The Recruit

by Monica McCarty

  “Just the man I wanted to see. Come in, Sutherland, come in,” Bruce said.

  As the king had seemed to be avoiding him, Kenneth was surprised by his words. “You wished to see me, Sire?”

  Bruce motioned him forward toward a seat opposite him at the council table. Only a few men remained in the room. Kenneth recognized the famed swordsman and trainer Tor MacLeod on his left, Sir Neil Campbell on his right, and to his surprise, William Lamberton, the Bishop of St. Andrews, next to him. He’d heard the bishop was part of Edward’s truce delegation, but why was he here now?

  After greetings were exchanged, Bruce said, “Have you given any more thought to our last discussion?”

  It took Kenneth a moment to realize to what he was referring.

  Then he remembered. The last conversation he’d had with the king was after Kenneth’s brother William, Earl of Sutherland, had announced his plans to marry their clan’s healer, Muriel, rather than the king’s sister Christina when she was released from English captivity. The king wanted an alliance with the Sutherlands, and now that duty would fall to him, as William had named him his heir. Kenneth didn’t know the details, but Muriel apparently was barren. At some point—he hoped many years from now—the earldom would fall to Kenneth or his son.

  But finding a wife hadn’t been foremost on his mind. It wasn’t that he didn’t want one; it simply didn’t matter to him who he wed. As long as she was noble with the right connections and could bear him a few sons, one woman was as good as another. He supposed he’d prefer if the lass was attractive, as it would make the begetting of those heirs easier, but he had enough experience to call on memories if he needed a little help.

  It wasn’t as if a wife would have any effect on his day-to-day life. He’d go on as he had before. His sister and brother might feel differently, but Kenneth was not moved by emotion. For men like him, marriage was a duty. He’d loved lots of women; he didn’t need to love his wife.

  “Aye,” he lied. “I have. Did you have someone in mind?”

  Kenneth was expecting the king to put forth his sister Christina, as he had to his brother Will. The former Countess of Mar was still being held in England, as was her young son, the current Earl of Mar. Kenneth knew how important it was to Bruce to unite all the Scottish earls under his banner, and the countess’s next husband might help influence that decision.

  But it was a different widowed countess that Bruce spoke of—Atholl. “I’m not sure whether you are aware, but my former sister-in-law, Mary, is a part of Edward’s delegation.” Suddenly, the bishop’s presence made a little more sense. He vaguely recalled seeing Atholl’s wife once years ago when he was still a squire with the Earl of Ross. She’d been quite pretty, he thought, and much younger than her husband. He also knew she’d been kept a virtual prisoner these past few years in England after her husband’s execution.

  He nodded, and Bruce continued, “The lass is dear to me, she was still a child when I married her sister, and I thought if she could be persuaded to remarry one of my men …”

  He didn’t need to say the rest. As with Christina Bruce, Mary of Mar had a young son and earl in England. The right husband might be able to persuade her and her son to join Bruce. Of course, there was one major obstacle. “I doubt Edward would approve of the match.”

  Bruce smiled wryly. “You’re right, with the way things stand now. But there are ways we might be able to get around that. There is, however, a bigger problem.”

  “What’s that?”

  It was the bishop who answered. “The lass has no interest in remarrying.” He paused. “She’s had a difficult time of it the past few years.”

  Understandable, given the circumstances. He resisted the urge to rub his neck, thinking of the traitor’s death that had befallen Atholl.

  “Where does her allegiance lie?”

  The king and the bishop exchanged looks, but it was Bruce who spoke. “To her son, but beyond that I am not sure. She holds no love for the English king, but whether she would convince her son to rebel against him and join us, I don’t know.” He smiled. “My former sister-in-law is far more obstinate than I remembered—and far more politic in her answers. I doubt anything will come of it. All I ask is that you meet her, and see if you would suit. If not, I have other women for you to consider.”

  They spent some time discussing a few of the other possibilities, but it was hard for Kenneth to feign enthusiasm when he had something else far more important on his mind. He finally had his opportunity when the meeting dissolved.

  “Sire, there is something I should like to discuss with you if you can spare a few more minutes.”

  The king nodded. Kenneth suspected he knew what it was about when Bruce dismissed Campbell and the bishop but had MacLeod remain.

  He could feel the fierce Island chief’s scrutiny, but addressed his words to Bruce. “I want in. I want to be a part of your secret army.” He considered it a good sign when neither man protested with a “what secret army?” He continued, “I think I’ve proved my loyalty to you these past few months.”

  Kenneth had been part of the king’s retinue on his royal progress across the Highlands. He’d helped save the king’s life a couple of weeks ago when his brother’s henchman and a secret killing team of Saracen-style “assassins” had made attempts on it.

  “You have,” the king agreed.

  He shouldn’t have to prove himself, damn it. “If you doubt my battle skills, I will cross swords with any man—”

  MacLeod arched his brow in challenge, but it was the king who interrupted. “Your skills are not at issue.”

  “I am not as adept as Gordon was with the black powder, but I have some knowledge.”

  His friend and foster brother, William Gordon, had been a part of Bruce’s secret army and had died last year in an explosion. Kenneth suspected the unusual knowledge of the Saracen black powder was part of the reason he’d been on the team.

  MacLeod and the king exchanged another look, but neither said anything.

  Despite his intentions, Kenneth felt his temper prick. “This is about MacKay, isn’t it?”

  “He has expressed some concern,” the king admitted.

  “He says you are rash, have a hot temper, and lack discipline,” MacLeod said bluntly.

  Kenneth swallowed his anger. As he suspected, Bruce wanted him on the team, but he wouldn’t invite him to join unless MacKay went along with it. “If he means fierce, aggressive, and fearless, I won’t argue that. If you wanted discipline, I would think you’d be at a tournament of knights, not at the Highland Games. Highlanders aren’t disciplined. We fight to win.” He paused, seeing the hint of a smile play Bruce’s mouth. “If MacKay agrees, will you consider it?”

  After a moment, the king nodded.

  Kenneth turned to go have a frank discussion with his future brother-in-law, when MacLeod stopped him. “But you’ll have to prove yourself to me.”

  The way he said it suggested he wasn’t going to like whatever MacLeod had in mind. But proving himself wasn’t anything new; Kenneth had been doing it since the day he was born—even in that he’d come in second.

  Kenneth waited for his sister to leave the Hall before confronting the man only God knew why she intended to marry. He stepped in front of MacKay as he exited the tower on his way to the barracks, blocking his path. “I thought we had a deal.”

  MacKay smiled. “What deal?”

  He gritted his teeth, fighting for patience. “I wouldn’t stand in your way of marrying my sister, and you don’t stand in the way of me joining the secret army.”

  “I recall a conversation on the subject, but I don’t remember ever agreeing to anything. And if you think you could stop Helen from marrying me, I’d like to see you try.”

  Kenneth’s jaw locked, knowing he was right. His sister had made it clear that his opinion on her marriage didn’t matter. God save him from a modern “independent” woman! Sweet and biddable suited him just fine.

  The truth w
as, if he weren’t so used to hating MacKay, he might actually like the arse. His Sutherland ancestors were probably rolling in their graves at the sacrilege. The MacKays and Sutherlands had been enemies for as long as he could remember. MacKay might be a stubborn bastard, but he was also one of the best warriors Kenneth had ever fought beside. “Perhaps not, but I don’t think you want to be the cause of discord between Helen and me. She may love you, but she also loves me.”

  MacKay frowned, as if he didn’t like being reminded of it. “What do you want? If you think I’m going to sing your praises to Bruce—”

  “I don’t need you to sing my praises. I can do that on my own—on the field. I just need you to stay out of my way.”

  His old enemy and longtime competitor eyed him carefully. “I’ll admit, you’re not bad. But ‘not bad’ is far from the best. You aren’t fighting with the English anymore,” he said sarcastically, referring to the Sutherlands’ recent shift in allegiance to Bruce. “Are you sure you can compete with the most elite warriors in Scotland?”

  “Not only compete, but win.” He paused. “Look, I know you need someone to take Gordon’s place.”

  “No one can take Gordon’s place,” MacKay snapped.

  Their eyes met. He better than anyone understood that. Gordon had been his foster brother, but he’d been MacKay’s partner. A friend to them both—ironic, given their enmity. “You’re right. But I’m the next best man for the job, and you know it.”

  MacKay’s jaw clenched, and his silence seemed a tacit agreement of sorts.

  Sensing an opening, Kenneth went in for the kill. “Bruce has recruited men from the Games before. I’d wager that’s what brought you to his attention four years ago.” More silence. “Let these Games be no different. If I win the overall championship, you’ll agree not to interfere.”

  It was a bold offer. The overall champion was the competitor who had the highest ranking across all the events. Given that he was no dancer and only a decent swimmer, he’d have to do extremely well in all the other events.

  McKay shook his head. “Not good enough. Many of the best competitors won’t be competing.”

  He meant himself, as well as the other members of the secret army.

  Kenneth tried to rein in his temper, but MacKay made it bloody difficult. He was a provoking bastard. “Then what do you suggest?”

  “Win them all, and I’ll welcome you in myself.”

  He couldn’t be serious. “All?”

  “Only the weapon events,” MacKay clarified, as if it were the most reasonable thing in the world.

  “No one has ever done that.” Kenneth was so outraged, he feared he was sputtering.

  MacKay shrugged, not bothering to hide his smile.

  Kenneth cursed his own arrogance under his breath. MacKay had turned it against him. “You know I’m not very good with a bow. Neither are you, if I recall. Gregor MacGregor might not be competing, but his young brother John is, and he’s reputed to be nearly as good.”

  “Fine. No archery, but you’ll have to win the wrestling competition instead.”

  Kenneth gritted his teeth. Sangfroid, damn it. But he could feel the heat rising. MacKay had backed him into a damned corner and knew it. “Fine. It’s a deal.”

  He stepped aside to let MacKay pass by—or swagger by, the smug bastard.

  “Good luck, Sutherland. You’re going to need it.”

  Kenneth wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of showing his anger. He didn’t care what it took; he was going to win.

  If there was anything Kenneth knew how to do, it was fight. He’d been doing it practically since the day he was born. Nothing had ever come easily for him. But he didn’t mind. It had only made him stronger and more determined to win.

  He was about to return to the Hall to find a nice big tankard of ale to cool his anger, when a group of women approached and he thought of a better way to soothe his temper.

  He supposed there was one thing that had always come easily for him.

  Three

  Having just made her third mistake in the last ten minutes, Mary put down her embroidery. She had to do something. She was so restless. Stretch her legs, perhaps? Despite the lateness of the hour, she decided to go for a walk.

  The journey, the return home after so many years, simply being in Scotland again had affected her more than she’d expected. Though her immediate family was gone, seeing Lady Christina, Lady Margaret (Atholl’s sister who was now wed to the MacKenzie chief), and even Robert had been nearly as overwhelming.

  All the memories that she’d kept so carefully bottled up inside were threatening to explode. She didn’t want to remember. Didn’t want to miss them. Didn’t want to think of Scotland as home when her life must be in England.

  She’d been here only a week, yet she felt the pull so strongly it threatened to destroy the contentment she’d fought so hard to achieve. It was as if she’d taken a piece of slate and wiped it clean, only to discover later that the lines had been etched into the stone, not made from chalk.

  Worse, her mission had been a failure. The negotiations for peace had stalled, as they always did over the issue of Bruce’s kingship. Robert refused to sign a peace treaty that did not recognize his sovereignty and Edward refused to sign one that did. No woman’s voice could change that.

  As she expected, Robert was sympathetic and understanding toward her son’s plight—and had no intention of forfeiting his lands—but he also would not recognize David as Earl of Atholl until he did fealty for those lands. Something that was impossible as long as her son was in Edward’s power.

  The stalemate continued.

  Moreover, also as she expected, Robert was hardly inclined to share his secrets with her. Her mouth twitched with a wry grin. Especially after she’d told him outright that Edward wished her to spy on him, so if he had any dark secrets, to make sure he made them easy for her to discover.

  After a moment of shock, Robert had burst out laughing and told her she sounded just like her sister. Isabel, he’d meant. The bold, speak-her-mind sister he’d fallen in love with and married when he’d been a lad of eighteen, and who’d died a few years later in childbirth. Mary hadn’t realized how much she’d changed, but he was right.

  Of Janet’s presumed death, his sorrow had been nearly as great as Lady Christina’s. And like her brother’s widow, he claimed to know nothing of what had become of her.

  The peace envoys had managed one small success, however, in extending the truce until November.

  Mary could hear the sounds of merriment coming from the Hall as she hurried down the stairwell from the tower chamber she shared with some of the other ladies and the two attendants Edward had provided for her—probably to keep an eye on her.

  Highlanders could dance until dawn, and from the sounds of it, the feast was still going strong. Perhaps I should have …

  She stopped herself. She was right to have begged off the feast tonight. She couldn’t allow herself to be drawn in.

  She’d been doing her best to keep to herself, but it was getting harder and harder to stay away from the festivities. Harder and harder not to get caught up in the excitement. In the fun.

  God, how long had it been since she’d had fun? She’d almost forgotten what it was.

  But being here made her remember. Being here made her remember a lot of things.

  One more week. That was all she needed to make it through. They were leaving at the end of the Games, and then she could return to her life in England.

  But the sounds around her seemed to challenge that characterization. Music. Voices. Laughter. Those were the sounds of life.

  No. She pushed it aside. Quiet. Peace. Solitude. Independence. That was what she wanted.

  Finding those things at a castle in the midst of the Highland Games, however, was all but impossible. She hurried down the corridor and out into the barmkin, heading for the postern gate, which exited toward the beach.

  It would be peaceful there, gazing up at th
e moonlit sky. The stars were different in the Highlands. Bigger, brighter, closer. Her mother had told her it was because the “high” lands were so near to heaven. Mary could almost believe her.

  The stars in England were—

  She stopped herself again. She couldn’t let herself keep comparing; it would only make leaving that much more difficult.

  Don’t dwell on what you can’t have.

  She was about to pass by the stables when she heard a strange sound that stopped her. It sounded like a pained moan. Glancing around, not seeing anyone, and thinking that it was odd not to have a stable lad at the entry, she was about to walk away when she heard it again. Louder this time, and followed by a hard grunt.

  Was one of the horses in distress?

  She rushed inside, following the beam of light from the torches, barely noticing the pungent smells of animal and hay that hit her the moment she entered. It was pleasantly warm and sultry, the animals providing a natural, radiating heat.

  Two torches had been fixed on the posts at the entrance, spilling off a wide enough pool of light to see that nothing appeared out of the ordinary. Well, except for the apparent absence of anyone to watch over the animals. The horses were in their stalls, and—

  She stopped, hearing it again. Then, as if following their own direction, her feet started moving toward the sound, which seemed to be coming from one of the stalls at the far corner of the building. More moans and cries. Not animal, she realized, but …

  She felt a prickle of something tingle down her spine, a premonition, right before they came into view.

  Human.

  She came to an abrupt stop, as if she’d slammed into a wall. She sucked in her breath, her body frozen in shock. The sight that met her eyes was unlike anything she’d ever seen. She felt as if she’d been plunged into a den of sin, an orgy of sensation, a sensual banquet for the eyes.

  A man—an extremely muscular and powerfully built man—stripped to the waist, with his braies loosened and hanging onto his buttocks by the barest of margins, was on his knees in the hay, gripping the hips of a woman who was on her hands and knees before him. He was plunging in and out of her from behind. Mary’s eyes widened. From behind!