Wicked Passions (Highland Menage Book 1)

by Nicola Davidson

  Terrible sounds filled the chamber. When Alastair joined them, all she could do was rub their backs and sponge their foreheads as both men attempted to purge the poisonous plant from their body before it took hold. Eventually they sat back, their faces ashen and sweat dripping from their temples.

  “The tonic,” whispered Callum.

  “Sip, don’t gulp. There you go,” said Isla, trying to remain calm as she held the bottle for them to drink from, but she shook with rage and fright. Poison. Her own mother had attempted to harm Callum so he would lose the swordfight he had trained so hard for, and Alastair as well so he could not fight in his laird’s place. She’d always known Anne Sutherland had a heart of stone, but such an unspeakable act could not be borne.

  “Here now, lassie,” said Alastair gruffly, sliding a brawny arm around her shoulders. “Takes more than a little poison from your lady mother to halt us. Callum is the son of the most skilled healer in the Highlands, and she taught us well.”

  Isla buried her face against his chest and sobbed. It felt wrong—she loathed crying and rarely did so—but she couldn’t stop the flow of angry tears. The MacDonald already had a height and weight advantage over Callum; if he won the fight because of damned poison…if the king tried to force her to wed that rodent…

  She would slice out their innards. With a smile on her face.

  “Dry your eyes, Isla,” rasped Callum, taking her hand. “It might not be so bad; God willing I have retched up the wine in time. Only because you ran here in that gown and gable hood and heeled shoes…I am most impressed.”

  “Don’t jest,” she choked out. “This is unforgivable.”

  “Aye, it is. But you did not poison the wine. You do not benefit from such an act. My ire is not directed at you.”

  Isla shuddered, still unable to comprehend the evil that had been done in her name. “I could petition the king for more time. If he knew what had happened…”

  Alastair rubbed her back, a remarkably soothing gesture. “He’d want proof. Your mother would only deny it. If Callum or I did become sick, they could claim bad meat or some such thing. Then others will say Callum is too scared to fight that festering turd.”

  She sniffled. “The MacDonald really is a festering turd. I hate him.”

  When Callum finished the bottle of herbed water, he lay down on a woven rug, one hand absently pressing his stomach. She moved so he could rest his head on her lap.

  “Alastair, come join me,” mumbled Callum, closing his eyes, and allowing his hair to be stroked. “This is very pleasant.”

  “Hush now,” she replied. “Let that root—”

  “Milk thistle, peppermint, and chamomile. I’m certain if you teach her swordplay, Lady Maude would teach you herbs,” said Alastair idly.

  Callum coughed. “The world is not ready for that much havoc.”

  “Ha. Just wait until you have a daughter who wishes to learn from mother and grandmother,” she said in amusement.

  His eyes flew open, and he struggled to sit up. “A daughter?”

  Isla almost groaned. As usual, she spoke far too soon. “I know most men wish for sons, but daughters are special, too.”

  “Aye, they are,” said Alastair as he took her hand and kissed it, making her gasp. “So you want children, Isla?”

  “I never did before,” she said honestly. “But now I can see them in my mind. Little ones with gray eyes…and blue eyes. In a nursery with wooden swords and books and instruments, causing mischief aplenty for their mother and fathers. A true family. Not just blood, but choice.”

  Alastair reached for Callum’s hand as well, before clasping them with his own. “A family of four thus far, for I know Lady Maude would welcome you into her heart, but with more to come. I believe we should pledge here this day to protect, cherish, and defend each other. In sad times and merry. What say you?”

  “I do so pledge,” said Callum, holding their hands tightly. “This day and every day henceforth. An unbreakable trio, equal partners all.”

  Isla gazed upon the only two men who had ever fully understood and accepted her, who had shown her such pleasure, the only two men she would ever love. Then she reached under her gown sleeve and withdrew three green hair ribbons she had secretly fastened about her wrist. “I do so pledge to protect, cherish, and defend, in sad times and merry. Now and forever. I hope you’ll accept these as a token of my favor. As in the days of old. I thought…I thought we could each wear one.”

  “Aye,” said Alastair, swallowing visibly as he wound her ribbon around his wrist and did the same for Callum. “Now the world will see we are three.”

  A knock came at the partially open chamber door. “Glennoe?” said a guard’s voice. “The king requests Lady Isla return to her chair, and that you prepare to fight.”

  Isla kissed both Callum and Alastair’s hands. “Fight for us. Fight for our family.”

  They stared at each other for an endless moment, their eyes conveying words their lips could not. Then Callum slowly rose to his feet. “I’m ready.”

  When Isla returned to the Great Hall, she curtsied to the king and queen but ignored her mother completely.

  “Daughter—”

  “Do not speak,” she snarled. “You are the worst woman I’ve ever known. The worst mother. Fortunately, good shall triumph and your spite, your evil will not succeed. Now, you are dead to me. I renounce the Sutherlands and shall think of you no more.”

  Anne gasped in outrage, but Isla turned her shoulder away. This woman she’d tried so hard to please, had begged for attention and love from, was now as insignificant as an ant.

  Please God, let Callum win.

  After Isla departed, Callum waited for a few minutes with Alastair in the chamber. Neither spoke, but their hands remained clasped, the narrow green ribbon binding them to Isla even when she wasn’t with them. Then, they disengaged and walked side by side back to the Great Hall.

  Never had he felt such fury.

  He’d endured many slights in his life, but tried to remain fair and just. To improve himself and the lives of the others around him. The only reason he’d entered this tourney was to save his clan from destruction; that he’d not only found the woman of his dreams, but also renewed and strengthened his love for Alastair, was a wonderful addition.

  However, as so often happened in his life, there were those who conspired against him and wished him harm. And as always, curse him to purgatory, Red stood at the center.

  In childhood, it had been Red who encouraged others to throw stones, to mock Callum’s English mother and humiliate him in front of his father. As a grown man, that spite and greed and selfishness had only become worse.

  However, today’s act was beyond all.

  He’d seen the look that Red and Lady Sutherland exchanged after he defeated Sir Leslie. One that spoke of an unholy alliance. But never had Callum thought it would be an attempted poisoning that would unleash this need for vengeance. In the Great Hall he had to be more than a man of words; for a chance at love and happiness he’d scarcely dared to hope for, was on offer. Three points stood between him and victory over his cousin. And nothing would stop him. Not insults, not threats, not trickery, and certainly not his roiling gut.

  Callum winced. While he hoped his retching and dose of herbed water had been enough to halt the flow of poison into his body, it was hard to be sure. He had nearly downed an entire goblet of wine, and Lily of the Valley was a harmful plant. Certainly not deadly like Belladonna, English Yew, or Water Hemlock, but still enough to make a body very ill. God forbid he succumb to any sudden body purges during the fight. That would be a woeful tale to follow him for the rest of his life.

  “My laird…” said Alastair, with a gentle squeeze to his shoulder. “Is there anything you need?”

  “Just those I love,” he whispered.

  His squire stared at him, tenderness and fierce pride in his eyes. “Good fortune.”

  The king rang his bell, and the guests and envoys took thei
r seats. “Welcome back. This tourney started with thirty men, and now just two remain, each hoping to win the hand of Lady Isla. To my right, the MacDonald of Carnoch!”

  Loud cheers sounded in the hall, and Callum gritted his teeth. If they knew Red as he did, would his cousin still have this support? It was hard to know with the wheels of favor in the Scottish court ever-turning.

  “And to my left, Callum MacIntyre, Lord of Glennoe!”

  Generous applause followed, alongside some raucous whoops, and he stifled a smile. Yes, everyone else expected Red to win, but Isla and Alastair, and his unexpected supporters Lady Marjorie and Lady Janet, would urge him on every moment of the swordfight. Maybe even the king as well.

  Sir Lachlan stood between him and Red, an immovable man-mountain of judgment and justice. “Clasp hands.”

  Red smirked and held out his hand. “Cousin. At least you are well used to defeat, having enjoyed it for a lifetime.”

  “Cousin,” Callum replied, clasping it for the least time possible, before stepping back.

  “The rules of engagement…have not changed,” said Sir Lachlan. “First man to three points…shall be the victor. Stop and start…on my command. No blades to the head. Trickery or misdeeds…shall be punished harshly. Here are your longswords.”

  Red took his and strolled to the center of the Great Hall, waving to the guests seated on benches either side of him. Callum glanced at Isla then Alastair; both nodded in encouragement. Bolstered by their support and the green ribbon wound around his wrist that symbolized their trio, he set his stance. Left foot forward, both hands gripping the sword hilt next to his right cheek. Isla had tutored him, Alastair had massaged him, now it was time for his part.

  The king rang his bell. “Begin!”

  Red swung his sword in a wide arc. “Come to me, cousin. Show everyone your measure, small though it may be.”

  Ignoring the taunt, Callum circled him and attempted a few false cuts, just to see what Red would do. While his cousin was much taller and stronger, his feet did not move overmuch. Red expected to win easily with a series of single blows. Because of Isla, Callum now knew ways to halt that. It would take speed, graceful footwork, and near-perfect timing; not to mention a few miracles for him to not curl up on the Hall floor with belly gripes as his herbal tonic fought its own battle with the plant poison.

  But he had a chance.

  Callum lunged and swung his blunted sword in a sharp downward cut. The clash of steel echoed in the Hall, and the shudder that went through his arms almost provoked a stomach purge, but he’d surprised his cousin. That much was clear.

  Red laughed as they circled one another. “How are you feeling? Quite well?”

  “Well enough to leap through a valley of lilies,” he replied, baring his teeth.

  His cousin’s eyes widened, before he attacked with a straight thrust. Yet as was forever his trouble, Callum dropped his elbow and his attempt to deflect was weak. Red lunged again with a horizontal strike, and Callum’s sword fell to the floor.

  “One point, MacDonald,” said Sir Lachlan.

  Emboldened, Red fought as he’d done against Sir Leslie, trying to overwhelm with a flurry of cuts. Callum blocked the first, the second, the third…but the fourth was one of those swooping hawks that Isla had spoken of, and again it was Callum’s sword on the floor as the guests and envoys cheered for Red.

  “Two points, MacDonald,” said Sir Lachlan.

  The words sounded like a reprimand. Callum didn’t need to look at Alastair or Isla to know they would be almost clawing their chairs not to intervene.

  Speed. Footwork. Timing.

  Think, Callum.

  Red circled close. “One point away from my wedding night. I shall enjoy breaking the little bitch. Even more so knowing you care for her, and she you…”

  With a feral snarl, Callum swung his sword hard in a right upward cut. Caught flat-footed, Red’s block was clumsy, and when Callum tried again from the left, his opponent’s sword dislodged from his hands onto the floor.

  “One point, Glennoe!” Sir Lachlan bellowed.

  Fury darkened Red’s face as he collected his sword, then lunged with a straight thrust. However, this time Callum neatly stepped aside, then diagonally. As Red’s arms were up, exposing his belly a little, Callum brought his sword around in a horizontal slash. His cousin wasn’t quite swift enough to block it, not only receiving a cut to the arm for his trouble, but losing his sword once more.

  “Two points, Glennoe!” said Sir Lachlan, a tiny smile lifting his lips. “The next point…shall decide the victor.”

  “Weak, mewling scum,” spat Red. “Son of an English witch and friend to the lowborn sinner. I’ll have your woman, and your lands soon enough. You’ll always be nothing and no one.”

  Callum laughed. It hurt his stomach, but the shock on his cousin’s face was worth the discomfort. “You bray like a mule. Always have.”

  Roaring the MacDonald battle cry, Red rushed forward. His intent was clear: while his sword tip might be blunted, he intended to maim with the blade.

  Speed. Footwork. Timing.

  An odd sense of calm washed through him, clearing his mind and easing his stomach. The world around him seemed to slow, while he became swifter. Gripping his longsword tightly, Callum advanced and swung hard in an upward cut, before Red had completed his downward thrust. Their blades screeched and hissed, but Callum had planned for this and absorbed the agonizing shudder. Then he stepped and cut again and again without halting. Left. Right. Horizontal. Upward. Downward. Every movement hurt and his back was drenched in sweat, but he didn’t permit his cousin to attack. Instead, Red was forced to defend and defend until he actually began to retreat.

  And stumbled.

  Strike as a swooping hawk.

  Callum almost heard Isla’s command in his ear. Lifting his sword above his head, he swung it down from right to left with all his might, dislodging his opponent’s sword. Red fell onto his arse, unleashing a guttural wail of despair as his weapon tumbled to the floor, the hilt bouncing once, twice, before settling with a noisy clatter.

  For a long moment the only sound in the Hall was Callum gasping for breath as he mopped the sweat from his forehead with a shirtsleeve.

  And then it came.

  A soul-stirring sound he’d never heard before, one that started as a murmur and became louder and louder until it near lifted the roof of the Great Hall. “Cruachan. Cruachan. Cruachan!”

  The king and queen, the guests and envoys, bellowing the MacIntyre battle cry…for him.

  Tears blurring his vision, Callum raised his sword in acknowledgment. But his gaze darted between his two loves, Alastair and Isla. Who even now were running to him with arms outstretched, their joy plain to see.

  To celebrate his triumph.

  Needing to feel them both in his arms, he waited until he was swept up in the tightest embrace imaginable. Then he tilted his head back, and roared his victory:

  “CRUACHAN.”

  Chapter 11

  Now, he believed in miracles.

  Alastair pressed his fist to his mouth so he didn’t bawl like a babe at the sight of Callum and Isla standing in front of the altar in the king’s chapel, hands clasped, as the Bishop of Stirling joined them in holy matrimony.

  In truth, his heartbeat still had not slowed after the events of the afternoon. Drinking poisoned wine. Isla running to warn them. The terrible purging with the sweetly affectionate aftermath. Then the swordfight, where Red had surged ahead with two points, before Callum rallied to defeat him.

  Without a doubt, his hair would be silver on the morrow.

  Once the ceremony was complete, the king rose from his chair, his face wreathed in smiles. “My heartiest congratulations to Callum and Isla MacIntyre, the Lord and Lady of Glennoe! There is but one more act to complete…a formal written alliance between the MacIntyre and Sutherland clans, full payment of dowry, and pledge of future support without interference. I ask that each of you present
bear witness as Lord and Lady Sutherland come forward and acknowledge this decree from their sovereign.”

  Alastair’s eyes widened with admiration. A royal decree. Approval for the marriage, couched in such terms that the Sutherlands could not protest nor renounce it without committing offences against the crown. The great warlord and his iron lady from the north might be furious with the tourney result, and that their misdeeds had failed, but they had no choice but to sign the document in front of the bishop and so many witnesses.

  With stony faces, the Sutherlands did as they were bid, then retreated.

  “Excellent,” said James. “Now, let us go and celebrate in my presence chamber. Master Graham, you may join us on this special occasion.”

  Alastair’s gaze met Callum and Isla’s; his own frustration mirrored in their eyes. Much as they were grateful, the three of them wished to be alone. But unwilling to slight the king, they followed him to the presence chamber along with Sir Lachlan, Lady Marjorie, and Lady Janet.

  All accepted a goblet of wine. None sipped from it.

  James grinned at Callum as the seven of them stood in a small circle beside a window, the setting sun giving them all a peach-like glow. “You aged me at least ten years, Glennoe. What say you?”

  Callum hesitated. “Might I ask a question, Your Grace? A delicate question?”

  “I cannot say you shall receive an answer, but yes.”

  “I feel like this week I have been shown favor. Granted small boons. Had secrets kept.”

  The king exchanged a glance with Sir Lachlan, and his grin widened. “Do you now?”

  “Why did you help me?”

  “Why did you help us?” added Isla boldly.

  “Because,” their sovereign said softly, his expression now solemn, “I believe in justice, of right overcoming wrong. But more so, I believe in the courage of men and women who fight for love, even if they break the rules.”

  Lady Janet snorted, yet she glanced affectionately at the king. “Aye, but you’ll never know this until after the great trial. His Grace reveals no plans. But he does know the happenings in every hallway of his castles.”