To their left was a long row of small white canvas tents, one for each tourney entrant. Outside each tent sat a sign with the entrant’s clan badge painted upon it; about halfway down he could see the MacIntyre white heather. Well. That put a little spring in his step. Whoever arranged it had been exceedingly kind—each tent and sign were the same size, no matter the rank or wealth of the entrant. In this row at least, he belonged.
A trumpet blast sounded as he and Alastair took a knee in front of king and queen. For his own sanity, he did not look at Lady Isla.
“Son of the late Donald MacIntyre, Lord of Glennoe…presenting Callum MacIntyre, Lord of Glennoe. And his squire, Master Alastair Graham!”
At the herald’s bellowed words, polite cheers rang out, and Callum raised his hand to acknowledge the crowd before he and Alastair walked to their tent.
“See?” said his squire. “The people want you to win.”
“I doubt they have any idea who I am.”
Alastair’s brow furrowed. “You have distant kin in Stirling. Why should they not cheer you?”
“A truth,” he conceded.
“You also assume that all other entrants are beloved. From the character demonstrated so far, I hardly believe that. If they treat you badly, how do you think they treat their tenants and servants? Strangers?”
Callum held up his hands, stifling a grin at the endearing irritability. “Very well, old man. Do not lose your voice lecturing me.”
“Old man? I am three years your senior. And as vigorous and lusty as any here.”
Another truth.
His bound feet had tingled after Alastair applied the numbing clove oil, but that sensation was nothing compared to the way his heart pounded and cock throbbed at the foot massage. He’d yearned then to not be laird, just a man who could indulge his desire for another man in the privacy of their own cottage. While his mind might try to forget, his needy body well remembered the rasp of Alastair’s beard, the teasing lap of his tongue, and the brutal plunge of his huge cock.
A discreet cough jolted him from such ribald thoughts.
“Beg pardon, laird.”
“Yes?” he replied, smiling at the guard wearing the king’s livery and holding a large sack.
The man bowed. “In this sack are wooden squares painted six different colors. One color for each race, all those who select a blue square will race together and so forth. Each race will have five entrants; the first three will progress to the archery, the last two must retire from the tourney. Is that clear?”
“Indeed. Thank you.”
“Choose your color, laird.”
Callum delved into the sack and withdrew a square. “Green.”
“Much obliged. Oh, green is the final race. Good fortune to you.”
He groaned inwardly as the man made a note on his parchment before moving along to the next tent. Of course, it would be the final race, allowing him ample time to fret.
“Cousin,” said Red, sauntering into the tent without invitation. “Bringing the MacIntyre name into disrepute already, I see. Are those bandages on your feet?”
“Good morrow,” Callum replied stiffly. Red wore nothing but hose, his massive chest and shoulders glistening with oil, his feet bare. God’s blood, he looked like a champion.
“Oh, you’re in the green race. Shame. I hoped we might run against each other. I’m in the yellow race, which looks to be the most competitive.”
“Shame indeed, Rory,” said Alastair, clapping him hard on the shoulder.
Red glared at him, for he disliked his birth name. Then a sly smile lifted his lips. “I would stay, but I am invited to the royal pavilion to sit awhile with the Sutherlands. Lady Isla’s request, I believe…safe travels back to Loch Etive, Callum.”
His cousin actually whistled a cheery tune as he crossed the field to the pavilion, and Callum barely refrained from spitting in his general direction.
“Bah,” said Alastair. “May his feet find every thistle and stone this field has to offer. I would give my last coin to see him fall on his face and finish last. Then we can wish him safe travels home.”
Callum grinned reluctantly. “That would be most satisfying.”
“Aye. Now, let’s set this bench outside so we might watch the other races.”
At first glance, the half-mile event seemed easy. Run the length of the field, around a flagpole raising the king’s standard, then back. But as the first four races progressed in a blur of color, movement, and loud cheers, he saw athletic men falter. And each time, three men were jubilant, while two sank to their knees in despair, forced to leave the field.
Then came Red’s race, the yellow group.
Callum prayed for a miracle: his cousin twisting an ankle, tripping over another, being overtaken at the finish. Naturally God ignored him, and that gleaming oiled chest led the race from start to end, to loud applause.
Plague take it, as his squire would say.
They made their way to the starting line, and Sir Lachlan Ross stepped forward. “The last race! Green group, gather round.”
Alastair gripped his shoulder. “You are an excellent runner, laird. Your feet are ready. Go well. I’ll be waiting here to celebrate with you.”
Callum took a deep breath, his stomach churning with anxiety. How did Alastair believe, when he did not? But he joined the line of four other men; an older knight from Edinburgh, two border lords, and a laird from somewhere near Inverness.
“I will call stand,” said Sir Lachlan, in his gruff, halting tone, for he had a speech affliction. “Then steady. Then blow one trumpet blast. That is your call…to run. Anyone who goes early…is out. Anyone who interferes…with another runner…out.”
He stared grimly down the field at the flag pole, which from here looked a thousand miles away. Next, unable to quell his curiosity, Callum glanced at the pavilion. Lady Isla stood at the front of the royal enclosure, her hands resting on the wooden frame. She did not wave, or make any movement, but he could feel that emerald gaze upon him.
“Stand!”
He tensed, his heart pounding.
“Steady!”
It seemed like forever, but a trumpet blast pierced the air, and Callum launched himself into action, his bandaged feet pounding the ground in a steady rhythm as he ran hard toward the flagpole. Soon an odd calm wrapped around him, the gasping breaths and thudding feet of his fellow runners, the yells and cheers of the crowd, all fading away to nothing. Had one man already fallen behind? He didn’t dare look to confirm, not when it might cost him time or a misstep. At last, he reached the flagpole and ran around it, trying to keep his pace steady and his body as close to the pole as possible so not to cover extra distance.
God’s blood, the finish line was far away.
You can do this. For Alastair and Isla.
His feet ached, his lungs burned, but Callum forced himself to charge on, the way he had as a child when chased by lads with stones and rotten fruit, calling him witch’s spawn.
How much farther? My chest is going to burst.
There it is! There is the line!
He lowered his head, hurling himself forward to cross it, before tumbling onto the ground in an exhausted heap.
“Laird.”
Alastair’s voice pierced the fog around him, and he sat up, unsure if he could bear the answer to his question.
“Did I…” he choked out.
His squire grinned. “Aye, you damned well did. Second of five! We continue on to the archery round. But now I beseech you…accept kindness from those who offer.”
Callum flopped back onto the ground. After the king had been so kind; even the thought of disobeying a royal edict made him feel ill. And sword fighting held enough bad memories to send an icy shiver down his spine.
But now that he’d met the bold and beautiful Lady Isla, talked to her and kissed her hand…he would never forgive himself if his timidity led to a bad marriage for her. There was also the fact that she liked him. Had said so. Rather th
an a union of cold duty, wedding such a bold and sensual woman could be rather pleasant indeed.
He took a slow, deep breath. “Very well.”
Chapter 4
Eighteen men remained in the tourney, his laird was one of them, and he’d just agreed to accept Lady Isla’s help.
Relieved beyond measure, Alastair crouched next to where Callum lay sprawled on the ground recovering his breath. In truth, he needed to recover also. Watching that race, his heart had been in his mouth the entire time. His laird had started strongly but he’d begun to tire as he rounded the flagpole, and for a few sweat-inducing moments he’d been fifth. But in the last hundred feet or so, Callum had proven to all he had the will of a champion as he passed three of the men to finish a mighty second.
“Here,” he said, handing Callum the flagon of small ale he’d packed into the medicine satchel. “You’ve earned it.”
His laird smiled gratefully as he took a gulp. “I know it was only a half mile, but it feels like I ran the length of Scotland.”
“Aye, well, you’re faring far better than most. The defeated twelve and their squires have left the field already; but those who remain are in varying states of health. Five have purged their stomachs, three are having their feet treated for cuts, and several are still wheezing despite finishing their race a quarter hour ago.”
“Really?” said Callum, blinking.
Alastair stifled a sigh. The old laird, and that wretched Red had a lot to answer for, pecking away at Callum’s spirit like two evil roosters. But he was spared the need to further comment when a liveried guard from the royal enclosure approached and inclined his head at Callum.
“Beg pardon, laird. His Grace the king, Her Grace the queen, and the Earl and Countess of Sutherland request you attend them at the pavilion so you might be recognized for your first day achievement.”
“Of course,” said Callum as he scrambled to his feet, and soon they all stood in front of their delighted king.
“My lords, lairds, knights, and squires,” called James, resplendent in purple velvet and gold chains of state as he leaned on the wooden frame and thumped it enthusiastically. “What a magnificent day of competition, ably judged by Sir Lachlan! Twelve entrants have left us, but you remain to be celebrated for your athletic prowess. Each of you shall receive a gold coin, to be presented by Queen Margaret and Lady Isla.”
All present cheered.
James smiled. “Come forward, race by race to be recognized. When you have received your reward, you may depart the field with my blessing to rest and prepare for archery on the morrow. We begin with blue.”
The three successful entrants and their squires approached the pavilion. After blue came red, white, then black. Each time, the young queen dressed in ermine-lined satin and blood-red rubies, placed a gold coin in their palm before holding out her hand to be bowed over. Then the men were permitted to share a brief conversation with Lady Isla. She wore a dark green gown and jewel-studded silver girdle, but he could sense her displeasure and discomfort at wearing it. Poor lass. One of Callum’s embroidered linen shirts and a pair of fine hose would fit much better. There was little doubt in his mind that her arse would rival Callum’s in perfection, and then he could admire both.
“Yellow race!” called James.
As the victor, Red was recognized first with his gold coin, and when he murmured something to the queen, she blushed and giggled. Then he moved to Lady Isla, deliberately taking her hand and kissing it as they conversed.
Alastair and Callum both tensed. However, with all eyes on them, revealing their true feelings would do them no favor. To everyone else, Red behaved in the manner of a gallant. The queen certainly viewed his actions as appropriate. But when he turned and smirked at Alastair and Callum, it was clear he’d done it to annoy them rather than gain favor with the ladies.
Devil-spawned gutter rat.
“Green race!”
The border lord who had won the race went first, and seemed to converse with the queen and Lady Isla for a thousand years. But at last, Alastair and Callum strode forward.
“Glennoe!” said the king with a friendly smile. “What a strong finish. I look forward to seeing your archery. You prepared your laird well, Master Graham.”
His cheeks heated at the praise. “Thank you, Your Grace.”
They each received their gold coin from the queen and bowed over her hand, but he was impatient to speak with Lady Isla, and knew Callum wished to also.
“Glennoe,” said Lady Isla, her smile bright, even as her gaze remained uncertain. “Master Graham. I am most impressed, even if a foot race is not my favorite Highland pastime. I fear I would not have even finished it. Tell me, what would you advise a body who had the heart and the desire, but not quite the skill to win?”
Alastair went still, silently urging his laird to accept the offer previously made.
Callum’s brow furrowed. “An interesting question, Lady Isla. My counsel would be to find someone who is greatly skilled and humbly request assistance without delay. To be the best, you must learn from the best.”
Her face lit up. “Sound advice. Should I begin this day?”
“Indeed. Forgive us, but Master Graham and I must retire to our cottage to rest. There is much to prepare.”
Lady Isla nodded solemnly and held out her hand. “I wish you good fortune. And you, Master Graham.”
Callum kissed her hand and moved to one side, then Alastair took her hand in his.
Plague take it, her palm was slightly rough with healed calluses. The flesh of a true swordfighter. He would give anything to be able to kiss her as Callum had, but a squire had no such leave.
Her palms might be rough, but those adorable small breasts would be soft as satin. Her inner thighs even softer. As for the slick folds of her cunt, rose petals would weep in envy.
A soft growl escaped at the thought of discovering such treasures, and Lady Isla shivered, her hand briefly rubbing against his. Almost groaning at the sweet friction, Alastair stepped back, bowed, and joined Callum to walk back to the cottage.
After their exertions in the sun and noise of a large crowd, the cool stillness was most welcome. The larder had been restocked, and Alastair eagerly downed two still-warm meat pasties, and a thick slice of fruit cake. In the other room he could hear Callum stoking the fire and pouring water, no doubt preparing a salted bath for his abused feet. “Are you hungry?”
“At this moment I could eat an entire banquet,” came the rueful reply.
Smiling, Alastair prepared a tray of food and a goblet of wine, then carried them into the main room. Callum stood watching the water heating over the fire, both hands braced on the stone shelf, his weariness evident.
“You should sit,” he chided.
“I fear if I sit, I’ll never get up again,” said Callum, as he took three slices of buttered bread and honey and devoured them as though he’d not eaten for a week. Two meat pasties, a handful of dried fruit, some almond comfits, and the entire goblet of wine soon followed.
Alastair put his hand on Callum’s shoulder, intending to guide him onto the chaise near the fire. “Rest,” he growled.
His laird went rigid. “Don’t…I’m clinging to my resolve by the thinnest of threads.”
“Are you?”
Callum shuddered, and those silver-gray eyes widened in need, his expression pure yearning. “I am weary after the race. But I also find myself feeling…restless. A need to touch and be touched. I know I ask far too much after I pushed you away, but…would you kiss me, Alastair?”
Lust surged through him, more powerful than the rush of a waterfall. Between his frustrated desire for Lady Isla and the hot, rough, wickedly good acts he wanted to do once again to this man...
Instead, he nodded. “Aye.”
Slowly, so slowly, for although his laird had expressed the need he still had an air of skittishness about him, Alastair cupped Callum’s face and brushed his lips against the younger man’s. Then he gently f
licked his tongue until Callum permitted him entry to his mouth. His laird tasted sweet and heady like wine, and desire jolted through him, hardening his cock to stone.
At the stealthy slide of Callum’s hands under his shirt to rest on his chest, those slender, nimble fingers stroking the wiry hair and teasing his nipples, Alastair groaned. In retribution, he dropped his hands to Callum’s tight arse, then began grinding his hose-covered cock against the rapidly hardening bulge of his laird’s.
Callum gasped, the sound echoing in the room. “More.”
“Of what, laird?” he murmured, leaning down to nip the other man’s shoulder. “Tell me…exactly.”
“Pleasure,” said Callum hoarsely. “Your hands and mouth on me until I gain release. It’s been so long. Please…”
“I’m going to taste every inch of you. Then I’m going to fuck you so hard and deep you’ll feel me for days.”
“Now?”
Alastair nodded, ushering him across to the chaise. “Yes. Now.”
“Are ye sure about this, lassie? There’ll be grave trouble should anyone find out where ye truly are.”
Isla smiled reassuringly at Morag and her husband Leith, the two middle-aged treasures who had quietly assisted more rebellions than anyone knew. As longtime Sutherland servants, the childless couple had taken her under their wing; Morag soothing upsets and scolding foolishness, Leith presenting her with the most cherished gift of her childhood: a little wooden sword. He’d also taught her how to hold it correctly and move her feet. Really, she loved them far more than her own mother and father. While they had come to Stirling because of Morag’s unmatched sewing ability and Leith’s position as chief messenger, she needed them for a different purpose entirely.
Wicked Passions (Highland Menage Book 1) Page 5