Wicked Passions (Highland Menage Book 1)

by Nicola Davidson

  “Aye, sir,” said Isla, deepening her voice as best she could.

  “What are you doing out at this hour?” he continued with a suspicious glare. “No messages to run.”

  She gulped. “A personal errand.”

  The second guard tilted his head, his eyes cold. “In the dark of night?”

  “T’was the only time the lassie could meet me,” Isla blurted.

  The first guard snorted and shook his head. “Ye left the castle for a fuck? Daft wee lad. Plenty of willing women here. If a companion is needed, I’ll find ye one.”

  “That is er…kind of you.”

  “Nay. Leith has been generous. Now get your scrawny arse to bed. You’ll be working hard at the revels, that’s a fact.”

  “Wait,” said the second guard.

  Isla froze, her heart threatening to pound out of her chest. “Yes?”

  “Ye did spend outside her? We’ll not have guests leave Stirling lasses with broken hearts and swollen bellies.”

  “No cock,” said Isla honestly, her cheeks hot. “Tongue and fingers. Just as well the walls were stone, for she fair shrieked like a Highland wind.”

  Both men chuckled, and the second guard cuffed her shoulder, almost sending her sprawling onto the ground. “Good lad. You’ll have sweet dreams with the taste of cunt in your mouth. Go on, then.”

  “Aye sirs,” she replied, inclining her head.

  Isla forced herself to stroll across the inner close toward her chamber, although her neck dripped with sweat. Next, she removed her shoes, climbed the stone steps, and hurried down the thankfully empty torch-lit hallway leading to the Sutherland lodgings.

  Hardly daring to breathe, Isla eased the well-oiled wooden door open before latching it behind her. All she had to do now was cross the chamber and slide into bed. If she could remove her shirt and hose and put on the fresh shift she’d tucked under the quilt, no one would be any the wiser.

  Slowly, so slowly, she tip-toed across the chamber. Fortunately, the path was clear; no rugs to trip over or chairs to scramble around. Nearly there, nearly there…

  A hand clamped on her shoulder and roughly jerked her around. “You thought to rob the Sutherland, laddie? I’ll gut you like a fish…what the devil? Isla?”

  “Father,” she croaked, truly fearful. “Ah…good evening…”

  Lord John Sutherland glared at her, his silver-touched brows drawing together. “Where have you been, daughter? What mischief have you made now?”

  “None, I swear,” Isla replied, unable to meet his gaze.

  “Liar,” a voice hissed to her right, and before she could move, Anne Sutherland grabbed her right arm and twisted it painfully behind her back. “Liar. I note you did not answer your sire. Where have you been?”

  “I just…needed some air.”

  “Dressed as a lad?” her mother spat, before jerking her arm higher. Her sword arm.

  Isla flinched but stared defiantly ahead. “Shall I attend the revels with a broken arm, Mother? How should I respond to the king when he asks about such an injury?”

  “I’ll respond for you. That you are willful, foolish, and disobedient. Who were you with?”

  A boulder lodged in her throat at the dangerous question. “No one.”

  “I’ll find out and kill the wretch myself,” said her father, cold as ice. “Easy enough to dispose of a body with the cliffs and river nearby.”

  Isla bit her lip hard enough to draw blood. Silence was her only friend here. If they knew who she’d been with, what she’d done, the consequences would be vicious and terrible for Callum and Alastair. Her father remained wealthy and powerful because he brutalized his enemies and shunned forgiveness. No one in Scotland would take the side of a minor Western Highlands laird over the Earl of Sutherland.

  “Was it one of your suitors, Isla?” asked her mother, her gaze abruptly and deceptively kind. “Must we ask the king to cease this tourney, because you’ve already surrendered your maidenhead to a great lord? Such men easily turn a woman’s head. Tell me which one. Tell me who I shall embrace as my new son.”

  “I am virgin, still,” she snapped.

  “But not unawakened,” Anne replied, her voice hard once more. “I know that blush. Who has given you pleasure? Who dared touch what does not belong to him? Answer me, daughter, or you will regret it.”

  They stared at her; an earl who ruled with a fist of iron, and a beautiful countess with a heart of stone. Inside, little Isla, the youngest child who had always craved their love and approval, fought older Isla, the woman eager to leave them and their cruel intrigues behind.

  “I was alone,” she insisted.

  “You disappoint me,” said John. “A liar and a whore. But I’ll find out who, and he shall pay dearly for his sins.”

  Anne nodded. “That clothing shall be examined to discover the weaver, and you’ll be watched day and night until your wedding. We’ll learn all your secrets. Now go to bed. I cannot bear the sight of you.”

  Somehow, Isla retreated to her corner of the bedchamber without stumbling. Soon, she huddled in her bed, cold and alone in the darkness but unable to sleep for worry.

  Callum and Alastair did not know it, but they were now in grave danger. How could she warn them without being caught or landing Leith and Morag in trouble with her?

  For the first time in her life, a task seemed…impossible.

  Stepping into the Great Hall was like stepping into another world.

  Barely suppressing a gasp of admiration, Alastair allowed his gaze to travel the length and breadth of the enormous space. Colorful ribbons fluttered whenever anyone moved past them, intricate tapestries hung from the walls, large urns held bouquets of wildflowers, and the usual trestle tables had been pushed aside to allow for rows of wooden benches covered with velvet cushions. Servants walked about carrying trays with pewter goblets of wine, mead, and small ale, others offered pastries, dried fruit, marzipan squares, and almond comfits. As the revels and swordfights would only be viewed by high-ranking courtiers and selected envoys; this aspect of the tourney was very much the king showing Scottish hospitality to the world.

  He turned to Callum as they followed a large group of well-dressed men into the Hall. “Adequate.”

  His laird snorted. “You’ve never seen anything so grand. Admit it.”

  “I admit nothing. What do you suppose you’ll have to do this day? The minstrels are up in their gallery, but I see instruments next to the king and queen’s dais as well.”

  “Which instruments?”

  “Hmmm,” said Alastair, craning his neck a little. “Harp, flute, pipe, lyre, and lute. You are skilled with flute and lyre. As long as His Grace does not choose an instrument for you, or make you stand on your head to play it, of course.”

  Callum sighed as they found a less crowded space next to a fireplace. “At this point, nothing would surprise me. The king does enjoy keeping us on our toes. I don’t want to stare…but how are the other men faring? Are they happy or anxious?”

  Alastair glanced around. Red held one corner of the Great Hall, telling an eager group of courtiers a rather bloody tale of a stag hunt. Lord Spalding sipped from a goblet of wine while sharing jests with several beautiful ladies. Lord Hamilton of Arran stood with his arms folded on the other side of the Hall, his impatience unmasked as he spoke only to his squire. Sir Leslie Hay and his squire were admiring a tapestry of a unicorn and scantily clad maiden frolicking beside a loch. And Lord Ruthven of Perth, taller than everyone in the room, was devouring a handful of pastries with his squire.

  “Well enough,” he replied reluctantly. “I believe they all think to progress to the sword fighting.”

  A flourish of trumpet notes sounded.

  “His Grace the king! Her Grace the queen!” bellowed the herald.

  Everyone in the hall turned as the royal couple entered; the king resplendent in scarlet satin doublet embroidered with gold thread, black hose, and ermine-lined cloak, his chains of state gleaming in the
mid-morning sunshine that streamed through the pairs of tall windows. The queen wore a cream velvet gown embroidered with silver, and like the king, her clothing was also lined with ermine. She near-dripped with jewels; her gable hood and girdle were studded with pearls, and she also wore an elaborate sapphire necklace and many rings. They nodded to those they passed, before settling on carved chairs at the center of the dais, in pride of place on the north wall. If any were unsure before, this confirmed it. The revels weren’t for Isla at all, but a stage for Scotland.

  “The Earl and Countess of Sutherland! Lady Isla Sutherland!”

  The great lord of the north strode into the hall like a king himself, his wife’s hand resting on his sleeve. They were night and day; he with silver-touched black hair and dressed in blue so dark it appeared black, while she wore yellow with gold embroidery and looked like a sunbeam. A cold sunbeam.

  Alastair frowned. Both Lord and Lady Sutherland were smiling but the geniality looked forced, and their gazes darted about the Great Hall as though searching for something. Behind them, Isla walked alone wearing an embroidered gable hood and rose-pink gown, a color that reminded him so much of her nipples that he ground his teeth against a rush of lust. Yet Isla did not nod or smile at anyone. Instead, she stared directly ahead, her shoulders rigid. Even when she and her mother and father took chairs to the right of the king and queen, Isla did not look at the tourney entrants or the honored guests, only the king.

  All was not well.

  He folded his arms to stop himself marching forward and tossing courtiers out of the way to discover what pained her. Yes, Isla hated wearing a gown and gable hood, but this seemed far more than that annoyance. The magnificent lass who had easily defeated him with her sword, kneeled at his feet and taken his cock in her mouth, sobbed her pleasure at his touch, cuddled against his chest, and giggled at his hair braiding…had vanished.

  Alastair leaned down to Callum. “Our lady is unhappy.”

  “Yes,” muttered his laird grimly. “With us?”

  “I don’t think so…she is not looking at anyone. Only the king. It is very odd.”

  “The earl and countess are looking at us, though…I think this is how a rabbit feels just before it is torn apart by hawks.”

  Alastair nodded. “I’m thankful to have never faced the Sutherland on the battlefield. Or his lady wife for that matter. Could they know about the visits?”

  Callum hesitated. “I’m not sure. They are staring at several men in that manner—”

  The king clapped his hands and rose to his feet. “Welcome to my Great Hall! Queen Margaret and I are delighted you have come this day to watch the revels. Six men remain in my tourney to win the hand of Lady Isla, and shall entertain us all first with a tune on the instrument of their choice, then a dance with the lady. As my queen is most accomplished in both arts, she will assist me in deciding the final four to progress to the sword fighting.”

  Margaret preened at her husband’s praise. “I have seen the best of the English court,” she declared. “Now I wish to see the best of the Scottish.”

  The king smiled indulgently. “I assure you it will be merry. However…”

  “Standing on my head,” Callum groaned softly. “As you said.”

  Alastair didn’t reply, already his heart had sunk to his shoes. What would James demand this time? At least they weren’t the only ones reluctant to hear the news, murmurings around them revealed the other entrants were equally wary.

  “However,” the king continued. “For the tune, each entrant must be accompanied by his squire. He may sing or play an instrument, but they must both take part. A good husband, worthy of Lady Isla, shall have a range of skills and the trust and respect of those closest to him.”

  His spirits soared. At last, rather than just applaud or encourage or massage, he could truly assist his laird in winning the tourney and Isla’s hand. Lady Maude had taught them both to dance and play instruments in her solar, and those times were some of the happiest of his childhood. The old laird had disapproved, shunning anything he deemed ‘soft’ but thankfully had not forbidden either activity.

  “Excellent,” called Lord Spalding. “Who shall entertain you and your lovely queen first, Your Grace?”

  “Sir Leslie Hay,” announced the king. “Followed by Callum MacIntyre, Lord of Glennoe, yourself, Lord Hamilton of Arran, the MacDonald of Carnoch, and to finish, Lord Ruthven of Perth. My lords, lairds, ladies, and honored guests from Scotland or abroad, please do sit and be entertained.”

  The young knight looked a little ill at the thought of performing first, but he played the pipe more than passing fair, and his squire sang with a deep and powerful voice. When they finished, applause rippled around the Great Hall.

  Now it was their turn.

  “They were very good,” muttered Callum as he chose a wooden flute, while Alastair reached down for the lute.

  “We’ll be better,” Alastair replied. “Now is not the time to be modest; the king and queen must have no choice but to choose you as one of the final four.”

  All eyes were upon them as they returned to the center of the Great Hall, apart from Isla who glanced, but just as swiftly looked away. Irritably, he stared down at his lute, cradling the pear-shaped instrument against his chest. His left hand curled about the long neck, while the fingers of his right hand plucked at each course of strings, the first a single, then five pairs.

  Plague take it, what was wrong? Did she have regrets about the hours they’d spent together?

  Did the lady regret submitting to an orphaned, penniless squire? Had she decided, as most did, that he was unworthy of her time and affection?

  The thoughts clawed at him, and he plucked the bottom string too firmly, causing a discordant note to echo in the Hall. Several men laughed, devil-spawned Red the loudest.

  Mortified, Alastair gritted his teeth then met Callum’s gaze.

  “Begin.”

  Before he performed, Callum inhaled and exhaled slowly, allowing himself one glance at Isla. Alastair was correct, she did look unhappy. Not sad, though. More like she wished to find a dark chamber and stab a cushion sixty-five times. There might be a reasonable explanation, but at this moment his stomach roiled with dread.

  No. He needed to take control. Like archery, playing music was something he could do well. He and Alastair had often entertained his mother as she sat embroidering in the solar or working in her herbal chamber. ‘A merry tune’ she would say. ‘To lift my spirits and give praise unto God.’

  That was the answer. Something to show Isla they cared, something to make her smile.

  Callum met Alastair’s gaze. “A merry tune,” he whispered, before settling the flute near his lips.

  His squire nodded. Shortly afterward, Alastair began tapping his shoe heel on the floor, a sharp and constant sound to keep them in time.

  It was much easier to move about with a flute. As Callum’s fingers danced up and down the wooden instrument, a kind of mist descended, blocking the other men and the Great Hall. He could see the king and queen, but played only for Isla. With a flourish of deep, low notes, he stomped forward as though in a temper. Then with a deliberately large side step he unleashed a flurry of high notes, complete with a twirl and heel kick behind him, the other side of the argument. Back and forth he went, low to high, temper to playful, and soon several ladies including the queen herself were giggling and clapping in time with Alastair’s heel taps. Greatly encouraged, Callum made his movements even more expressive, and soon the sound of laughter from other guests and envoys was too loud to ignore.

  He returned to Alastair and they began a musical duel, several notes from his flute challenging several notes from the lute. His squire remained in place, heel still tapping, but Callum circled him using several of the foot movements that Isla had helped perfect. Front. Back. Diagonal. False step.

  “What a sight to behold,” called the king delightedly. “Musical swordplay!”

  Only then did Callum per
mit himself another glance at Isla. This time she met his gaze, the tiniest smile at her lips as she clapped a few times, before turning away again. Now certain that something was amiss, Callum moved forward so he played directly in front of the dais. God’s blood, it was a contrast, the genial approval of the king and queen, and the frigid, false smiles of the Sutherlands. How had a warm, bold, unconventional lass like Isla survived in such treacherous waters?

  He completed one final high note flourish on the flute, Alastair did the same on the lute, before both sank to one knee.

  The king stood, applauding wildly. “Marvelous! What a spectacle! Glennoe and Master Graham have laid down a mighty challenge to the other entrants, have they not, my queen?”

  Margaret nodded, her cheeks flushed and eyes bright rather than her usual petulance. “Very enjoyable. It…reminded me of Richmond Palace.”

  Callum bowed. “Thank you both.”

  “And what say you, Lady Isla?” asked James cheerfully.

  Her smile was thin at best. “Good, Your Grace.”

  “Indeed,” he replied, looking a little surprised, before turning back to Callum and Alastair. “Sit, with my compliments. You have earned your wine this day.”

  A servant took their instruments and then directed them to an empty, cushion-covered bench, and they sat down gratefully. Another servant brought goblets of wine and pastries, and they gulped down the light repast as Lord Spalding and his squire each fetched a lyre.

  Callum’s spirits flagged a little when they played well together, although they rose again when Lord Hamilton of Arran and his squire performed poorly with the same instrument. Alas, then came Red, lugging a harp into the center of the Hall. While the squire played, Red sang an old Scottish ballad, and nearly everyone in the room had tears in their eyes as they stood to applaud at the finish.

  “Sewer rat,” he muttered.

  Alastair’s lip curled. “Your cousin did not play an instrument at all. Should be tossed out on his arse.”