macrath?

  Would they make the males and females fight next, or would the men fight amongst themselves as the women had in the previous game?

  She rolled onto her back, flopped her uninjured arm over her eyes and let out a frustrated sigh.

  “Ceana.”

  She startled lifting her arm and blinking into the darkness. Were her eyes deceiving her?

  A tall, muscled shadow stood at the entrance of her tent.

  “Macrath?” He looked like an aspiration, his face wrecked with emotion, blood dripping from the corner of his lip. Her heart skipped a beat.

  “What happened?”

  He dropped to his knees, his head bowed. His hair dripped wet with rain. The opening flap of her tent whipped in the wind.

  The man had been broken somehow.

  Ceana crawled over to him, placing her hands on his cold, bare knees. She pressed her fingers to his stubbled chin, feeling him tremble beneath her touch. “Macrath, look at me.”

  Though his head remained bowed, his eyes lifted to hers. Lighting struck outside, momentarily brightening the inside of the tent, and illuminating his eyes. She shivered at what she saw inside them.

  “They will be looking for me soon,” he said.

  Panic seized her insides. “What did you do?”

  He shook his head, hands gripping hers. “But I had to come see you before.”

  Ceana shook her head, finding it hard to grasp exactly what he was trying to tell her. “Macrath, you’re scaring me. Before what? What happened?”

  His hands were damp and cold, yet sweat beaded on his upper lip.

  “You’re the only one I can trust,” he whispered.

  “Yes, you can trust me.” She cupped the side of his face, wiped away the blood on his lips with her thumb, then kissed him quickly, reassuring herself of his presence. “That is not something you’ll ever have to question.”

  He laughed, but it was not a happy sound. It was jaded, dark. He moved suddenly, clasping both her hands in his and bringing her fingers to his lips. “There is much I’ve questioned in life. Much I’ve asked the gods for guidance on. Some things were a certainty, and at other times I’ve been surprised.”

  Macrath paused and rather than answer, Ceana searched his face, wishing there was some way she could drag him from the mire he was immersed in.

  “I have been a fool.” He shook his head, let go of her hands. He scrubbed his face with his palms. “They want me to die, Ceana.”

  “Who?”

  “My family. The council.”

  She was so confused. So afraid. Whatever happened in the castle with Lady Beatrice, he wasn’t yet ready to share with her. “You already guessed that your stepmother wanted you dead. But the council?”

  “I came to the games with a purpose. Aye, I had no choice in entering, but I had a plan. I was going to win.”

  Was? Why did he say was? Her heart skipped a beat. “Macrath, you are going to win.”

  He shook his head and when he said, “No,” his voice was filled with such despair it brought stinging tears to her eyes.

  “Macrath, yes! You are.” She grabbed onto his arms, squeezing his thickened muscles, and wishing she could shake some sense into him. “I cannot win without you.”

  He shook his head again. “Lady Beatrice favors you to win, lass. But she favors me for something else. I’m so sorry… She… She gave me no choice.”

  “What choice? If that were true, then you wouldn’t be sitting here.”

  He laughed again, shook some of the rain water from his hair. “You are naïve if you think my being here means anything other than me needing to be near you.”

  “What happened in the castle? How did you get here?”

  “My stepmother and half-brother are here.” He’d avoided answering her, but the news he imparted was heavy.

  “Why have they come?”

  “To watch.”

  “And what of the council? What did they tell you?”

  “Lady Beatrice…” Macrath pressed his hands to either side of her face, pressed his forehead to hers. “She chained me in a room. She undressed me. She flogged me. She touched me…” He stopped abruptly.

  A chill ran through her, circling around her spine and threatening to turn her heart to ice. Ceana stood, straightened her shoulders, and gripped his chin, forcing him to look up at her. She couldn’t watch the strong, formidable Highlander she knew him to be fall so far into despair. She had to bring him back. “Macrath, do you know what your name means?”

  “Son of Fortune. My mother gave me the name because of who my father is. I’m a bastard.”

  Ceana shook her head. “No, warrior. She gave you that
name because you are a champion. You are the son of the gods, and victory is your fortune. Do not let the presence of evil collapse your will to survive and thrive. Do not let anyone get in the way of your truth.”

  He looked up at her with hooded eyes, his lips pressed firmly together. She couldn’t let him deny her. Deny himself.

  “Stand up.” She held out her hand. “Take my hand.”

  He studied her outstretched hand for several moments, and she was afraid he would ignore her. Outside the storm raged, thunder booming above and lightning sparking. Great drops of rain pelted the tent, and sprays flicked onto them with each flap of the tent’s walls. But, finally, he reached up and took it. A chill still filled his flesh, but there was a renewed strength in his grip. Macrath stood, towering well over a foot taller than her. She craned her neck to look up at him, smiled and squeezed his hand.

  “That wasn’t so difficult was it?” she asked tentatively.

  Macrath stepped closer, spoke in low tones, “I would do anything for you.”

  His hand was slowly starting to warm inside hers, and the resilient man she’d come to know began to reappear. “I know. But what will you do for yourself?”

  He frowned. “I have little choice in the matter.”

  She poked him in the chest and he inhaled sharply. “That is where you are wrong, Macrath. You have three choices: win, lose, or run away.”

  “Running is the same thing as being defeated.”

  “Then you only have two choices.”

  Macrath thought on her words a moment. Then he gripped her shoulders and brought his face close to hers. Anger clouded his eyes in sparking, lightning flashes. His brow was wrinkled, lips flattened. For a moment she was frightened, but she knew he wouldn’t hurt her. Even still, the pent up rage churning through him vibrated through his fingers, and centered in her chest.

  “I don’t have a choice, don’t you see? That woman will not let me win. She won’t let me leave the next game alive.” Rage pulsated in every one of his words.

  But anger was better than defeat.

  “How do you know this?”

  He growled. “When she had me chained to a wall in her secret chamber and her whip on my back, I had a very good idea.”

  How could Lady Beatrice treat them both so differently? It only made Ceana’s confusion more potent. “But—”

  “Don’t you get it? My stepmother shows up, takes me by the ballocks and lets me know she’s going to enjoy watching me die.” He flicked his gaze away. “Moments later the woman who says whether I live or die, controls whether or not I breathe, makes certain I know just that.”

  Anger and fear laced itself together within Ceana, and she gripped tight onto Macrath’s shirt, tugging him into her. “You’re blind. When you’re in the games the only one who can say whether you live or die is you. You aren’t fighting Lady Beatrice or your stepmother or half-brother on the field or in the woods. They are evil, but they will not break a century old rule.”

  “What rule? There are no rules.”

  He had a point. And Lady Beatrice had taken a dozen lives on the first day simply because they didn’t follow her rules.

  “Every game has rules, even if they change at the whim of the council.”

  “And how am I supposed to win?”

  Ceana stepped away, crossed her arms over her chest and narrowed her eyes at Macrath. “I like you, Macrath. I trust you. Care for you. I have… taken pleasure with you. The day we met, I noticed a strength in you that is not in many. You captivated me. You saved me. You made me strong again when I was weak. You are a natural born leader. And when these next three games are done, we will rule together. But I can’t do it without you. I can’t win without you. You’ve said it before, but now we make a pact. We do this together. You and me.”

  “You and me,” he repeated, sounding slightly amazed.

  “Yes, you and me. Giant rubies, tarts and…” The third thing on their list was—

  “This.” In one stride, he had her in his arms, hands framing her face, his lips crashing down on hers.

  She sank against him, just as eager to fall into this kiss. She wrapped her arms around his waist, careful not to touch his back where Lady Beatrice had whipped him. Hooking her fingers in the back of his belt, she held tight. His warmth seeped into her body, loosening her tight limbs and at the same time sending a rush of chills through her. His mouth slid over hers, tongue teasing the corner of her lips until she opened for him and he swept inside to claim all she offered.

  Macrath tasted of raw desire, excitement and feral rage. She was taken up by it, swirled into the storm of his passion and hunger, feeding the primitive part of her that craved wild abandon.

  He bent low and then lifted her into the air, tucking her close against him. Every hard line of his body melded with her softer curves. She wrapped her arms around his neck, threading her fingers in his damp hair.

  The storm outside subsided, as though it had culminated in their kiss and now everything could be right with the world. Except… Even as they kissed she could hear marching outside. The chinking of weapons against bodies. The pound of footsteps in the mud.

  The guards. They were coming for Macrath. Just as he said they would. She sensed it in every bone in her body.

  Pulling back, she held tight to his shoulders and gazed deeply into his eyes. “You have to go,” she said. “They are coming.”

  “I know.” But he pressed his lips hard to hers again.

  Once more she was swept up in his kiss, wanted to disbelieve what she was hearing outside. Fear at them discovering Macrath within her tent warred with her need to feel his lips on hers, to be safe and warm in his arms. “You have to go now, Macrath. They are close.”

  He set her down on unsteady feet. “I will fight to win, Ceana. We will rule beside each other.”

  She nodded. The pain of her injuries had disappeared while in his arms, but now started to throb.

  “This way!” The guards shouted, perhaps three tents away.

  They were looking for her tent. Her heart seized. There was no time left. If Macrath didn’t leave now, they’d catch him. “They come from the front. Leave through the back.”

  Macrath kissed her one last time and then took two long strides to the back. “I’ll find you. Whatever these next games bring, I will protect you.”

  She smiled. “And I will protect you.”

  Macrath grinned, and Ceana could have melted with joy that whatever dark place he’d been in, a door had opened letting the light back inside.

  “Go,” she said, when he stayed. “Hurry.”

  Macrath slipped beneath the back wall of her tent. As soon as she turned her eyes toward the front, the flap whipped outward and several guards filed in with two lanterns casting a hazy yellow light. Their leering eyes and smiles made her skin crawl. They shifted their gazes, looking for any signs of Macrath, but quickly centered back on her. There was nowhere for anyone to hide in her tent. And thank the gods he’d gotten out as quickly as he had.

  Ceana squared her shoulders and fisted her hands at her sides. She’d not let these men see how much they intimidated her. They were armed to the teeth as usual. Eyes were bloodshot from too much whisky and water dripped from their hair and clothes. The stench of their bodies filled her tent like a muddled cloud.

  “Hello, Bitch.” She’d recognize the voice of the man anywhere. The game steward who’d named her Bitch of MacRae.

  “And whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?” She acted with as much regal bearing as she could bring, pretending she did not recognize him. Wanting him to feel just how insignificant he was to her. She might be an entrant in these games, but she was also a laird, and as such, required a certain amount of decorum and pride.

  “Where is Macrath?” the steward asked, taking a step forward.

  “Macrath?” She held her ground and feigned ignorance.

  “The overbearing boar you’ve been letting lift your skirts.”

 
Ceana gasped with outrage, shoved aside their vulgar representations of the beauty of Macrath’s touch. She placed her hands on her hips and jutted her jaw forward. “How dare you speak to me like that? Such slander ought to gain you a lashing.”

  He squinted, not at all touched by her show of anger. “The only one who’s going to get a lashing is you, lass.”

  “What for?” She kept her voice strong, though inside she quaked.

  “Harboring a male entrant in your tent.”

  She held out her arms. “But as you can see, there is no one in my tent.”

  “ ’Haps he lies beneath your skirts.”

  Ceana laughed sharply, but stopped short. She glowered at the man, then gripped her skirts and lifted, baring just below her knees. “No one. You’re mistaken.”

  The move was bold, and in hindsight, she should not have done it. The way their eyes bulged with lecherous interest was enough to make her wish she could run out of the back of her tent as Macrath had. She prayed he was far, that he’d made it back to the safety of his tent.

  Thunder cracked outside and the storm that had subsided raged once more.

  The game steward took a swaggering step forward. “You recall my offer?” he asked.

  How could she forget the way he’d shook his limp prick at her and asked if she wanted to join him for a night of unpleasantness? “Do you recall my response?” she said haughtily.

  “Nay. Nay I don’t, bitch.” He reached for her, but she batted his hand away.

  “Don’t touch me.” She took a step back, but he flicked his hand out, and his men surrounded her.

  This was not going to end well for her. Alone in her tent with lecherous men who had no qualms… Her heart dropped to her feet.

  “Or what?” Another step closer. His rotten breath washed over her face. “Rain’s pelting. Thunder’s clapping. No one to hear you scream.”

  Nails digging into her palms, she forced her voice to come out strong. “Lady Beatrice will not be pleased. You will be punished for your threats.”

  He stroked her cheek and Ceana had to swallow her revulsion. “Och, sweet lass, you mistake me.” His voice was soothing in a chilling sort of way. “I did not make any threats.”