“My thanks. Lady Isla, shall we greet your suitors? Just twelve left vying for your hand.”
She forced herself to nod. It annoyed her when the king spoke as though she had a choice, when she did not. In truth, she hated the trite words and pretty lies of court, the never-ending intrigues and hypocrisy. Give her plain-speaking, honest men any day. “Certainly, Your Grace. If I might ask one boon…have mercy on my complexion and do not ask me to tarry long in the sunshine. Freckles are the very devil and lemon juice is not nearly successful enough in removing them.”
James quirked a knowing eyebrow at her pitiful excuse. But ever the gallant, he held out his arm. “Of course. I would be a poor sovereign indeed if I did not protect such a delicate Scottish flower.”
“Your Grace!” called a liveried servant as he ran forward clutching a short scroll. “An urgent message from the bishop.”
The king frowned. “I must see to this. Hmmm…”
“Might I assist and escort Lady Isla to meet her suitors?” said Lady Marjorie Ross, rising from her cushioned chair in the pavilion.
“I would be most obliged, madam,” said James, kissing her hand before marching away.
Isla glanced at the other woman in relief. Sir Lachlan’s convent-raised wife was of a similar age yet startlingly beautiful, with brown hair, blue eyes, and lush curves. But Lady Marjorie was also sweet and delightfully pert, a woman brave enough to defy the queen’s edict to wed an English border lord and instead follow her heart. That she also loved and lusted after Lady Janet only made her more interesting. “Good morrow, my lady.”
“Good morrow,” said Lady Marjorie with an impish grin. “I’m happy to be ill all over the shoes of any man you dislike and blame it on my belly.”
“That is a very kind offer,” said Isla, smiling in return, “but Sir Lachlan would rampage if he thought you were unwell.”
“Alas, yes. He is even more protective now I’m with child. Shall we walk?”
The two women linked arms and made their way to the center of the field where the twelve remaining men stood, awaiting the start of the stone put. This event celebrated pure strength—in two groups of six, each man would throw a large and heavy-looking river stone twice. The best eight would receive a third throw, but only six would advance to the revels.
The sheer size of the other entrants compared to Callum had Isla’s stomach roiling. For the past few days, she had refused to consider him not progressing. Now, the fear was bone-chillingly real.
Isla swallowed hard. “I do not favor this foolish event. Throwing a rock. Bah.”
“I am praying for your favorite. Janet is also,” murmured Lady Marjorie.
She glanced sharply at the other woman. “My favorite?”
“Come now. We have seen the way you look at Glennoe. And his squire.”
A hot blush scorched Isla’s cheeks. “Er…”
Lady Marjorie giggled. “Aha! That is the face of a lady who has broken more rules. I heartily approve. May I add,” she said, her voice lowering to the barest whisper, “it is quite, quite wonderful having a husband and a lover. To be part of a trio. Stay strong. Happiness is there for the taking.”
“I want that,” Isla blurted. “But…”
“No buts. Just greet your suitors like they all matter to you. From my experience, no one must know the plan or preference. Not by a twitch.”
Isla nodded at the wise counsel. “Aye.”
When they reached the men, they first greeted a young border lord. Somehow Isla smiled and made conversation, and did the same for two battle-hardened knights, the laird of clan MacLeod, and the wily, silver-haired Lord Spalding. Yet then came the MacDonald of Carnoch, and knowing what he’d said about her, and that neither Callum nor Alastair could abide him, she couldn’t even muster a smile.
“Carnoch,” said Marjorie coolly. “I see you are ready to heave the stone put all the way to the village. But you have misplaced your shirt. Or torn it, maybe?”
The laird, clad only in hose, chuckled as he bowed with a flourish. “Come now, my lady. We are about to perform great feats in the sunshine and a shirt might impede my throw. Highlanders are not usually so modest. Wouldn’t you agree, Lady Isla?”
She barely refrained from spitting on his bare feet. No doubt many women fell prey to that smile and those broad shoulders, but to her the laird was less appealing than a serpent. Especially when compared to the finest of men like Callum and Alastair.
“I say His Grace declares the rules of the tourney and would not speak against him,” Isla said sweetly. “But cry to no one if the sun and wind turn you as red as a holly berry.”
Carnoch scowled. “I do not cry. Other men will, as you’ll soon see.”
“We are eager to see fine throwing,” said Marjorie, dismissing him with a turn of her head. “Ah, Glennoe! How do you fare?”
Callum stepped forward, Alastair at his side, and both men bowed. “Well indeed, Lady Marjorie. And you?”
“Excellent.”
“Lady Isla?”
At the sound of her name on his lips, Isla clasped her hands so she did not throw her arms about Callum, the kind, affectionate laird who had watched her swordplay and assisted her to a powerful release the previous evening. The man whose hard cock she had handled, whose seed had splashed upon her naked breasts as his low roar echoed in the room. Nor could she embrace his squire, the blunt, sensual beast who had yielded to her sword then introduced her to such forbidden pleasures; the master who owned her and Callum both.
“Glennoe,” she replied, holding out her hand. “I am well, and wish you good fortune this day.”
“I shall need it,” Callum said ruefully as he took her hand and squeezed it. “Alas, Master Graham cannot heave the stone in my place.”
“Do not fret, lady,” said Alastair, his gaze caressing her when his hand could not. “My laird is ready.”
Marjorie coughed and tugged Isla’s arm. “Glad to hear it. Do not let us keep you from your preparation. Come along, dear lady, still more suitors to greet…”
Isla couldn’t help a glance over her shoulder as she was purposefully ushered away. Of course, she hadn’t been able to say that she cheered only for Callum. Or that she resented each moment away from him and Alastair.
God willing, she would have another opportunity to say so.
“This tourney may go straight to purgatory.”
His laird’s words were too quiet for anyone but him to hear, but the sentiment was louder than a bellow in the tent. They had returned here after speaking with Isla, unwilling to wait and fret with the other men. Or watch bloody Red strut about.
Alastair paused in kneading Callum’s shoulders, an activity probably assisting him more than his lover. If he didn’t do something, he would go mad. “You finished second in your foot race and were named lord of the bow. All is proceeding to plan.”
“What if I am the first man in stone put history to not even lift it, let alone hurl it? The devil-spawned thing is the size of a crofter’s hut.”
“Aye, it is large and heavy,” he replied solemnly. “But you do not have to defeat all the men here. Only two, to get a third throw. Then two again to progress to the revels. One step at a time, my laird.”
Callum rubbed his face. “I keep thinking of Isla. It is getting very difficult to say nothing in public. About my feelings, I mean. I would never speak of our private time with her, but an action may betray me. A glance, or holding her hand too long.”
Alastair looked away. At least Callum, with lands and castle and title could glance at Isla and hold her hand. Unlike an orphaned squire who possessed only what the MacIntyre clan chose to bestow upon him. It was poison to feel like this but he could not halt it; such was his frustration and resentment that he had to remain silent rather than publicly declare in word and deed that Callum and Isla belonged to him. Never could he wed either, nor drape them in jewels and fine cloth for he had no coin to purchase such items.
He’d always loved Ca
llum. But since meeting Isla, his yearning for a permanent home and family had only strengthened. How did one man say to another after twenty years of close friendship and a few rough fucks in times of emotional turmoil, that he wanted—he needed—not the crumbs but the whole feast? That he wanted to claim him forever, in bed and out? That he wanted to claim Callum’s prospective lady wife as well?
Only the worst fool in Scotland would dream of such a thing.
Probably the worst fool in the entire world.
Alastair grunted. “They’ll think you a gallant. As long as you say nothing about Isla’s true self. You cannot reveal her dreams or desires, for then they’ll wonder how you know.”
“Even the thought of her wedding another…being bedded by another…they won’t know her,” said Callum fiercely. “She’ll never be permitted to sword fight or wear shirt and hose again, and that will kill her soul.”
“That is exactly the thought you must hold close when you reach for that stone. For only a mighty effort on your part will prevent such a bad end.”
Callum turned, his gaze troubled. “What if Red—”
Alastair’s hand shot out and grasped his laird’s chin. “Do not speak of him or think of him,” he murmured. “He is one of twelve. Think of Isla and me. As I thought of you all night, sleeping in my bed alone when I should have been lying next to you. Are you still a little sore, my laird, after taking my cock deep inside you? Do you remember how it felt to have Isla kiss you so sweetly, to hold her in your arms?”
“I remember,” said Callum hoarsely. “Every moment. It was so good.”
“Then heave that stone with all the strength and courage I know you possess, and such lusty play may happen again.”
“Very well,” said Callum, lifting his hand to rub a thumb against Alastair’s skin, his gray eyes solemn and yet glittering with heat, too. “Master Graham.”
A trumpet blast shattered the intimate moment, and Alastair scowled before letting his laird’s chin go, and rubbing his shoulders one last time.
When he and Callum walked to the roped area where the others waited for the stone put to begin, they passed many empty spaces where tents had once stood. Servants from the royal household removed them after an entrant retired from the tourney, and it was a stark reminder at how fleeting success could be. A feted champion one day, defeated the next. Although Callum had performed marvelously well so far, he was glad that this was the last event on the open field. His laird much preferred to be indoors; thankfully both the revels and sword fighting would be held in the Great Hall.
Sir Lachlan beckoned them closer and held up a length of rope with small knots at equal distances apart. “Each throw will be measured. I will decide…the best four…in each group. Any dispute will be decided…by the king. Those waiting their turn…must stand well back. First six. Take up your stone!”
Alastair and Callum moved away, for Callum had been drawn in the second group alongside Red. Once again, the king had added a difficulty to this contest; not only did they have to hurl the stone a great distance, it had to remain in the narrow rectangular area allocated to each entrant, or would be judged a failure. Their sovereign may have forbidden jousting, but he was certainly making each man work hard to progress. Really, Alastair welcomed such rules. Any event where mind mattered just as much as strength assisted Callum.
One by one, the men picked up their stone for the first throw. Each took a few running steps before heaving it forward, and the many ways used actually gave him hope. Some threw from their chest, others attempted a two-handed put from above their head, but only two of the six balanced the stone in their right hand, tucked it against their neck, and used their whole body rather than just the strength of their arms.
Alastair leaned down so he might speak directly into Callum’s ear. “I do not think many of these men have thrown a stone put before. Look how little distance they got in their first throw.”
“Apart from that young knight, Sir Leslie Hay,” muttered Callum. “And Lord Spalding. He fools many with his silver hair and amiable smile, but I have negotiated with him and he is cunning.”
“Let us see what happens in the second throw. If the others learn from their mistake.”
They did not.
Every attempt was thrown the same way as the first. One lord’s put rolled out of his area, and was declared a failed attempt. As his first throw had been poor, Sir Lachlan declared his tourney over. Five men remained, only four would be permitted one more chance.
The air was heavy with tension as Sir Lachlan and his men at arms measured the remaining puts. While Sir Leslie and Lord Spalding were the clear winners of the group, the remaining three appeared almost in a row. Plague take it, if he felt this way now, when he cared about none of these men, how would he be when it was Callum’s time?
Eventually, Sir Lachlan beckoned the five remaining men to stand in a row next to him. “We have a decision. The four men…who shall progress…are Lord Spalding. Sir Leslie Hay. Lord Ruthven of Perth…and the Ranald of Clan Ranald.”
The cheers and applause were deafening; it seemed at the first hint of sunshine all of Stirling and the surrounding towns and villages had gathered to watch the event. But Alastair felt for the knight denied a further throw by mere inches, now forced to leave the tourney. The walk from the field, with only his squire for company and a few thousand eyes upon him, probably seemed the longest and loneliest of his life.
After the stones were moved back to the throw line, the ropes pulled tight, and grass and dirt pressed back down to a reasonably flat surface, another trumpet blast sounded and Sir Lachlan gathered the second group.
Callum held out his hand. “Would you bind my wrist?”
“Gladly,” said Alastair, before swiftly wrapping a length of linen around Callum’s right wrist to support and strengthen it for his throws. “You know the prize that awaits you. Go forth and heave that damned stone.”
His laird attempted a smile, but there was no disguising the paleness of his cheeks, or the rigid set to his shoulders. “I’ve just seen two men forced to leave the tourney; one for a failed throw, and one because his put was an inch too short. But I shall do my best.”
“That’s all I ask. All we desire.”
Callum tested his wrist binding, then took a deep breath. “Pray for me.”
“Nay. Cruachan,” Alastair replied forcefully, the MacIntyre battle cry, for this event would be a stern test of Callum’s character. Especially with his devil-spawned cousin at his shoulder, willing him to fail.
A glance at the royal pavilion informed him that Isla, the king and queen, Lady Marjorie and Lady Janet, and the Sutherlands all now stood ready to watch. An eerie hush settled over the crowd.
The time of reckoning had arrived.
Callum had been placed fourth in the row of six, which unfortunately gave him prime viewing of all the other men. Including his cousin, who had been placed third.
“Greetings,” said Red, his lips smiling but his eyes cold, as he easily shifted his stone between hands. “How do you fare this day? I must admit, I did not expect the sun to shine on Stirling like this. I do appreciate you keeping your shirt on, however. No one wishes to see skin as white as snow or a lad’s limbs on a grown man.”
“Red,” he replied stiffly, as he glanced down his roped area. God’s blood it seemed narrow. How had the men in the previous group kept their stones within it?
“Oh, you don’t wish to talk? How unfriendly, when we are family. Here I was prepared to share some advice, even.”
He glared at his cousin. “I need no advice from you.”
“Because Alastair Graham has offered instruction? Callum. You’ll never rise to greatness if you surround yourself with lowborn scum. Look what happened to the old king. Bedded men as well as women, took advice from tailors and masons…and was murdered in a barn. Some say a fitting end for such ungodly weakness, I say God will judge those so wretched that not even their own family want them.”
Callum’s fists clenched so hard he could have crushed the river stone to powder. First vile words about Isla, now sly insults and threats directed at him and Alastair. But a surrender to rage was no path to victory. Sir Lachlan would probably not intervene a second time; to succeed in this event he had to shut Red out of his mind.
At last, the stone put began for the second group. The first two men achieved no great distance with their throws, then Red stepped up and passed them by several yards, heaving the river stone as though it were a velvet cushion.
Sweat dampened Callum’s temples. But he set his stance as Alastair had taught him many years ago at Glennoe; the stone balanced in his right hand against his neck with his fingers spread. Elbow high, left foot forward, yet all weight on his right foot.
The stone was heavy. Too heavy. Already his arm ached.
Throw the damned thing.
Moments later he drove hard from his hips, rocking his weight from his right foot to his left as he heaved the stone. It flew a short distance, hit the ground, and flopped forward.
Hmmm.
Not terrible; better than the first two entrants, but well short of Red’s effort. The two men following him both bettered his distance, leaving Callum in fourth position. If they remained this way, he would progress. If one of the first two men improved, he would be the one trudging from the field in shame.
Each stone was measured, then all returned for their second throw.
Callum permitted himself one glance at Alastair, who briefly tapped his elbow, and lifted it. His squire had always scolded him about that, even as a young lad.
“Ready, Callum?” said Red, grinning like a wolf now. “Fourth position, you must be very anxious. Lady Isla is keeping a close eye on you, how does it feel to be pitied so?”
“Maybe it isn’t pity,” he replied.
Red blinked. “Of course it is. What else would she feel for you?”
Fortunately, he did not need to answer, for Sir Lachlan demanded silence before the second throws began. The first man’s distance appeared similar to his first. The second man bettered his. Red stepped up and effortlessly heaved his stone at least a yard further. Gah. Every day it became so much easier to hate him. Then it was Callum’s turn. Again, he set his stance, although this time he purposefully lifted his elbow higher. The stone scraped his neck and his wrist shook under the weight, but he gritted his teeth and heaved it forward with all his might.
Wicked Passions (Highland Menage Book 1) Page 10