Love is a Battlefield: Games of Love, Book 1

by Tamara Morgan

  The outer circle of the village contained the entertainment district. Julian hadn’t had a chance to walk the entire perimeter yet, but he knew it had a longhouse, a mud pit, the battle-chess board, an open-air theater and various carnival games—all of which had been opened for the event and were crowded with people.

  It was amazing that all this had come together in just days. Julian tried not to think what that meant in the grand scheme of things, that when people worked together rather than locking in head-to-head battle right from the start, they could accomplish almost anything. He and Kate had wasted an awful lot of time—time that could have been better spent locking something else entirely.

  That was going to change. Starting right now.

  Julian took his place at the left end of the chess grounds, a series of squares painted onto a giant wood platform in a familiar alternating pattern of black and white. Stuart had arranged to borrow a set of portable bleachers from a local high school, and they’d been delivered and installed the night before. The seats were already packed with spectators, many of whom were topped by foam crowns and waving giant foam maces. Stalls had been set up on either side of the chess board, and beer wenches were selling their wares with cheer.

  Despite his outward calm, the number of people in the audience set him back. The number and the variety. Close to two hundred people were there already, anxiously awaiting the battle like it was ancient Rome and the Colosseum was the only entertainment across three continents. The game didn’t even start for another half hour, and more people were pouring in the gates, handing over ten dollars a ticket to see the spectacle.

  Their costumes were incredible, to say the least. He’d thought his group was pretty authentic in their kilts, but they had nothing on the rest of the people there. The Renaissance folk were everywhere, men in their signature tights and women in hot, heavy dresses that must have been uncomfortable in the muggy August heat. A few ladies in lighter gowns—most likely Kate’s people—milled about with fans and lace.

  And breasts—oh, the breasts. It seemed no woman’s costume, Renaissance, Regency or anywhere in between, was complete without a low-cut neckline that seemed to defy both gravity and anatomy. Perfectly rounded mounds of flesh appeared everywhere they turned, femininity on display for the entire world to see and appreciate.

  Michael and Peterson took in the sights with a calm, knowing air, but Nick looked about to pass out from the glory of it all.

  “Julian?” It was Kate’s voice. Tentative. Unsure.

  He turned. “Kate.”

  Admirably, he kept his gaze on her face, even though a quick glance indicated she hadn’t been the exception to the dress code of the day, her breasts rising out of a delicate white gown, quivering with each breath she took. It was similar to what the other Regency ladies wore, a light ivory dress that was tight across the chest but fell all the way down to the ground, gently flowing over the curves of her hips. The dress was long enough that she had to loop the train over one of her arms, and Julian could see the tips of a pair of white satin shoes underneath.

  From a fabric yardage standpoint, it should have been a modest dress.

  It wasn’t.

  And while he could have spent all day examining the cut of her gown and the lines of her body underneath it, he knew the sudden pounding in his chest had more to do with simply being here with her. It was the first time he was seeing Kate on her own turf, so to speak, dressed up in the costume that gave her purpose and meaning in the same way his kilt did for him.

  Her own restraint proved much weaker than his. Her eyes, sparkling amber, roamed every inch of him, from the tips of his heavy combat boots to the fitted black button-down shirt he’d donned for the occasion.

  She chewed her lip thoughtfully, and Julian relaxed even more. Reading this woman was like reading a book. No, it was like reading a Playboy magazine. Every one of her erotic thoughts flickered in her eyes and in her full lower lip.

  His groin stirred, and he forced himself to focus on a spot a few inches above her head. If she was going to spend the next few hours looking at him like that from across the chess board, there was a very good chance he would get slaughtered out there. That was not part of the plan. Despite everything, he was still there to win.

  “I came to see if you needed another body.” She flushed the moment the words left her lips, and the appreciative look in her eyes deepened. “For your side of the board, I mean. Naomi and a few of the Renaissance guys volunteered to help you out if you needed it. I wasn’t sure if you could get all sixteen spaces filled.”

  Emotions stirred within his warrior’s chest. She needed to stop looking at him with her eyes half-closed in a sultry, bedtime stare. She needed to cover up that pair of breasts he imagined as being pure silk against his tongue. She needed to stop making it so damned difficult to finish what he started.

  He willed his blood to cool and his pulse to slow the only way he knew how—by becoming defensive. “We’ve got it covered. I’ve told you before, this whole thing hasn’t been about me. It’s about these guys too.”

  Her face fell, and Julian rushed to assure her. “We’re good. I promise. You look incredible, by the way.”

  Unable to help himself, Julian leaned in and ran his fingers over her collarbone. The thin slope there was so exposed, so gentle and soft, and he followed it, leading up to the side of her neck. He didn’t stop until he reached her cheek. She turned her face into the back of his hand, and they stood for a moment, not speaking, but communicating more than he was prepared to. It was a mistake—making contact like that. He knew all too well that the moment he touched her, he lost his ability to think rationally.

  As much as it pained him, he took a step back. It was only temporary, he assured himself. Just a few more days.

  “Thank you,” she said softly, her fingers rising almost involuntarily to her cheek, where his touch had been just moments before. “You don’t look too bad either—all of you, I mean. I had no idea the kilts would make you guys look so…”

  “Manly?”

  She laughed. “Intimidating.”

  Julian’s throat thickened. “This is going to be okay, isn’t it? We’re going to be okay.”

  Kate smiled shyly at him, and her breasts rose up and down in rapid succession. She must have had much better control over herself than he did, because she merely extended her hand like a Regency lady of old.

  Julian took her hand in his own. She squeezed warmly.

  “May the best man win, Julian,” she said.

  Before Julian could return the sentiment, the event’s emcee, a court jester in a harlequin pattern of black and red, called for everyone to take their places.

  Julian gathered his men to action with a lighter step than he’d had in days. Weeks. Years.

  Right now, it felt as if the best man already had won.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Of Maces and Men

  The hammer came down on Lady Lovelace’s foot seconds before a dirk was shoved into her breast. The woman gave a bloodcurdling scream loud enough to set a flock of crows flapping into the sky before falling to the black square with a thud.

  Applause rose up all around them, and a large man in a green kilt raised his hands to the audience in triumph. Two small jesters rushed onto the board like ball boys from a tennis court and helped Lady Lovelace to her feet before walking her to the sidelines.

  “I had no idea Lady Lovelace was hiding lungs like that,” Jada muttered to Kate. The pair of them stood side by side, still unmoved from their original royal positions at the head of the board. Giving Jada the queen position had been the first step in forgiveness. They weren’t there yet—Kate wasn’t sure how to be Jada’s friend without letting the woman run roughshod over her life—but she was trying. And that was what mattered.

  “I’m a little disappointed I had to sacrifice her,” Kate said, offering Jada the smile she’d been angling after. “I was dying to see what her killer move might have been.”


  “I have it on good authority there was a ninja star nestled next to her left breast,” Anne said.

  Kate and Jada both looked over at the bishop, but Anne just smiled mischievously. “What? I saw her put it there before the starting bell.”

  Kate looked across the board to where Julian was making a quick survey, planning his next move. He held his chin thoughtfully in one hand, the other arm bracing it as though he were a statue of some great collegiate thinker.

  It wasn’t a difficult distinction to make, Julian and statue, man and stone. Both of them were so perfectly molded, crafted with such painstaking detail. He was resolute and imperturbable, the occasional flash of muscular leg the only thing that made him seem alive. Well, that and the glances he kept throwing her way, a mixture of appreciation and triumph that indicated he thought he had this game completely under his control.

  Except he had nothing of the sort. She hadn’t been lying when she said she was good at chess—she was, and she had every intention of walking away from this game victorious. Julian may have been finally willing to offer her a compromise, but that didn’t mean she had to roll over and hand him the win. She had some pride, after all.

  But then he winked at her.

  Lord help her, when a man could wink and not look like a used car salesman but some ancient archer who could shoot a flaming arrow right to her core, there was no longer any hope for escape.

  No escape. No surrender. And that was fine with her. There wasn’t anywhere on the planet she would rather be than squaring off to this man over a chess board. They were matching wits and witticisms—and enjoying every minute of it. They were equals. And when it was all done, Kate knew there was every chance they could be a lot more than that.

  “Are you going to make your move, my lady, or do you need me to read you the rules again?” Julian made a gallant bow as he spoke, drawing her attention back to the task at hand.

  She smiled, playing the game with him. “I didn’t know the Scots could read. Does it help you lull the sheep to bed at night?”

  The crowd laughed appreciatively, and Kate found herself enjoying the sound of it. Her forays into public speaking had never been terribly successful in the past, but there was something about this setting that filled her with confidence. These were her kind of people, entertained by what she had to offer. It was exhilarating.

  “Nothing is as easy to read as your strategy,” Julian returned. “Like a true Scot, I’m already five moves ahead of you.”

  “And walking right into my trap. Queen’s rook, forward five paces. Engage the knight.”

  The rook, one of the younger women from the JARRS group, beamed. She strode forward and withdrew a flintlock pistol, aiming it directly at the knight’s chest. The woman was at least one foot shorter and seventy-five pounds lighter than the knight, but she didn’t falter from her path. Instead, she cast a look over her shoulder at Kate and called to the crowd, “It is not size but black powder that wins a war,” before pretending to fire at the man.

  The crowd roared as one as the knight—a large man in a yellow kilt and a billowing white shirt—staggered. He pretended to make a heroic gesture for the mace that hung—all spikes and terror—at his waist, but the young Regency lady “fired” again, this time sending the warrior to the ground with a heavy grunt.

  Kate had to hand it to these guys. For all the animosity that had been flying for the past few weeks, they were certainly ready to forgive all for a few sharp objects and a good show.

  Gameplay continued. The temptation to fell pieces just to see the theatrics was strong, but as the minutes ticked by, Julian grew less and less animated, all his concentration screwed up in the movement of the pieces across the board. Kate forced her own mental energy to match his.

  After a few minutes, the resounding thud of yet another three-hundred-pound Scottish warrior hitting the ground was answered with the thunderous call of an overhead storm. The metallic tang of ozone filled the air, and rain, which had been threatening the crowd since they’d arrived that morning, sprinkled lightly around them. Kate caught Julian’s eye, but he didn’t seem to notice the elements.

  She should have known. A little rain wouldn’t stop him. He was unyielding—even if it meant holding his ground when a bunch of men with highly conductive items stood in a thunderstorm. Kate was suddenly grateful for her own discreet weapon, a cute little pearl-handled derringer strapped to her upper thigh with a leather garter. It was very maverick of her. She loved it.

  “Go ahead and quit, English,” Julian announced as the rain picked up and Kate shot a few anxious looks around. “Save yourself the humiliation.”

  It was tempting. A few spectators gathered up their things and ran for one of the fairground outbuildings, and the news crew they’d managed to get to cover the event moved quickly to get their gear packed up and out of the rain. The rest of the people stayed put, but most of them had umbrellas that popped into action and made the bleachers look more and more like they belonged at a high school football game.

  She wasn’t leaving until he did. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Too bad. If there’s one thing you should have learned by now, it’s that I don’t quit. Not when I want something.”

  “And what is it you want?’”

  Her pulse picked up as Julian let the question fill the space between them. It hadn’t been asked for the crowd’s edification.

  “I want you on your knees before me,” she said, her eye twitching as she strove to keep the sudden rush of heat from showing on her skin.

  “Give me time, Kate. Give me time.”

  Without even blinking, he raised his voice and called, “King’s pawn forward one.”

  Kate let out a breath she didn’t know she was holding, her legs suddenly unable to bear her weight. Hopefully, this would end soon. Julian had just opened up his queen, Michael, for attack. She paused before calling out the next move, and she could feel the crowd and all the pieces on the board straining to hear what she would do.

  Fat drops of rain spattered in her hair, which had been pulled up in a loose knot, and dripped down her face. The timing of the rainstorm wasn’t very good. The cold wasn’t an issue, but the gown she wore had several layers that might easily get bogged down if they stayed out there much longer.

  She surveyed the board. She had seven pieces remaining. Julian had eight. If they quit now, they might have enough time to reassemble the group tomorrow, even if that felt kind of like letting a hot bath sit out for a few hours only to find tepid water upon returning. The game wasn’t likely to contain nearly as much charm for another day—and the news crew certainly wouldn’t be happy at the thought of coming back.

  A flash of lightning, followed almost immediately by the heavy rumble of thunder, confirmed it. Kate tried to get Stuart’s attention, but he was chatting animatedly with one of the news reporters, monopolizing every last moment of air time he could.

  From across the board, Julian coughed loudly, awaiting her turn. Kate had no doubt he’d keep playing all through Armageddon, but she had a board full of ladies to look out for. Feathers and lace didn’t fare well in a downpour.

  But when she turned to see if he might be willing to capitulate, all thoughts of a peaceful intermission came screeching to a halt. Julian stared at her with a suddenly intent gleam in his eyes, his forearms flexing as he pulled them across his chest.

  Kate sucked in a deep breath. They’d gotten along so well since the game started, frivolous laughter dispelling some of the tension that had been mounting between them. And then out of nowhere, he started looking at her like that, all sexy and possessive—like they were standing in a dimly lit bedroom. Alone. Certainly not in front of a crowd this size and with every eye focused on the two of them.

  “I think we should call the game,” Kate whispered to Jada. It had nothing to do with that look. It was the rain. The rain.

  “Oh, no you don’t, Katy-did. You stay put. We are about to win this.” Jada fingered the handle of
her ornate epee, a complement to the Musketeer tunic she’d worn over black tights and a sports bra. “Two more minutes of this weather and he’s going to hand you the win.”

  Kate didn’t like the tone of her friend’s voice. It was her interfering voice. “He’s not going to quit over a few drops of rain.”

  “Oh, I think he might,” Jada said knowingly.

  Julian turned and whispered something to Michael, who promptly kicked at the back of the knee of the man standing next to him. The man, slightly leaner than the rest of them, buckled and howled.

  “Sorry, man,” Kate heard the injured man say with a sheepish grin. “I can’t help it.” He offered Kate a wide wink, and a few of the other guys laughed appreciatively.

  Julian glowered even more.

  Kate looked around, confused. “Am I missing something?”

  Jada snickered and nodded at her chest. “Undergarments, apparently.”

  Horrified, Kate glanced down at her dress. The rain had turned the white, filmy material, so beautiful when it wove in and out of the breeze, into little more than a wet tissue clinging desperately to her bare breasts.

  “Ja-da!” Kate moaned. Trust her friend to let her stand there in front of a crowd of several hundred people—news cameras standing by—with her nipples standing out at full attention.

  “Don’t you dare.” Jada reached over and grabbed Kate’s hand before she could cover herself and scamper away into the wooded copse a few enticing feet away. So close. And yet so very, very far.

  “You can’t make a big deal over it now. Everyone is looking. Just stick those babies out and see how fast you can win this game.”