Aside from that, Beatrice had seen the way the lass had made eyes at the other hulking warrior. Macrath. Bastard son of the Earl of Argyll.
To that end, she frowned fiercely. “What happened to Laird Dougal MacRae?”
Aaron shook his head, regret shadowing his eyes. “He was killed in an ambush by the MacLeods.”
“Hmm… Is your clan raided often?”
Aaron nodded, his pallor fading when she took two steps forward.
“ ’Twould seem the MacRaes have fancy ways of going out of this life.” Dougal and Ceana’s father had been torn apart by wolves, their mother killed in a raid, now Dougal gone much the same way. And Ceana had chosen to die in the games? Or had she come here to win? To prove that she could take care of her clan?
“Stand aside,” Beatrice ordered.
Aaron hesitated a moment before he moved out of her way. ’Twas true she could have walked around him, but she had a feeling he didn’t take too kindly to women in authority, and so, she needed to put him in his place.
“My lady—” He reached out and grasped her arm as she walked past.
Beatrice swung around, her reflexes still great despite being thirty-four years of age. She gripped her whip, yanking it free and lashed the man on his arm before he had a chance to think twice about reaching out to her. The snap of leather, and his startled cry, were sharp, ringing in her ears.
“Do not deign to touch any female, especially your royal council woman.”
“Apologies, I… I…” He gritted his teeth, eyes wide, confusion warred on his face.
“What is the problem, Aaron of MacRae?” Beatrice stood at her full height, prepared to lash the man again if he touched her.
“My laird is… has…”
At that moment, Ceana and the bastard Macrath exited the tent. He had his arm around her waist, supporting her weight. They gazed at each other in such a familiar way that Beatrice’s heart ached. She’d known love like that once, but it had been ripped away. All love was.
So enamored with each other were they, that neither of them noticed Aaron or Beatrice standing there.
Blood stained the gown Beatrice had given her. A slit up the side of one sleeve revealed a bloodstained bandage. There was another on her hand and her leg was also wrapped. The price of playing in the games. She’d considered not giving her the gown, but the poor lass had been covered in filth from her fight in the mud and years of hardship. As it was, she’d had the strip of MacRae plaid that once belonged to Ceana’s mother, Isla. And finding an excuse to hand over the disturbing, guilt-inducing fabric had been liberating. Ceana still wore it tied around her waist.
Just the sight of it brought a pang to Beatrice’s gut. And still they’d not noticed they had an audience. When it looked as though they were ready to kiss, Beatrice cleared her throat.
“MacRae, I see you’ve recovered from your challenge,” she said.
Ceana’s gaze startled on her, and then Macrath’s followed. However, he recovered quicker than Ceana and bowed low.
“My Lady.”
Ceana ducked her head, shifting into an awkward curtsy and mumbled, “My lady.”
“Why is your squire not helping you?” Beatrice looked from Aaron to Macrath.
There was a tension between the two men that begged to be explored. They exchanged heated looks—though quite different in demeanor. Aaron looked murderous, and Macrath, merely annoyed.
“He was. He did,” Ceana began. She gripped tight to Macrath’s arm, and Beatrice had a feeling it was more for comfort than the need for support.
“Step away from her,” Beatrice ordered Macrath.
Without question, and his expression flat as stone, Macrath patted Ceana on her hand and stepped away. Ceana wavered on her feet. Aaron made a move to take Macrath’s place, but Beatrice’s whip stopped him. She snapped it against his abdomen, and he sucked in a shocked breath, but moved no further. Ceana kept her widened gaze on Beatrice, seeming to only just understand the significance of the situation she now found herself.
“A laird must stand on their own two feet no matter how grave their injury. Is that not right, Bitch?” Beatrice said, every word paining her. But she could not show Ceana special treatment, even if she wanted to. These were harsh games. Coddling her would only hurt her. And so, she aimed to teach the lass a hard lesson.
Ceana straightened her shoulders, darted her gaze toward Macrath who actually looked surprised, though for only the span of a breath.
Beatrice cocked her head and studied the man. What had he to be surprised about?
But, like a good lad, he kept his questions to himself. Pity really, because Beatrice wanted to know what could have shocked this man. She’d heard of him before he’d even arrived. Indeed, the letter from his stepmother promised a world of trouble—including that he’d seduced and impregnated many of the young virgin females of their clan. Beatrice liked a viral man. Her own husband had long since passed and she found that with each ensuing night she was lonelier and lonelier.
“I’ll ask only once more, and if I do not receive an answer you will all pay with flayed backs.” She looked them each in the eye to make sure they understood she was not jesting. “Why was your squire not attending you?”
Ceana stiffened, growing even taller for her tiny figure, and hobbled forward a step. “ ’Twas at my request, my lady.”
“Your request? You think you get to request anything at the games?”
Ceana had the good merit to look contrite. She folded her hands in front of her, though she did not bow her head. “No, my lady.”
“We have rules for a reason.” Beatrice glanced at Aaron of MacRae. The sappy way he was staring at Ceana made her want to hit him again. Alas, she was afraid he’d either cry or make an attempt to fight back. She didn’t have time for such nonsense.
“Aye, my lady.”
“Is your squire not capable of stitching?”
Ceana glanced down at her arm—presumably where Aaron had stitched her. “He did fine work, my lady.”
“Then why did he leave the tent?”
The lass had the prudence to look guilty. “I asked for a moment with Macrath.”
Ah, finally, we’re at the root of the matter. “What for?”
Ceana’s chin trembled and her face colored.
“If I may?” Macrath spoke, his voice void of emotion.
Beatrice flicked her gaze at the warrior. He was big, wide of shoulder and thick of muscle. His dark hair hung loosely around his face and his jaw was square and strong. Handsome, rugged. If she was younger, she may have attempted to seduce the man. She could see why Ceana wanted him. And it simply wouldn’t do. Hmm. ’Haps she should still try to seduce him.
“You may not,” Beatrice snapped. “In fact, have the guards escort you to the great hall of the castle. Tell them I sent you.”
All three of the warriors before her stiffened. Beatrice rather liked that. She missed not being Mistress of Sìtheil, but being a royal council member had its advantages, too.
*
Ceana watched longingly as Macrath walked away from the list field and toward the rear gate where torches were being hung. Within the hour it would be dark. Though he’d been essentially cowed by Lady Beatrice, he walked with confidence and she had to admire that about him.
What they’d shared inside the tent had been wondrous and she wished to return again, to live in that moment where he pleasured her, but also to get the chance to pleasure him in turn. Macrath had denied her once more, but only because the sounds of battling had died down and he was certain that they’d be discovered. She’d not agreed to leave the tent though, without the promise that he’d come see her that night.
Ceana wondered if such a promise was too much to ask. Would it even be possible? Would he risk his life to see her? She hoped if the guards were actually alert when darkness fell, that he would stay away.
“You are also dismissed.” Lady Beatrice gave Aaron a scathing look. “Attend the other wi
nners’ squires in the male tent.”
Aaron vacillated a moment before nodding at Lady Beatrice. He glanced at Ceana. “Will you be all right?”
Her leg throbbed and standing there without anything or anyone to lean on only put the pressure on her injury. Her hand stung and her arm had thankfully gone numb. But she was alive, so she had to be all right, didn’t she?
Lady Beatrice scoffed. “She was fine without you a moment ago. She’ll be fine without you now and in the future. Now be off with you.”
Ceana could tell from that exchange that Lady Beatrice did not hold even an ounce of respect for the man. Poor Aaron. That seemed terribly unfair. He’d only done what Ceana had asked. And he only wanted to make sure she was all right. There was no need for the council woman to flay him with her tongue. Nor her whip. Her guard was certain to have several welts beneath his shirt and plaid already.
Aaron headed back toward the gate, yet, he did not walk away with the same strength as Macrath. Ceana watched as the two men she cared about fell in line with the other squires crossing the bridge.
“What will happen to the discontents’ squires?” she asked softly. She hoped it was not too unpleasant, for she was certain they would be punished in some way. Her heart went out to Macrath.
Lady Beatrice seemed taken aback by her question and then the slightest upturn of her lips appeared before vanishing. A smile? Perhaps. “They will attend their masters’ bodies. Injuries need to be taken care of and the dead require burial.”
“How many…?” Ceana couldn’t finish her question. There had to be over a dozen dead women. She was certain of it. There’d been nearly four dozen female warriors going into the second game. Perhaps not half of them would have died, but it would be close.
She’d not been the first to fight in the third and final dagger round, but she’d been relatively close and after—
She could still barely think it. Had to take a deep cleansing breath, and still the images of Rhona’s prone, bloody body filled her mind. After Rhona, was without breath—dead—Ceana had gone into the tent to be stitched up, so she’d not witnessed the remainder of the round.
“How many what, Ceana?” Beatrice’s voice was tight and she stared hard at Ceana, as if willing her to see into her mind exactly what she was thinking.
But Ceana couldn’t see inside her head, could not fathom in the slightest what went through such a hard and bitter woman. Lady Beatrice was the epitome of everything she didn’t want to become as a ruler. If—when—she won the games, Ceana was going to show mercy to those who deserved it.
Steeling her nerves, she spoke, “How many are dead?”
This time the smile on Lady Beatrice’s face was clear, but it was not a gesture that brought about happy thoughts. This woman was cruel. “Dead. Death. Dying. ’Tis a word, a state of being, really, that you’ll have to get used to, my sweet. Many have died and many more will. Over one-hundred entrants and only two who will win. This is not some paltry tournament Laird MacRae, but a game of death. We play with life to see who is the mightiest.”
Her words were cruel, her sentiment lacking. Ceana’s empty stomach churned. All the beauty she’d shared with Macrath, the pleasure, the way he made her feel less guilty about what had to be done, it was all erased by the callous way in which Lady Beatrice conveyed their imminent and unimportant demise.
Ceana had not played with Rhona’s life. She’d not been merry, nor had she made light of the fact that she’d had to take it. That woman’s death would always bloody her hands, and she’d never forget it. Ceana would always walk with the guilty knowledge that she’d murdered someone in cold blood, all the for the sake of a game—even if winning meant that she’d save hundreds of lives. Her clan depended on her, yes, but all the same. She’d had to kill to make it so.
Having somewhat of an understanding into how Lady Beatrice’s mind worked, Ceana jutted her chin and said, “Indeed, you are correct. I purely want to know how many women I have left to fight against. I aim to win the games. I need to know the numbers.”
The woman let out a laugh that was short and sharp. “There were thirty-seven women left after the first game. Fifteen women died in the second game. Including yourself, there are twenty-two female contenders remaining.”
A staggering number. Thirty-six women had died in the first two rounds alone. It was enough to make Ceana double over. She’d tried to remain strong in front of Lady Beatrice, to act as though she merely wanted to know how many more she had to compete against, but callousness was not in her nature and she mourned every life lost.
“Stand strong, Laird MacRae. In order to win, you must put aside all concerns for human life, and seek only to gain victory. You must care nothing for anyone. Your first, and only, priority is to survive. And, if by some miracle, you are the female champion, the war does not end there. You will have five years of hardship.”
Ceana could guess that even that was not the end of it, for here stood a past female champion and she continued to remain immersed in the games and death. The games were cruel and pointless. They’d been useful in another age when war steeped the islands. And, yes, there were still warring clans, and the games had diffused many fights, but what Scotland needed was unity. One powerful leader to rule them all.
How could Ceana make that happen?
She stood up straight. Instead of focusing her gaze on the woman before her, she looked off toward the castle. The place she was determined to call her own.
Ruling Sìtheil was not going to be a solitary post. There would be a male warrior as well. And if he was anything like most men, he wouldn’t let her take a lead on anything. He’d probably keep her busy with women’s work.
Unless that male victor was Macrath. She couldn’t be certain, yet, that he would allow her to rule beside him, but he’d hinted to as much. He was her best chance at seeing that the poorer clans like her own were given the assistance they needed. That they need not worry over raids and starvation.
“I am prepared for all that comes with being the female champion,” Ceana feigned confidence, keeping her voice flat and her face emotionless. There was no need to let this woman see inside her soul.
Lady Beatrice imparted another short burst of bitter laughter. “My dear, you will never be prepared for it.”
Ceana turned keen eyes on the woman, ignoring her discomforting thoughts. “What is your interest in me? Why do you care? First you bathe me, clothe me, and now you come to offer your advice.” She knew her questions could possibly gain her punishment, but she didn’t care.
Lady Beatrice pressed her lips together in a firm line, her hands clasped before her. She squinted as she assessed Ceana. “I told you, I knew your mother.”
“Ah, yes, you knew my mother. And knowing her gives you a vested interest in me? Do you not know the family members of any of the other hundred and sixteen entrants?”
Lady Beatrice smiled. “You should be pleased I have an interest in you, child. But do not flatter yourself. If you were to perish in the next game, I would not shed a tear for you. Nor would I think about it beyond that moment.” The woman whirled around, but not before Ceana could see that her words were clearly a lie.
She let it go, not wanting to press her luck with the woman’s patience. Not wanting to ruminate for too long on the workings of her mind, or why she cared. Going down that rabbit hole would only lead to darkness, she was certain.
Lady Beatrice marched toward the castle, leaving Ceana alone on the field, save for a few straggling discontents and the guards. The spectators had also disappeared.
Ceana watched her go. Preparing herself for the painful walk back. Her respect for warriors had grown tenfold since arriving at Sìtheil.
“Best head back over the bridge afore they bring down the portcullis, forfeiting you from the rest of the games.”
She’d been staring so intently after the council woman that she’d not realized a guard had approached. His greasy hair was pulled back tightly, secured at
the nape of his neck with a leather strap. He grinned at her with rotten, cracked teeth. A long, jagged scar ran over his cheek to the place where his ear should have been. He was not one she’d dealt with before, and instantly she was on alert.
“Might also want to get going quick since many of these guards are not quite chivalrous to the females. Once Lady Beatrice crosses through the gate, it’ll be closed and the rest of you left to us to do as we please.”
Ceana nodded, fearing for the many that were too injured to cross back through, and terrified she may not make it. “My thanks for your kindness.”
“Don’t mistake it for kindness, lass. Not a one of us is tender. We long since gave up our humanity for this post.”
Ceana swallowed, her lips pressed firmly together. Lady Beatrice was halfway to the bridge. She gave another curt nod and turned on her heel, lifting her gown in order to run to the gate, no matter how much her leg pained her. The first several steps were excruciating. She felt the stitches tearing, blood pooling in her boot, but she didn’t stop.
Couldn’t stop.
She’d never cease until she won.
Chapter Twelve
The guards, who’d been lounging, stood taller as Macrath approached the back of the castle. The swords at their hips scraped against the stone rails gracing the sides of the stairs. Torches flanking the great doors flamed in the waning daylight. Gloaming swiftly approached.
The way the guards fidgeted with their weapons and narrowed their eyes shiftily in Macrath’s direction, caused him to wonder at their skill. Were they best with weapons? How did they fight? Or, was each of them actually nervous at his approach?
Growing up, he’d learned that many of the guards connected with royals fought more like the damned Sassenachs than a true Highland warrior. Not like Macrath. Having to fight for his life, nearly every day for as long as he could remember, had given him a certain grit. So, while he walked with ease and maintained an appearance of all casualness, every fiber in him was ready to pounce should the guards decide he was a threat.
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