A better throw than his first, but he had to wait and see how the last two men fared.
Eventually Sir Lachlan took measurements, then cleared his throat. “I have a decision. The four men…who shall progress are: the MacDonald of Carnoch. Sir David Erskine. Lord Hamilton of Arran. And Callum MacIntyre…Lord of Glennoe.”
He’d done it! He’d cleared the first obstacle.
Callum gulped in air as the crowd cheered and when he looked over at the royal pavilion, Isla beamed at him, which dulled his aches and pains a little. Now Sir Lachlan was directing his men to widen the roped area to allow for eight men rather than six, so Callum took the brief respite to hurry over to Alastair. “Well?”
“That second throw was much better,” said his squire, as he took Callum’s arm and began expertly stretching his shoulder. “Higher elbow. Do that again, and you’ll be dancing with Isla tomorrow at the revels. One more throw, that’s all it is. Better than two other men. You can do this, my laird, I know you can.”
Once again, he wanted to wrap his arms around Alastair for his unwavering support. “I couldn’t have got this far without you. I—”
But the trumpet sounded and Callum had to return to the roped area. This time he was placed seventh in the row; blessedly, Red would throw at the other end in second. None of the other men spoke or smiled, but Callum did not hold it against them. He had no desire to speak either. What would they discuss? The unusually warm day, like Englishmen with no conversation did?
In truth, the wait was agonizing. The sun in his eyes, his skin itchy with sweat and his stomach churning with anxiety at being so close to progressing and yet so far. Finally, the men began to heave their stone puts. Barrel-chested Sir David Erskine, who offered a loud grunt but not much distance. Red, with a throw that flew like a spear rather than a stone and landed a jaw-droppingly long distance away. Lord Spalding, who grinned as though it were all a lark, and casually landed a very decent throw. Sir Leslie Hay, who beat his chest with a closed fist, picked up his stone, and proceeded to heave it just as far. Lord Hamilton of Arran, a handsome behemoth who let out a roar and sent his stone past Red’s. Lord Ruthven of Perth, a startlingly tall but lean man who struggled with the stone but managed to heave it about equal to Sir David’s.
Now it was his turn.
Callum dashed his shirtsleeve across his face, but sweat still dripped down his forehead and into his eyes. Even balancing the stone on his hand made it ache, like he held up a damned mountain, and his fingers slipped as he wedged it against his neck.
Please, please do not let it drop at my feet.
Everything felt wrong. His knee trembled, his heart thundered, and for a moment he couldn’t catch his breath. Not even his elbow would stay high, and when he heaved the stone it landed on the grass with a dull thump…in what looked like the worst throw of all.
Despair hit him like an arrow to the chest, and he sank onto his haunches.
His tourney over. Alastair and Isla lost to him, all because he couldn’t throw a stone properly. No wonder his father had rejected him in favor of a nephew better in all ways…
“A failed throw!”
Callum blinked, trying to clear the fog in his mind. But the sharp words weren’t directed at him. The eighth man in the row, the Ranald of Clan Ranald, had just heaved his stone put outside the roped area. With great dignity, the laird bowed to the royal pavilion and Sir Lachlan, before he and his squire departed the field.
Seven entrants. Six places.
Sir Lachlan gestured for his men at arms and their measuring ropes. The king walked from the royal pavilion, the queen on one arm and Isla on the other, to inspect the process.
“The first three,” said Sir Lachlan, “are clear. Lord Hamilton of Arran. The MacDonald of Carnoch. Sir Leslie Hay. But the remaining four…must be measured.”
It took forever.
God’s blood, could they not just end his misery and declare him the loser?
Eventually, the king clapped his hands, breaking a silence so profound they could practically hear the grass growing under their feet.
“I have a decision on this most excellent event! My gratitude to all for their efforts, however just six men shall progress to the revels. Sir Lachlan informed you of the first three, Lord Hamilton of Arran, the MacDonald of Carnoch, and Sir Leslie Hay. The second three, in a very, very close finish decided by less than an inch…are Lord Spalding, Lord Ruthven of Perth…and Callum MacIntyre, Lord of Glennoe.”
Utterly shocked, Callum’s knees buckled and he sprawled onto his arse. Yet he still heard Alastair whoop in triumph, and saw Isla applauding wildly until the queen sent her a quelling look.
Just like the first group, less than an inch and a failed throw had been the difference between success and failure. But he’d made it through to the revels.
It was enough to make him believe in miracles.
Chapter 8
“Isla’s not coming, my laird. If she could escape the castle, she would be here. It is as pitch black as her hair outside.”
Sighing glumly, Callum retreated from his position beside the street-facing window to the chaise in front of the fire. Anyone with a cool head would tell him that two long visits to this cottage had been risky enough; a lady could only claim visiting a friend, or illness, a certain number of times before invoking suspicion. But his heart still hoped to see Isla before the revels so they might celebrate his miraculous progression from the stone put. Tomorrow among the music, dancing, pageantry, and six remaining suitors vying for her hand, he and Alastair might not be able to speak with her at all.
“I know. I so wished to see her, though. Did you notice how swiftly Lady Sutherland ushered her away after the stone put? The countess doesn’t like me at all.”
Alastair set down his wine goblet. “Her opinion has naught to do with liking, and all with your power compared to the others. But the tourney rules have been set, and she must accept the outcome and any decision the king makes. You have a supporter in him. He has given you more of his time than he offers to others. Especially Red.”
Callum nodded. “That is true. Alas, though, the king is a practical man. He will think of his realm first and foremost, not a lady’s wishes, no matter who her family is. And he certainly won’t choose an unimportant laird from the Western Highlands above an alliance that suits his purposes.”
“Bah. James has a soft heart for those he cares about. You remember the scandal and trial after Sir Lachlan’s secret marriage to Lady Marjorie. She was supposed to wed an English baron, but they live with Lady Janet at St. Andrews. I would wager a large sum all three in a bed. And the king allows it. Remember that.”
“Lady Janet was his mistress, and is still a beloved friend,” said Callum as he leaned back against the chaise and drummed his fingers impatiently on the arm. “Sir Lachlan is his champion. It is hardly the same situation. I haven’t fucked the king. Or fought at his side.”
“Glad to hear you haven’t fucked him. I should dislike having to shove our sovereign into the River Forth.”
Callum stifled a grin. Alastair shied away from tender sentiment, and much preferred to show he cared with touch or deeds rather than say it.
And he did care. But was it love? Or just his own heart foolishly wishing that close friendship and hot lust took the final step forward to forever after?
“Devilish beast,” he said instead, stealing the opportunity to lean over and kiss his squire on the cheek as he yearned to do more often. Naturally Alastair took control of the moment, cupping the back of his neck and mastering his lips, before plunging his tongue deep. The only other person Callum could imagine enjoying such intimacy with was Isla. Unlike Alastair’s hard lips, hers were soft and plump, but they also made him forget his own name.
A sharp knock at the door jolted them apart.
Frowning, Alastair rose to his feet. “Sounds urgent. Could be from the castle.”
Callum silently lit another candle and handed it to him. A weapon
as well as illumination; few things slowed evil intent like hot wax to the face, then Alastair would have time to unsheathe his dagger and stab.
Slowly, cautiously, Alastair opened the cottage door. “Yes?”
“Saints alive, let me in. It’s cold out here.”
Callum leaped to his feet. “Isla!”
She grinned and twirled in her short cloak, hose and shirt. “Yes, ‘tis I.”
“You walked alone?” growled Alastair. “That is dangerous.”
“Of course I didn’t. I joined a group of lads who had finished their duties and decided to go and visit a tavern for some ale and amiable company. However, I will require an escort part of the way back, though.”
“All the way,” said Callum. “You are far too precious to risk and don’t have a sword.”
Isla tilted her head, then wound her arms about his neck, and kissed him.
Sweetness exploded in his mouth, and he immediately surrendered to her questing tongue. Even with the binding he could feel the slight swell of her breasts, and he cupped the firm perfection of her arse and rubbed his cock against her.
Isla eventually moved away, panting for breath. “I’ve been waiting to do that for hours. You did so well at the stone put. I was very proud.”
“Hardly well,” said Callum, his cheeks heating. “Pure good fortune assisted me today.”
“It doesn’t matter how you progressed to the revels. It only matters that you did.”
“What I told him,” said Alastair.
“Because you are a great and wise devilish beast,” replied Isla with a wink, as she danced over, went up on her toes, and kissed him passionately also.
Callum swallowed hard at the erotic sight. While he loathed the thought of Isla wedding another tourney entrant, oddly he didn’t feel a whit of jealousy at the affectionate lust between his lover and his potential wife. Just an overwhelming urge to join them, discard all clothing, and pleasure both however they wished.
When Isla stepped unsteadily back from Alastair and removed her short cloak, he thought maybe she agreed. But then she gazed at him, all humor gone. “Fetch your swords. We must commence your lesson at once.”
Quickly, he obeyed her order. Alastair moved furniture to clear a space in the center of the room, then lit extra candles so it appeared bright as day. Callum kept his own sword, while Isla took Alastair’s.
“What will you teach me this night?”
Isla swung the sword up and rested it on her shoulder. “I have shown you grip, footwork, stance, and ways that a person who is smaller in build can defend themselves against a much larger opponent. But today I must show you how to attack. If you surprise your opponent, whoever they are, you may have just enough time to defeat them. Ready?”
Callum took a deep breath, firmly suppressing the old sweat-inducing fear and shame that holding a sword invoked. This was the only way forward, and Isla cared so much she would risk all to visit and help him in the dead of night.
“Ready,” he replied, settling into the stance she had taught him.
“Begin,” commanded Isla.
Callum nodded and attempted a short slashing stroke, remembering to keep his chest and belly protected. But before his sword was even in front of his face, Isla sharply blocked him and the clash of steel on steel sent a shudder down his arms. “That was swift…”
“Yes. Your opponent will expect to be the aggressor, the one who decides the speed and direction and so forth. They will also expect you to allow their attack then defend against it. No. They are wrong. You need not wait until a cut or thrust is nearly complete to block it. In fact, the faster you respond, the less power they have. Understand?”
“I do.”
“Now, I shall attack you slowly. Halt me.”
Again and again, Isla attacked. Again and again, his response was ponderous and weak, and the third time his sword clattered to the floor.
Frustrated despair dropped his shoulders. “I’ll never learn this.”
“Yes, you will,” said Alastair. “But you must fight as though she is Red whom you loathe, not Isla whom you like. Remember all those insults. Take that rage and use it. Isla is an expert with sword in hand, not a delicate flower. Treat her thus.”
Callum stared at his blade. Then at Isla. “Forgive me. I am poor at—”
“No,” she snapped, her green eyes flashing. “Not poor. Your grip and footwork are most adequate, and your excellence with a bow and arrow is testament to your strength and awareness of what is happening around you. There is only one reason you cannot improve your swordplay…and that is because you heed the man in your mind who long ago decided your worth and ability based on your size rather than your skill. We are near the same height. You are larger than me. If I can do this, you can also. But you must believe.”
Callum didn’t wince at the scolding; the words were far too familiar even if the tone was Isla-fiery rather than Alastair-gruff. Really, he owed his squire a thousand favors for not storming away in disgust when he wallowed in bad memories. Especially when Alastair’s own childhood had been so terrible. His closest friend might be the most steadfast in the realm.
“My late father is the man in my mind,” Callum confessed. “He often told me I was worthless. Too short. Too delicate. Soft in head and hands from reading rather than fighting. My cousin Red was his favorite.”
“Wrong,” she replied fiercely. “Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Now pick up that damned sword and show me Callum MacIntyre. The learned scholar who negotiates trade. The lord of the bow. The lover who brings such pleasure. Show me him with sword in hand, for he is worth all the treasure in the kingdom.”
As he leaned down to grasp his sword, a flame sparked in his soul, cleansing the shame that had festered there for so long. Filling him with determination.
“Aye, lady. Let us dance.”
His heart in his mouth, Alastair watched Callum pick up his sword and prepare to fight.
It did sting a little, well, more than a little, that something he’d said so often to his laird was only now being considered properly. Callum yielded to him so very sweetly on numerous matters, especially in bed. But he’d never been able to convince him of his worth, to remove the mocking voices of his wretched father, Red, or those in his clan who would be guided by such absurdity, and help him see the man that others admired.
Isla had convinced him. Easily.
Once again that poisoned thorn of doubt sank into his skin. Was he no longer useful?
He’d spent most of his life striving for that, so never again would he be abandoned. In the past twenty years, although Callum and Lady Maude had always made him welcome at Glennoe, he’d still felt like he didn’t fully belong. While he had his and Callum’s longstanding friendship in his favor, Isla was an exceptional woman. Strong and skilled. Beautiful, lusty, and sensual. And she could give Callum what he could not: coin, a powerful alliance with her clan, and children. But her family would be an obstacle to his happiness, not to mention the king. James might accept the one man, two women trio at St. Andrews, but it could be much harder for him to see two men and one woman, and be reminded of his late father. The relationship between James and the old king had been about as complicated as Callum and the old laird’s.
Far too much to ponder for a simple squire.
A loud clash of steel jolted him from his bleak thoughts, and his heart twisted with both pride and despair at the delight on Callum’s face when he retained the sword in his hands rather than having it dislodged onto the floor.
“Better. Much better,” said Isla as she circled Callum. “But do not stand still. It is much harder to remove your innards when you are moving. Not skittish, like an ill-tempered horse, but purposeful. Confuse me. I think I know what you will do next…make me doubt myself. It is similar to one of your trade negotiations. Quick wits win the day.”
Callum stepped left then right before thrusting straight ahead, but Isla easily deflected the blow with a flick of her wrist. “I am too slow, s
till.”
“Yes,” she replied gently. “Behave as a hawk. Circle to learn the landscape, then swoop to strike. Use your opponent’s arrogance against them. Most will not wait to learn your strengths and weaknesses, they will only see an advantage in height or reach, think that means an easy victory, and move to deliver the final blow. That is when they are most vulnerable. Would you not agree, Alastair?”
He grunted. “If your opponent is larger, he may not be able to change course so easily. Like a ship approaching rocks.”
“I could not have described it better,” said Isla, darting forward with a downward cut that almost removed Callum’s arm. “Yes! See what you did there? A neat sidestep that saved your arm. You are heeding my words and learning; I did not turn my wrist away. A larger man might be on his knees weeping right now, although I must remind you that the tourney rules only permit blunted swords. I am more dangerous than your opponents will be…Alastair, would you come and play the part of devilish beast once more? I need to correct Callum’s elbow.”
Alastair nodded. “He always drops it.”
“That he does. We’ll have to start punishing him,” Isla purred, as she handed him back his sword and moved to stand next to Callum.
Callum blushed but readied himself into his battle stance again, and Isla slid two hands under his elbow, lifting it, and moving his forearm back and forth, turning both wrists to show him easier ways to move the weapon without losing power. Over and over they pressed swords, upward cut, downward cut, diagonal slash, until Callum became more comfortable with the adjusted arm position and held it without assistance.
“Fight,” commanded Isla.
Wicked Passions (Highland Menage Book 1) Page 11