Highland Legend

by Kathryn Le Veque

  Not much, but enough.

  But surely it was going to kill him.

  He was engorged and instinct demanded he plunge his body into Diantha’s virginal one, but he resisted. He’d never had anything pure in his entire life until he met her and somehow it just didn’t seem right to take that innocence now. He wanted their first time together to be as man and wife, not because he was so lustfully hot for her that he couldn’t control himself.

  Even so…he wanted her to enjoy every minute of what he was doing.

  He wanted her to long for what was to come.

  They were both nude, and although he’d made no attempt to touch her below the waist, his hand began to move, lower and lower, until he was at the fluff of dark curls between her legs. He touched her ever so gently, feeling her jump at the unfamiliar newness of his touch but very much wanting her to become accustomed to it.

  To crave it.

  He began to stroke her, just a little, just enough to acquaint her with his touch, but she was so new to this and so highly aroused that within just a few strokes, she was convulsing beneath him with her first climax. Of course, that fed the fever in his blood and it took the greatest of effort not to satisfy himself, too. He was in a painful situation, but he simply didn’t want this to be about him. It had always been about him and he always had plenty of women to do anything he wanted them to do to satisfy him, but not now.

  Not with Diantha.

  At this moment, he just wanted to touch her.

  As Diantha’s tremors of passion died away, he gathered her up in his arms and tried not to think about the massive erection between them. He tried to think about that old woman his friends tried to trick him with in Clegg’s chambers those weeks ago, anything to drive down his heated blood, but he found that he couldn’t. He didn’t want anything to take away from this moment with Diantha.

  “I love ye, Bee,” he whispered. “Until the end of all things, I’ll love ye.”

  Dazed from her first sexual experience, Diantha felt his words as they reached into her, grasping her heart and holding fast. For a woman who had never really known the warmth of a human touch, or the love of anyone other than her long-ago father, she felt as if she were living in a dream, something surreal and glorious. She found herself praying she would never awaken from a dream where only Magnus existed.

  “And I love you,” she whispered, kissing his chin. “Sleep now. I will be here when you awaken.”

  With a delighted grin, Magnus pulled her closer, her naked body up against his, and closed his eyes. He was snoring softly before Diantha could draw another breath.

  As a storm rolled in from the east and a gentle rain began to fall, they stayed as they were—warm and safe and cherished—all afternoon.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “When were ye last here, Da?”

  The question came from Conan as he and Ambrose rode in the duke’s fine carriage into the heavily guarded Ludus Caledonia. Rain was falling gently, and in the distance, lightning was carving through the sky. But the weather hadn’t kept away those who lived for and loved these games.

  The Ludus Caledonia was packed, as usual.

  “It has been years,” Ambrose said, keeping a sharp eye out for anyone he recognized, Magnus especially. “I came here with yer uncle. The man likes tae gamble.”

  Conan was keeping an eye out, too. The complex of the Ludus Caledonia was truly something to behold in scope and architecture. The massive walls of Caelian Hill were off to his right as the crowd was funneled down into an area that was between a vast village of cottages and the arena known as the Fields of Mars. As the rain fell gently, the Ludus Caledonia was just getting started.

  “I canna remember seeing so many people outside of a village,” Conan said. “With this place hidden in the hills, it’s an astonishing sight.”

  Ambrose nodded, but he wasn’t interested in idle chatter. Thunder rolled overhead as his carriage came to a halt. He’d brought six men-at-arms with him, men who were assigned with guarding his carriage and possessions, and he left those men settling the horses and taking the carriage off of the main road while he and Conan disembarked.

  Ambrose had a destination in mind.

  “I must find someone who serves here and knows the games,” he said. “I have…questions.”

  Conan nodded. He was of the same mindset. The two of them set off, walking up to an area that contained food vendors and wager tables meant for the exchange of money. It was already busy and heavy with soldiers protecting the money flow. There was a man standing in front of the wager tables, directing traffic, and Ambrose walked up to him.

  “Do ye serve here?” he asked.

  The worker, dressed in a tunic the same scarlet color of the banners that flew over Caelian Hill, nodded. “Aye, m’laird.”

  “I have a question about who will be fighting tonight.”

  The man pointed to another table that had a canvas wall behind it. It was canvas stretched over a frame of wood, and the bouts for the night were written upon it. Ambrose and Conan rushed over to the schedule, which looked like a family tree. The fights were listed by number to make it easier to place a bet. They both peered up at it, but what they saw made no sense.

  “The Beast from the East and the Celtic Storm?” Ambrose said, puzzled. “The Flaming Sword against the Glasgow Bull? Where are the names?”

  “Those are the names, m’laird,” a man standing near the table answered. He was also dressed in the scarlet tunic of the Ludus Caledonia. “Were ye looking for someone in particular tae wager on?”

  Ambrose scratched his head. “I havena been here in many years, so I’ve forgotten how things are done,” he said. “Do we not know the names of the fighters?”

  The man nodded. “They are not secret if that is what ye mean,” he said. “But our patrons would rather bet on the Glasgow Bull than a man simply named John. It’s better if they have a more exciting name.”

  Ambrose looked up at the schedule again. “Who is the fighter named Magnus Stewart?”

  “Ah,” the man said, pointing to the bottom of the schedule. “He is a tertiarius, our top fighter. They call him the Eagle.”

  “Magnus?” Conan blurted out. He couldn’t help it. “He is yer top fighter?”

  The man smiled confidently. “When ye see him fight, ye will understand,” he said. “He is a guaranteed victory if ye want tae bet on a sure thing.”

  Conan’s mouth was hanging open. He looked at his father, who seemed just as surprised. That sullen, short, and petulant young lad they’d tormented all those years had evidently made something of himself. Conan was perhaps the least bit intimidated at that point but unwilling to admit it. He’d always been able to lick Magnus, but current evidence was pointing to a change in that usual outcome.

  He was beginning to wonder what they would find at the end of this trail.

  Ambrose, too, was increasingly curious. The Ludus Caledonia was well known to have the best fighters in the world, so the fact that Magnus had made it to the top was quite astonishing. Like Conan, he was the least bit wary of what they would find when they finally came face-to-face with Magnus.

  He clearly wasn’t the youth who had left them seven years ago.

  “Is there somewhere we can see the warriors before they fight?” he turned to ask the man in the scarlet tunic.

  The man pointed over to the east, where the arena was. “Do ye see the fence next tae the arena?” he asked. “The big iron fence that runs between the top of the arena and the building next tae it. See it?”

  Ambrose was straining to see, but he did indeed see a big iron fence with pikes at the top of it. “Aye, I see it.”

  “Ye can view them from there,” the man said. “The fence overlooks a staging area used by the warriors before they go out onto the arena floor. But ye mightna see Magnus there. He’s usually inside befo
re his bouts. He’ll go there afterward, though.”

  That was the information Ambrose was seeking. But there was one thing more.

  “The man who owns the Ludus Caledonia,” he said. “I’ve forgotten his name.”

  “Sir Clegg de Lave.”

  “Of course,” Ambrose said, pretending to be forgetful. “How foolish of me. I’d like tae speak with the man. Can ye direct me tae him?”

  The man continued to point over toward the fence. “His private viewing chambers are over by the fence,” he said. “Tell the guards. They can tell ye if he’s receiving audiences tonight.”

  Ambrose shook his head. “Ye dunna understand,” he said. “My name is Ambrose Stewart. I am the Duke of Ayr and Magnus is my cousin. I wish tae see Sir Clegg. Find someone who will take me tae him.”

  The last few words were icy, a demand couched by a polite request. The man in the scarlet tunic realized the seriousness of the situation and the request. Very quickly, he was moving.

  “Come with me, m’laird,” he said. “I’ll take ye tae him. Come!”

  Ambrose looked at his son, giving him a knowing expression before following the man in the scarlet tunic. Conan followed close behind, still marveling at the crowds, at the bustling complex that was the Ludus Caledonia. It was difficult to believe that Magnus had thrived at this place.

  Soon enough, they were going to find out just how much he had thrived.

  And what his price was.

  With any luck, Magnus would once again belong to the House of Ayr.

  ***

  In the staging area below, there was a chamber carved into the hillside where warriors could gather outside of the range of the curious crowd. It was a cold and dank chamber, not particularly comfortable because Clegg never liked his warriors to be too relaxed before a fight.

  He always wanted them edgy and ready to move.

  Magnus was sitting on a stone bench, fixing one of the leather straps on his gloves. He was sitting with Tay and the African fighter known as the North Star. Samuel Gondar was his real name, a tall, lanky, and silent man who mostly kept to himself, but he seemed to like Magnus. At least, as far as Magnus could tell. He’d never really spoken to him, but he seemed to gravitate in his direction.

  Galan was also there, as he was going to fight a bout on this night. As far as doctores went, Galan was relatively new, having been a seasoned warrior until his promotion to trainer. From time to time, he was given permission to fight. Tonight, he’d be fighting against a new warrior who had arrived with his liege only today, a man all the way from Athens who went by the name of Poseidon’s Wrath.

  “I hear you are battling the winner of my bout tonight,” Galan said as he sat down next to Magnus to retie his shoes. “Careful, Chicken. We might be scratching each other’s eyes out at the end of the night.”

  Magnus grinned. “The Eagle will always win over the Sapphire Dragon,” he said, referring to the persona Galan went by when he was fighting. “I’ll be there tae wipe yer tears when it is all over, so dunna let Whale Dung get too close tae ye.”

  Galan burst out laughing. “Whale Dung?” he repeated. “I think the man’s name is Poseidon’s Wrath.”

  Magnus turned his nose up at that. “Like I said…Whale Dung,” he said. He eyed Galan. “I saw the man earlier today as he trained. He’s got a mighty right fist and he uses it frequently, so watch yerself.”

  “’Tis true.” Aurelius came over to stand with them, fussing with a piece of forearm protection. “I saw him train, too. He’s big and nasty and old. How did the man get tae be so old living this kind of life?”

  “Mayhap he’s immortal,” Magnus said. He stopped fussing with his glove and looked at Aurelius. “But I’ll tell ye now that I intend tae live tae a very old age, but I dunna intend tae be a warrior my whole life.”

  Galan frowned. “You?” he said, standing up. “You are the best there is, Magnus. For you to be anything less would be a waste of material.”

  Magnus eyed Galan as the man headed over to the rack containing helms. Galan usually wore one, and a particular one at that, and Magnus watched him as he plucked his favorite helm.

  “We canna be warriors all our lives,” he said. “Is that all ye wish for yerself, Galan? Tae fight yerself right intae the grave?”

  Galan plopped the helm on his head, moving it around to adjust it. It was the type of helm that went down over both cheeks and the bridge of his nose, leaving his eyes and mouth clear.

  “Nay,” he said. “I’ll return home at some point to the Welsh Marches and serve my eldest brother when he inherits my father’s lands, but I will return a rich man. As the third son, I have had to earn my own money. I shall be richer than my brothers, both of them.”

  Magnus knew something about making his own way. But since it was his style not to open up about his personal life or past, he didn’t commiserate with Galan. He simply returned his focus to his glove, or at least he pretended to, but he kept an eye on Galan as the man fussed with his helm.

  “Return while ye’re still young,” Magnus said. “Find a good woman and have many good English sons.”

  Something wasn’t right with Galan’s helm and he pulled it off to inspect it. When he pulled it off, however, it was clear that someone had sabotaged it. Wherever the helm had touched him, his cheeks, forehead, and the bridge of his nose, it was black. His dark hair was also plastered in black, but not realizing this, he rubbed at his chin and ended up smearing it everywhere.

  Magnus started to laugh. Tay and Aurelius caught sight of Galan and they, too, started to laugh. Over in the corner of the chamber where Lor and Bane were reviewing last-minute strategies with a few novicius who would fight this night, they heard the laughing and turned to see Galan covered in soot.

  The trickster had struck again.

  Galan had no idea why everyone was looking at him and laughing until he looked at his hands. They were covered in ash. He growled angrily.

  “Chicken,” he boomed. “This is your doing!”

  He had rubbed the soot over his face so much that his brightest features were his eyes, blazing among the ashes. Axel picked that moment to enter the chamber, having come from Clegg’s private viewing box above, and he shook his head reproachfully when he saw Galan smeared with soot. The tricksters were at it again. But Galan was so angry that it was hilarious, so he fought off a smile.

  “Clean yourself up, de Lara,” he said. As Galan rolled his eyes at the obvious, Axel sought out Magnus. “Eagle, Clegg wishes to see you.”

  Magnus was still laughing at Galan, still fussing with his glove, but he stood up and headed in Axel’s direction.

  “What’s afoot?” he asked him.

  Axel simply threw a thumb in the direction of the staircase that led up to Clegg’s chambers.

  Magnus made his way up the stone steps, still chuckling at Galan, still lighthearted from the day in general. It had been a day of days and his mood was better than it had been in a very long time. In fact, he couldn’t remember ever being so happy. Diantha had agreed to marry him, he’d managed to put one over on Galan, and for the first time in his life, he was looking forward to the future.

  There was everything to be happy about.

  Little did he know that all of that was about to change drastically.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “Come in, Magnus.”

  Clegg was standing on the balcony that overlooked both the staging area and the arena floor beyond. He had a straight line-of-sight view to everything, even now as the rain fell and those working in the arena struggled to keep the hundreds of torches lit for the coming events.

  Magnus had come up the stairs that dumped into the rear of the room, a private staircase meant only for the warriors when Clegg summoned them. They were never allowed to come through the front entrance, or at least rarely. Magnus had often been an exception
to that rule.

  Clegg turned to the warrior as he entered.

  “Magnus,” he greeted.

  “M’laird,” Magnus returned. “It is going tae be a sloppy night if this rain keeps up.”

  Clegg nodded, glancing to the gently falling rain once more. “We’ve had nights like this before, haven’t we?” he said. “I can remember seeing you covered from head to toe in brown muck many a time. All of this slippery mud makes for interesting bouts.”

  Magnus grinned. “Messy ones, anyway,” he said. “Axel said ye wanted tae speak with me?”

  Clegg nodded. “I do, indeed,” he said. “Sit down a moment. I just had an interesting conversation about you.”

  Magnus sat down. “About me?” he said. “Who with?”

  “The Duke of Ayr.”

  All of the joy and happiness Magnus had been feeling died at that very moment. In fact, he could feel himself stiffening, from the bottom of his feet all the way up to the top of his head. He bolted to his feet and didn’t even realize he’d done it.

  “Ayr?” he hissed. “Here?”

  Clegg nodded. In fact, he was watching Magnus’s reaction very closely. “I take it from the tone of your voice that this does not please you.”

  Magnus was ready to explode right through the roof. “Not in any way,” he said, struggling to control his shock and his temper. “He is here? Tonight?”

  Clegg nodded again, more slowly this time. “Magnus,” he said after a moment, “I know little of your background before you came to the Ludus Antonine. I know that Axel found you fighting in the streets of Glasgow but little else. A man’s background doesn’t matter to me, but the duke tells me you are the son of the king’s youngest brother, Hugh.”

  Magnus was starting to tremble. “I am his bastard.”