Page 13 of Wicked Passions

“You also assume that all other entrants are beloved. From the character demonstrated so far, I hardly believe that. If they treat you badly, how do you think they treat their tenants and servants? Strangers?”

Callum held up his hands, stifling a grin at the endearing irritability. “Very well, old man. Do not lose your voice lecturing me.”

“Old man? I am three years your senior. And as vigorous and lusty as any here.”

Another truth.

His bound feet had tingled after Alastair applied the numbing clove oil, but that sensation was nothing compared to the way his heart pounded and cock throbbed at the foot massage. He’d yearned then to not be laird, just a man who could indulge his desire for another man in the privacy of their own cottage. While his mind might try to forget, his needy body well remembered the rasp of Alastair’s beard, the teasing lap of his tongue, and the brutal plunge of his huge cock.

A discreet cough jolted him from such ribald thoughts.

“Beg pardon, laird.”

“Yes?” he replied, smiling at the guard wearing the king’s livery and holding a large sack.

The man bowed. “In this sack are wooden squares painted six different colors. One color for each race, all those who select a blue square will race together and so forth. Each race will have five entrants; the first three will progress to the archery, the last two must retire from the tourney. Is that clear?”

“Indeed. Thank you.”

“Choose your color, laird.”

Callum delved into the sack and withdrew a square. “Green.”

“Much obliged. Oh, green is the final race. Good fortune to you.”

He groaned inwardly as the man made a note on his parchment before moving along to the next tent. Of course, it would be the final race, allowing him ample time to fret.

“Cousin,” said Red, sauntering into the tent without invitation. “Bringing the MacIntyre name into disrepute already, I see. Are those bandages on your feet?”

“Good morrow,” Callum replied stiffly. Red wore nothing but hose, his massive chest and shoulders glistening with oil, his feet bare. God’s blood, he looked like a champion.

“Oh, you’re in the green race. Shame. I hoped we might run against each other. I’m in the yellow race, which looks to be the most competitive.”

“Shame indeed, Rory,” said Alastair, clapping him hard on the shoulder.

Red glared at him, for he disliked his birth name. Then a sly smile lifted his lips. “I would stay, but I am invited to the royal pavilion to sit awhile with the Sutherlands. Lady Isla’s request, I believe…safe travels back to Loch Etive, Callum.”

His cousin actually whistled a cheery tune as he crossed the field to the pavilion, and Callum barely refrained from spitting in his general direction.

“Bah,” said Alastair. “May his feet find every thistle and stone this field has to offer. I would give my last coin to see him fall on his face and finish last. Then we can wish him safe travels home.”

Callum grinned reluctantly. “That would be most satisfying.”

“Aye. Now, let’s set this bench outside so we might watch the other races.”

At first glance, the half-mile event seemed easy. Run the length of the field, around a flagpole raising the king’s standard, then back. But as the first four races progressed in a blur of color, movement, and loud cheers, he saw athletic men falter. And each time, three men were jubilant, while two sank to their knees in despair, forced to leave the field.

Then came Red’s race, the yellow group.

Callum prayed for a miracle: his cousin twisting an ankle, tripping over another, being overtaken at the finish. Naturally God ignored him, and that gleaming oiled chest led the race from start to end, to loud applause.

Plague take it, as his squire would say.

They made their way to the starting line, and Sir Lachlan Ross stepped forward. “The last race! Green group, gather round.”

Alastair gripped his shoulder. “You are an excellent runner, laird. Your feet are ready. Go well. I’ll be waiting here to celebrate with you.”

Callum took a deep breath, his stomach churning with anxiety. How did Alastair believe, when he did not? But he joined the line of four other men; an older knight from Edinburgh, two border lords, and a laird from somewhere near Inverness.