Page 11 of Wicked Passions

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He’d known it wouldn’t take long for the games to begin—the jests, the pointed questions, the exclusion from gatherings of other entrants—but that ‘noble’ men could be so petty never failed to irritate him.

Alastair ground his teeth as weak rays of sunlight attempted to warm the cobblestoned inner close of Stirling Castle and Callum explained, once again, that he was a laird. Yes, he owned castle and lands. No, the members of his clan weren’t cows, sheep, and rabbits. No, he didn’t require a wooden block to stand on so he might be seen. And all the while, that hell-spawned Red MacDonald stood and smirked rather than offering even a hint of family loyalty.

His laird had the patience of a saint. If their positions were reversed, there would be a pile of high-ranking men at the foot of the cliffs surrounding the castle. And Red would be at the very bottom of that pile.

“Tell me, Glenbow, is it?” said one ruddy-cheeked border lord. “What are your thoughts on the foot race, this day? Not anxious that you’ll be trampled, are you?”

Callum smiled. “Glennoe. I look forward to testing my skill against the other four men in my race.”

“No doubt. Could be quite an advantage being so small and slight.”

Red chuckled as he lounged against the steps of the Great Hall. “All those years being chased by chickens will finally bear fruit, cousin.”

Raucous laughter echoed in the inner close, and it took several deep breaths for Alastair to contain his temper and not rearrange the collection of weak jaws. Earlier in the morning the noblemen had been on their best behavior in the cool, dark, incense-scented chapel, all devout and stately as though envoys of God himself. Then they’d turned into fawning flatterers as they’d greeted Lady Isla and her mother, praising everything but their toenails. The only gratifying moment had been the way Lady Isla’s forced smile turned genuine when it rested on him and Callum. Ah, she was a beauty.

But out here in the large paved space between the King’s House and the Great Hall, it seemed all gloves were off, and entrant’s claws unleashed. He’d had quite enough and was ready to accept Lady Isla’s offer on Callum’s behalf no matter what objections he had. None of these pompous fools deserved a bold lady sword fighter at their side and sharing their bed.

“We shall see you on the field at noon,” said Alastair shortly. “Good day to you all.”

Callum inclined his head. “My lords. Sirs.”

Somehow, he managed again to hold his tongue until they were on the path back to the cottage. “They may all go—”

“Wait for thick stone walls,” said Callum. “Please.”

By the time they were inside the cottage and had the door latched, Alastair’s head was on the verge of explosion.

“Why?” he burst out. “Why do you let them speak to you like that? Especially Red? I know you prefer to be a peacemaker, but sometimes you must let loose that warrior inside you.”

“Ah, Alastair,” said his laird, sinking into a wooden chair, before pouring himself a goblet of wine, and downing it in a single gulp. “I think you may be the only soul on this earth apart from Mother who believes that I’m a warrior. Affection blindfolds you.”

“You pay far too much heed to your father’s words.”

Callum frowned. “If I did possess a fighting spirit, I would be skilled with a sword. I’m not.”

“So, you’ll accept Lady Isla’s help, then. Excellent.”

“I have not made that decision as yet.”

Alastair rubbed an impatient hand against his bearded jaw. How did he convince Callum of his worth when he judged his whole existence on what his late father had declared acceptable or nay? As often happened after an old laird passed, feats and victories were made greater, while weaknesses were set aside. Weaknesses like a hot temper, closed mind, or favoring a nephew over his own son because Red was taller and stronger and preferred fighting over learning.

But there was no point arguing. Not now, at least, when there was an event to prepare for. “Shall I bind your feet for the race?”

Callum smiled gratefully, although it was hard to know whether for the offer, or the change in subject. A subject they would return to, if Alastair had his way.

“Please. There are some linen bandages in my satchel, also a little clove oil to numb the soles of my feet. Then I won’t feel it so much if they get cut or bruised. Fields can be traps for the unwary, no matter how green and welcoming they look.”

“Clever,” said Alastair, finding the items, then returning to kneel on the thick rug. “Give me your foot.”

“There are many benefits in having a mother who is a healer,” Callum replied as he removed his shoes and lower stockings and placed his right foot in Alastair’s lap. “I find it reassuring that there are ways to ease all manner of ills, natural and unnatural.”

His laird’s foot was narrow and smooth yet quite large, and unable to halt himself, Alastair began with a gentle massage to warm the flesh. A low gasp made him raise his head to see Callum shudder and part his thighs a little. Emboldened, Alastair slid his hands up, rubbing the younger man’s ankle, his calf, his knee, until Callum moaned.

“If I didn’t know better,” he murmured, “I might think you love this, that you crave my touch.”

Callum swallowed hard. “It’s just…it’s just preparation. For the race.”