He would never underestimate her again. Not after she’d surprised him so many times. Macrath put his back to Ceana, inching her closer to her guard as he prepared to face down one of his enemies.
“My lady.” Macrath bowed low, showing Lady Beatrice the deference she demanded.
The tent had gone silent when Macrath and Leticia had argued, but now, they dared not breathe. Mugs and trenchers remained untouched on the tables as they waited to see what exactly the councilwoman would do. It wasn’t out of the realm of possibility that she would punish them all by calling an end to their meal, forcing their servants and guards back outside the front gates and commencing with the final game.
“What, exactly, is going on here?” A chilliness swept over her words, and snaked around his spine like snow from atop a mountain.
Her eyes did not leave his, and yet Leticia interrupted. She pointed at Macrath. “That bastard attacked my son.”
Lady Beatrice held up her hand, and turned a cold smile toward his stepmother. “I believe I was asking the bastard myself.”
“I humbly beg you, my lady, but you cannot mean to take his word over mine?” Leticia looked exasperated.
“Believe me, Countess, when I say, I would gladly take anything from him over you.”
There was an underlying anger that seeped from her words. What history did these two women have? But even the words themselves… He had an idea she was referring to the moments she’d held him captive in her torture chamber, how she’d desperately rubbed herself all over him. He’d been non-responsive which only angered her more.
Leticia stepped toward Beatrice, her head lowered to speak in confidence, but the silence in the room let her words be heard. “Bea, really, I understand your anger, but—”
Bea?
Lady Beatrice sucked on her teeth and hissed at Leticia, “Silence your mad tongue.”
Macrath flicked his gaze between the two women. The familiarity used lead to them being old friends. No wonder he’d been brought to the games as a lad. Had the councilwoman helped his stepmother taunt him?
She pointed at Macrath. “You. Come with me.” Then, changing her mind, she pointed at Leticia, Victor, Ceana and Boarg. “All of you.”
Macrath glanced at Boarg, a silent exchange for them both to protect Ceana. Leticia hurried to follow right behind Lady Beatrice leaving the three of them trailing behind. The moment the tent flap closed behind them, the inside erupted into chatter—and he knew exactly what—rather who—the subjects of conversation were.
Instead of going into the castle, Lady Beatrice led them to the tent the council used. Once inside, she whirled on them, eyes bulging, and stabbed toward the ground with her finger, taking a menacing step forward.
“Just what in bloody hell do you think you’re doing disrupting a mourning dinner with your antics?” She glared at Macrath.
He kept his mouth shut, certain that stating he’d not been the one to start it would not solve anything.
Leticia was all too happy to fill in the space he left silent. “This little tart was insulting me and when my son came forward to defend my honor, Macrath attacked him. He was trying to enrage the rest of the entrants into an upstart—to thwart the council’s authority.”
Beatrice studied Macrath, her eyes burning into him. He felt exposed, as if she could see every thought, every mark of pain, every ounce of joy he’d ever experienced. He kept his face placid, eyes cool. Hands tucked behind his back casually, he was still ready to strike if need be. Ceana stood beside him, equally still and Boarg on the other side. None of them spoke for fear of making Beatrice mad. He’d not seen such strong emotion from her before.
The council woman was normally a cold-hearted tyrant. Went about her taciturn behavior in a calculated way. Emotions were ruling this moment, and he sensed it was mostly directed at Leticia.
Again, he wondered, who was his stepmother to Beatrice?
“Is what the countess says the truth of it?” But her gaze slid to Ceana on the last word, as though she was asking her and not Macrath.
“No.” Ceana kept the emotion from her voice. Good.
She could be diplomatic when needed and that made him excessively proud.
“Tell it to me as you recall.” Beatrice looked to calm a little.
“The countess was provoking Macrath, at which point I felt the need to step in. We exchanged heated words. Macrath joined the conversation, having taken offense, and when Victor saw the exchange he, too, added his piece. Macrath did hit him, but he was only defending his mother’s honor.”
“Mother?”
“Aye, his mother. Not the countess.”
Beatrice nodded. “The three of you are dismissed. Go and finish your meal, for the final game begins before dawn. Lady Leticia, you will remain, if you please.”
Before dawn? Macrath and Boarg ushered Ceana from the tent before the councilwoman could change her mind.
When they returned to the tent, they ignored the stares of others and sat in their same seats.
“Best eat as much as you can and then we’d do well to get some rest. I’ve a feeling we’ll be woken in the middle of the night.” Macrath speared a piece of lukewarm fish.
Ceana hollowed a chunk of bread and stuffed a piece of cheese inside, just the way he’d shown her when they’d gone down to the beach. The reminder made him smile. That had been the best day of his life—the day they’d made love, the day he’d discovered she loved him and he loved her.
“What if they separate us? Like they did in the second game?” Ceana whispered her concern, but even those slight words were filled with panic.
She was a damn strong lass, but everyone had their breaking point and he was certain she was close to hers.
“My guess, having gone off the way these games are progressing, is that you’ll be together,” Boarg offered.
Macrath nodded slowly. “Aye, the first game was a picking off of the weakest entrants. The second and third games tested us individually, and the fourth game tested us as partners. The fifth game I think will also see us paired. It will force us to choose allies, and only two will come out of it alive.”
Ceana chewed, contemplating his words. “I can see that. I think you’re both right.”
The tent flap whipped open and the guards filed in. “The mourning feast is over. Entrants to your tents. The rest of you rabble, get thee gone through the gates else you incur the council’s wrath.”
Boarg tugged Ceana into a hug. The man had a fatherly aura about him. She sunk against the older guard. Macrath could tell that the man had been a source of comfort to her for a long time.
Macrath held out his arm to the guard, and he took it in a tight grip. “I’ll look out for her.”
“I know you will.” Boarg left with the others, leaving the tent to the fourteen entrants and the game stewards lining the wall.
“Sleep well, warrior,” Ceana said, standing beside him.
Macrath took her hand in his, not caring who was looking and brought it to his lips. “Every dream will be about you, lass.”
A sweet smile curled her lips—something he’d not seen often enough and one of the things he swore he’d see more of when they were crowned.
“Not much longer,” he whispered. A flash of fear in her eyes made his gut clench. “Never fear, love, we will prevail. I feel it in my bones.”
*
“I demand that you and your son leave the castle at once,” Lady Beatrice said to her spoiled younger sister. Not a day had changed since the whiny little half-wit had been born.
“What?” Leticia clenched her fists and stomped a foot. “How can you demand such a thing?”
Beatrice’s blood started that slow steady boil that meant she’d soon be lashing out. “You are a nuisance and a distraction. Victor has already raped half the servant girls in the castle while you turn a blind eye, simply because you want to see your husband’s bastard perish. I cannot allow it to go on any longer.”
Leticia too
k a step back. “Bea—”
Beatrice held up a hand and closed her eyes searching for patience buried somewhere deep inside her. She couldn’t find any. “Pack your things and see your way out, else I lock you and your son in your chambers until the games have concluded. It is very unorthodox that I’ve allowed you to be as involved as you are. The rest of the entrant’s family members, servants and guards are kept outside the castle walls, I could have forced you to do the same.”
“But we are not the same, Bea. I am not a family member of an entrant, but of you.”
Beatrice laughed sharply. “Aye, but your son is a family member of an entrant, isn’t he? And that just grates right along your precious nerves.”
Leticia’s face turned redder than a radish. “He is not—”
“Och, but he is. They share blood. Your husband’s blood.”
“Do not say such things.”
“But ’tis the truth and the reason you hate the man so much. Shame really, he’s quite a specimen.”
Leticia rolled her eyes with disgust. “You always had a thing for brutish rogues.”
“And what of you? Is not Macrath and Victor’s father a rogue himself?”
Her sister’s lips pinched tight. “I hate you.”
“As does everyone else. Now, get thee gone from my sight, else I decide to become quite unpleasant.”
Leticia dropped her gaze, sadness filling the lines around her eyes and mouth. “Bea, please… Being here with you is the only thing that makes me happy.”
Beatrice clenched her teeth tight. Why did her sister have to try to make her feel bad for her? She didn’t really. Leticia was pathetic, but she supposed it couldn’t be helped. After all, Beatrice had been the one to practically raise the simpleton, given their parents had the faculties to do so. Perhaps, this one last time… “I may allow you to remain until the end, if you keep yourself and your spawn hidden within your chambers. I do not want to see you again until the crowning.”
Leticia pouted. “You’ve not warmed a day since you I was born.”
“I’m not concerned with being warm, Leticia. I’m concerned with being obeyed and with keeping order. You are a hindrance to my focus.”
Leticia turned on her heels and stormed from the tent. Good riddance.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Ceana woke to the sounds of drums beating a slow, rhythmic pace. At first she was bewildered, confusing the thrumming with the thump of her heart. Her tent was pitch-black and she leaned up on her elbows trying to discern if the pounding was in her head or truly occurring.
There were no other sounds, just that simple—bump bump bump bump bump.
It was a death call. A summons to the final game, of that she was certain.
Her heart skittered, stopping and then pumping hard. Lips numb and tingling, her entire body stiffened.
This was it. This was the moment that would determine her fate. Whether she lived or died. Whether she ruled here on earth or floated up in the heavens.
Terror filled her and she couldn’t move. Frozen in place, there was no forcing her limbs to move. No forcing herself to get up and go toward the sound of the drum.
She stared wide-eyed into the blackness and willed the drums to stop their beat. Willed herself back to Gruamach Keep. Willed her brother alive and this all a night terror.
But it wasn’t a night terror. Dougal was still dead.
And she wouldn’t be whisked magically back home.
The war games were all too real, and her reasons for being here unchanged. She had to save her clan. If time were reversed, she’d not have met Macrath. The games would be drastically different without him. He’d made every moment better, restored her. Kept her sane.
Slowly, feeling came back to her fingers and she rubbed the sleep from her eyes.
“Ceana.” She’d recognize Macrath’s voice anywhere.
He slid inside her tent, a flash of torchlight lighting up the space for a moment before the closed tent flap blocked it out again.
His presence moved her body into action and she tossed aside her blanket, lifted up onto her knees at the same moment he dropped down on his. The pressure of his fingers clasping onto her shoulders was a comfort as he hauled her up against him.
“The final game begins,” he said.
She breathed in deep, his woodsy masculine scent filling her. Ceana closed her eyes and wrapped her arms around him. Their chests heaved as one with each of their tortured breaths. “Do you know what they’ll have us do?”
“Nay, love, I do not. As soon as I heard the drums begin, I ran for you.” He pulled her tight against him, her cheek pressing against the hardness of his chest. His heart beat only a little faster than it normally did.
Ceana laid her hands flat on Macrath’s warm, strong back and prayed. Prayed they’d both make it. Prayed that this was not the last time they embraced.
“We must go. We cannot allow them to come and look for us, but must present ourselves as we will when this game ends. Together. Strong-willed.” Macrath’s hands clasped the sides of her face, the roughness of his palms a welcome scratch against her sensitive skin.
He was right. They had to. The last time they’d come looking, she’d ended up with a varlot’s phallus in her face and vomit down his legs. She shook her head, needing to wipe that horrid memory from her mind. “Kiss me, Macrath. Kiss me the way you’ll kiss me when this is over.”
His lips brushed over hers tenderly and she closed her eyes, imagining the sharp angles of his face, the brightness of his blue eyes. Ceana threaded her fingers through his soft hair, and clutched onto him. Tasting the peaty whisky on his tongue. Leashed power trembled through him. She let herself be swept up by him, plunged into the whirling clouds of pleasure and fantasy that happened every time they kissed. Macrath’s touch was magic.
The drum beats grew louder. Faster.
“We will finish this kiss when we win,” Macrath said affectionately. He pressed his lips to her forehead. “But I cannot go into this last leg of war without saying something to you, Ceana.”
Their breaths and the drums blurred. She swallowed around the lump in her throat. “Tell me.”
“I love you. I love you more than life itself.”
Gods how she wished she could see into his eyes. “I love you, too.”
He pressed his lips hard to hers. It was swift, it was demanding, and it swept her up once more. “Let us go,” he said.
Macrath pulled her up, his fingers laced with hers. Coarse palm pressed to her softer one.
Outside the tent, the night sky was clear—black with thousands of tiny, sparkling stars. The moon was large and silver, and without the light of the torches, they would have been able to see from its brightness.
The entrants were emerging from their tents, wrapped in plaids to ward off the cold, they trudged toward the center, prepared to line up for the final game. Twelve of them would die tonight.
The thought soured Ceana’s stomach.
Hours left in a dozen lives.
Hours. That was all that remained of this heinous fight to the death. That was all that was left of this tragic and senseless loss of life.
“We have to do something,” she murmured. “When we win we cannot allow this to happen again.”
“Aye, lass. My word as my oath, we will see these games come to an end.”
Too bad they had to win first, and they couldn’t have vanquished the council and the hundred-year-old war games a week before—when everyone was still alive. But it took power to contest a royal council, a king. It took influence to make that drastic of a change, and winning would give it to them.
Standing on the dais were the five council members.
Leticia and Victor were absent. Thank the gods above. Ceana wasn’t sure she could have kept her mouth shut if the woman had tried to prod them again.
The drummers lined the center road. Faces placid, they beat their sticks at a quicker clip, until all fourteen entrants stood in line. Th
en, they abruptly ceased their pounding. There was no rhyme or reason to the way the entrants lined up on this night. No men’s side. No women’s. They all stood huddled together, ready—and some not so ready—to accept their fates.
“Warriors,” Lady Beatrice started. Her hands clutched in front of her a sword, point pressed into the floor of the dais. “You have fought valiantly over the last four games and tonight we commence with the final game. Only two of you will survive, but know at this moment, we consider you all to be victorious. Twelve of you will receive a burial fit for a distinguished warrior. Twelve of you will be remembered throughout time. But only two of you can live.”
A shiver went up through the crowd and a woman on Ceana’s left let out a harrowing sob before getting hold of herself.
“In a moment, the guards will step forward, bind you, blind you and load you into a wagon. The wagon will take you into the woods, where you will be deposited—still bound—in an undisclosed location. Your mission is to find your way back to Sìtheil. There will be many obstacles along the way. If more than two of you should find your way back to the castle, then there will be a final battle within the list field—hand to hand combat with swords. Be brave, and accept your fate with honor.”
Lady Beatrice nodded, and at that moment, fourteen guards surrounded them, tucked hoods over their faces, and yanked their hands behind their backs. The cloth smelled musty and old. It sucked away the air from her lungs. How many countless others had the hood thrust over their faces? How many countless others struggled to breathe? How many panicked? Ceana counted to five, giving herself that short bit of time to regain her composure and figure out how to breathe.
The guards were rough, touched in places that they shouldn’t, and laughed when the entrants shouted their anger. She had more than one fondle her breasts and pinch her buttocks. But she did not make a sound. Didn’t want to give them the satisfaction, nor did she want Macrath to know.
Lords of the Isles Page 119
