Wicked Passions (Highland Menage Book 1)

by Nicola Davidson

“That would be too much good fortune. But here is Lord Ruthven of Perth. He and his squire both have lutes.”

  What proceeded was rather like the performance of small children; great enthusiasm rather than talent, and from the expressions of those around them, the applause at the end was relief rather than appreciation.

  The king rose to his feet. “Thank you for your efforts, my lord. Let us all pause for wine and entertainment, then the dancing shall begin. Lady Isla, I hope you are well rested, for you must dance with six men this day, in the same order as their musical performance.”

  She curtsied. “As Your Grace wishes.”

  The wine soon flowed in the Great Hall, a long procession of servants filling and refilling goblets until jests became more ribald and laughter even louder. Fortunately, more trays of food that could be eaten from a linen napkin rather than a plate or trencher came from the kitchens as well; soft white bread with butter, hearty pasties made with beef and venison, sliced wheels of cheese, and cherry tarts. Soon afterward, Peter the Moor, the king’s African drummer who often traveled the country with him, performed to thunderous applause.

  After Peter bowed to the royal couple and departed the Hall, the minstrels in the gallery began to play once more, and the entrants and guests returned to their seats.

  “Sir Leslie Hay,” said the king. “Dance.”

  Callum gritted his teeth as the knight whirled Isla about the floor with confidence and skill. It seemed certain he would be one of the final four and when their music came to an end, the young man returned to his seat with a grin that near split his face.

  Alastair leaned close. “Dance well, my laird. And find out what ails our lady.”

  “I will.”

  The king beckoned him forward. “Callum MacIntyre, Lord of Glennoe.”

  When Callum joined Isla, she sank into a curtsy. “Glennoe.”

  “Lady,” he replied, taking her hand and squeezing it.

  A tiny shake of her head told him he’d erred, and his brow furrowed as the minstrels began a rousing and familiar Highland tune.

  “I was discovered,” muttered Isla through a falsely bright smile as they held hands and stepped four paces right, then left. “My father and mother are watching for my lover…”

  They broke apart, turning a full circle, before joining hands again.

  “Did they hurt you?” he asked.

  “Not really. Furious, though. My sire wants blood.”

  With opposite hands clasped over their heads, they stepped toward each other then back, once then twice. “He knows it is us?”

  “Not yet. Be careful.”

  Callum’s heart swelled. “You care a great deal.”

  “Aye,” she said, glaring at him as they broke apart and turned again.

  “When we are wed,” he murmured as they skipped eight paces right, then eight paces left. “You’ll be free to choose. Clothing. Hair. Swords. A husband and a lover in your bed. This I swear.”

  Isla deliberately stumbled against him. “I cannot visit this night. Win my hand. I beg you.”

  The minstrels ended with a great flourish, and more reluctant than he’d ever been in his life, Callum let go of Isla and bowed. She curtsied with a cool smile, before returning to the dais.

  “Your Grace,” laughed Isla. “Do forgive my clumsy misstep. Glennoe deserved better than a crushed foot. May I have a moment before the next dance?”

  “Of course, of course. Glennoe, sit and rest that injured foot. I know as a gallant like myself, you shall not limp too noticeably.”

  Callum stilled at the gleam in their sovereign’s eye. He knew Isla’s story was a lie?

  God’s blood. There were far too many intrigues at court for his liking.

  Heart pounding, he returned to Alastair and sat down. “Isla was discovered. That is why her father and mother watch us all like bloodthirsty hawks. They know she has a lover, but not who.”

  His squire cursed. “Is she well? Did they hurt her?”

  “She couldn’t say much, but is eager for this tourney to be over. I just hope you are correct when you say the king favors me, for he well knows Isla did not step on my foot.”

  They sat in tense silence as the remaining four entrants danced with Isla, each demonstrating varied grace. Once the king had conferred with the queen, he clapped his hands for quiet.

  “We have seen great talent in music and dance this day. But I have made my decision. The four men to progress to the final event on the morrow, the sword fighting, shall be…”

  As one, all in the Great Hall leaned forward to hear.

  “The MacDonald of Carnoch against Sir Leslie Hay. And Lord Spalding against Callum MacIntyre, Lord of Glennoe.”

  Torn between elation at progressing and dismay at his opponent, Callum rubbed his jaw. The wily older lord had fought on many battlefields, and as he’d proven in the previous events, age had not dimmed his vigor at all.

  He would be a formidable opponent indeed.

  Chapter 10

  Yesterday the Great Hall had been a genial stage of laughter and merriment. Today had a different air altogether: pain and humiliation.

  “If the longswords weren’t blunted, Red would have killed him by now.”

  Alastair nodded grimly at Callum’s whispered words as they watched the battle raging in front of them. “Aye. I wonder how long the king will permit this to last. It is clear to all that one is superior.”

  Although Sir Leslie Hay was a rival, the suffering he endured at Red’s hands made Alastair wince. The longsword tip might be blunted, but the blade remained sharp, and Sir Leslie’s clothing had been torn, his arms and chest a mass of shallow cuts. If someone other than Sir Lachlan was overseeing the fight, or someone other than the king had provided the swords to ensure no trickery, he hated to think of the bloodshed that might have occurred.

  The other mercy was Red and Callum being kept apart in the first round. He suspected it had been deliberate on the king’s part, and was grateful beyond measure. His laird needed a fair fight to gain further confidence after Isla’s lessons.

  Isla.

  As always, she sat on the dais with her father and mother alongside the royal couple. Today she wore a gown of stark white velvet embroidered with silver and lined with mink, a silver girdle at her waist, and a pearl-studded gable hood with a white satin veil covering her hair. Not a gown Isla would have chosen; never had she appeared so cold, highborn, or untouchable. This was the Sutherlands declaring their ancient bloodline and that their youngest daughter would be a virgin bride.

  It irritated him no end that they’d not had the chance to speak with Isla, even in a group. He wanted to know she was well, truly well, for it was hard to imagine her family forgiving a transgression without brutal consequences. While Callum would fight for her, he needed to reassure her that they both cared, that they would both cherish and stand with her wholeheartedly from this day forward.

  At last, Sir Lachlan stepped forward to halt the swordfight. However Red, like the weasel he was, managed to land one final blow that left his opponent sprawled on the floor, bleeding from a fresh cut to his side.

  The king stood and rang a large hand bell. “Sir Leslie has fought admirably and brings honor to his name and clan. But I must declare the battle over and the MacDonald of Carnoch the victor.”

  Applause swept through the hall. With no thought for Sir Leslie, Red left him lying on the floor being attended by his squire, and instead walked to the dais. He bowed to the royal couple, then dropped to one knee in front of the Sutherlands.

  “My lord. My lady. I have proven myself many times this week, and seek a blessing to wed your daughter when I win the second swordfight.”

  Lord Sutherland laughed. “When. I admire such confidence and wish you well, MacDonald. It will take a strong husband to curb Isla’s willfulness.”

  “Yes,” said Lady Sutherland, her lips pursing. “She needs to learn proper wifely ways.”

  Red and the countess exchanged a sig
nificant look, and Alastair’s fists clenched. Neither of them even glanced at Isla. She might have been a wooden box for all they cared.

  The king rang his bell again. “I now call Lord Spalding and Callum MacIntyre, Lord of Glennoe to fight.”

  Alastair turned to Callum and massaged his shoulders one final time. For the swordfight he would wear shirt and hose, but the hose had been trimmed at the ankle to leave his feet bare, so he did not slip on the floor.

  “Lord Spalding is an experienced swordsman,” he murmured, “but his right shoulder is troubling him. He clutched at it after the stone put. Now is the time to be ruthless. I expect it of you. Isla expects it of you. Red cannot be permitted to win this tourney.”

  “I know,” said Callum simply.

  “Good fortune, my laird.”

  They stared at each other so long he almost forgot himself and kissed Callum. But the last thing this day needed was a hue and cry from the Sutherlands about MacIntyre sin and immorality.

  Callum smiled and squeezed his hand. Then he turned and walked to the center of the Great Hall. A servant handed him his blunted longsword, and he tested the weight and grip, slashing left and right before carefully resting the blade on his shoulder as Isla did.

  Alastair stifled a grin. His laird almost looked…calm. All the hours of training with Isla, salt baths for his feet, and the foul-smelling poultices applied to his limbs to draw out aches and pains, had not been in vain.

  Next, Sir Lachlan ordered Callum and Lord Spalding to clasp hands. “As in the first fight, the rules are thus: no blades to the head. On my command…you halt at once. A man who loses…his sword thrice, is defeated. I insist on a fair fight. Any trickery…will be punished harshly. I am the king’s champion. I will know.”

  Both men bowed to the royal couple, then to Sir Lachlan.

  Moments later, the first clash of steel echoed in the Hall.

  Alastair couldn’t watch. Yet he couldn’t look away. Lord Spalding had an ease of movement that came from experience; his cuts were graceful yet deadly, and it was only Callum’s nimble feet that allowed him to avoid the slashing blade.

  “Attack,” he muttered. “Faster. Remember what Isla said. Do not let him decide the pace and direction. And it’s his shoulder. His damned shoulder. Make him stretch it.”

  As if he’d heard, Callum lunged with a sharp upward cut, forcing Spalding to defend at an awkward angle. A heartbeat later he lunged again with a straight thrust, and Spalding’s sword clattered to the floor.

  “One point, Glennoe,” said Sir Lachlan, as applause sounded.

  The men readied themselves; Callum looking more relaxed and Spalding a little tense. But the older lord was far too cunning to be surprised a second time, and lunged at Callum with a sharp downward cut. This time it was Callum’s sword on the floor.

  “One point, Spalding.”

  Alastair hissed at the result, and when he met Callum’s gaze, he touched his elbow. Plague take it, if Callum lost this battle because he neglected to keep his elbow high, he would chain it to his laird’s head himself.

  Callum understood though, for this time he stood in the stance that Isla had taught him with his sword grip next to his cheek, his elbow high and steady. He and Spalding circled each other and his opponent lunged, but Callum did not allow him to complete the cut, forcing the other man onto his back foot with a deflection before attacking swiftly.

  Again, Spalding’s sword clattered to the floor, and now he glistened with sweat.

  “Two points, Glennoe,” said Sir Lachlan.

  Alastair bit his tongue to prevent commands spilling from his lips; orders for Callum to finish his opponent, to remove a limb or maybe an ear. All they needed was one point, just one, and his laird would face Red for Isla’s hand. Callum had come so far. He’d always had skill, but had lacked in confidence. Travelling to Stirling, meeting bold, unconventional Isla and exploring lust as a trio had been the key to turn that. They both needed her. And she needed them in return.

  Callum lunged, and his blade tore a little of Spalding’s linen shirt. The older man attempted to fight back, but his right shoulder hung loosely and his cuts were becoming weaker, his sword trembling as it met Callum’s.

  “Take him,” Alastair snarled. “Take him.”

  Spalding hopped from one foot to another, before bringing both arms around in a strong horizontal slash. Alastair gasped as the blade missed Callum’s side by less than an inch, but now his laird had an advantage, for the other man’s arms were close to his body, his wrists angled downward. Using his shorter height, Callum crouched a little, then struck upward with a strong cut, lifting Spalding’s sword out of his hands and spinning it away onto the floor.

  “Three points,” announced Sir Lachlan. “Glennoe wins!”

  A brief, eerie silence filled the Hall as the guests and envoys realized the renowned courtier expected to win had been defeated. How could a short, slender Western Highlander have conquered the great Lord Spalding?

  Others weren’t befuddled, though. The king and Isla were applauding, as were Lady Marjorie and Lady Janet, both seated down on the wooden benches, and sporting huge grins. Eventually more and more people joined in, a few even stomped their feet in appreciation of the unexpected win.

  “How splendid,” said James, his eyes gleaming. “The battle for Lady Isla’s hand shall be cousin against cousin; the MacDonald of Carnoch, and Callum MacIntyre, Lord of Glennoe. We will halt now for a light repast and music from my minstrels, to allow the two men time to catch their breath. But mark me, friends, there shall be a victor and a wedding this day.”

  The Great Hall erupted in cheers, but Alastair remained silent. Yes, there would be a victor. Then, saints willing, he, his laird, and his lady could return to Glennoe and start their new family.

  It was long past time for Red MacDonald to receive his comeuppance.

  One more victory, just one more.

  Isla clasped her hands in an attempt to calm herself. Callum had fought so well against Lord Spalding, but it had been exceedingly difficult to stay in her chair and not leap about when he scored a point and shake her fists when his opponent did.

  Yet after this rest would come the final— and largest—obstacle to happiness: the MacDonald of Carnoch. She’d never liked the red-haired Highlander and her initial dislike had soon grown into loathing. Everything about him was vile; his character, his manners, the way he treated others. The MacDonald wouldn’t be a husband who offered choice, he would only humiliate and oppress.

  “So, daughter,” said her mother, leaning close. “Soon you will be wed to Rory MacDonald. How happy you must be! A strong, handsome husband to give you fine sons. He will ensure you are an obedient wife who brings honor to his clan and your own.”

  Isla frowned. “The tourney is not over.”

  “Surely you do not think Glennoe will win? How foolish.”

  “Not think,” she said. “Believe with my whole heart.”

  Anne laughed, the sound without warmth. “There is no chance of such an outcome. None whatsoever, my dear.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  Her mother’s eyes gleamed with malice. “But I do.”

  Isla froze. She knew that look. The careless spite of a woman who did as she pleased and suffered no consequences because her husband was a powerful man and the king needed their goodwill. “What have you done?”

  “Merely ensured you will wed in the best interests of the Sutherland clan. A poor nobody who lusts after men is no use, even if he had a fine weaving house.”

  Saints alive.

  Someone had recognized the MacIntyre cloth of her borrowed shirt and hose.

  Black spots danced in her vision, but Isla forced herself to choke out the words once more. “What have you done?”

  Anne glared. “No need for theatrics, Glennoe will be quite well by morning,” she snapped. “It’s just wine with some powdered Lily of the Valley.”

  “He’ll not drink it. Not a gift from yo
u,” she replied in relief.

  “Which is why I sent it to him, and his squire, with your best wishes and compliments.”

  No!

  Pure horror cleaved through her body. Quickly followed by a surge of rage, and Isla stood to leave the dais. Anne tried to grasp her wrist, but after years of sword fighting, she knew exactly how to twist away from such a grip.

  Nothing mattered but getting to Callum and Alastair.

  Uncaring of the audience, Isla stormed from the Great Hall then ran as fast as she could across the inner close to the castle proper. At least living in Stirling Castle the past week, she knew where the various chambers and antechambers were. Thankfully there were few rooms available for guests, so if fortune smiled upon her, she would find her men before they drank the poisoned wine.

  In the long hallway, she began pounding on doors. Both the first and second chambers were locked, but the third swung open to reveal Alastair, scowling darkly and holding a goblet.

  “Isla?” he said, his frown easing to concern. “What is the matter?”

  She snatched the goblet and hurled it onto the floor, wincing at the sound of pewter meeting stone. Then she pushed past him and hurried into the room. Oh no. Callum was drinking! “Put that down!” she screamed. “Spit it out. Spit it out!”

  The laird’s eyes flared and he thumped the goblet down on a side table. “Not from you, then. Who sent it? What was in the wine, Isla? Do you know?”

  Tears spilled down her cheeks. “My mother. Lily of the Valley. You both must retch it up. Please.”

  Alastair cursed. “I only took a few sips, but Callum nearly finished his wine…my laird, what do you need from the medicine satchel?”

  Callum sank to his knees. “It only takes a little. We must both retch. There is a small bottle of boiled water, and packages of powdered milk thistle, peppermint, and chamomile. A pinch of each. Hurry.”

  While Alastair prepared the herbal tonic, Isla dashed to the corner of the room to fetch the copper chamber pot. Utterly indifferent if her awful gown became dirty, she knelt next to Callum. “Here. Retch.”