Page 14 of Wicked Passions

“I will call stand,” said Sir Lachlan, in his gruff, halting tone, for he had a speech affliction. “Then steady. Then blow one trumpet blast. That is your call…to run. Anyone who goes early…is out. Anyone who interferes…with another runner…out.”

He stared grimly down the field at the flag pole, which from here looked a thousand miles away. Next, unable to quell his curiosity, Callum glanced at the pavilion. Lady Isla stood at the front of the royal enclosure, her hands resting on the wooden frame. She did not wave, or make any movement, but he could feel that emerald gaze upon him.

“Stand!”

He tensed, his heart pounding.

“Steady!”

It seemed like forever, but a trumpet blast pierced the air, and Callum launched himself into action, his bandaged feet pounding the ground in a steady rhythm as he ran hard toward the flagpole. Soon an odd calm wrapped around him, the gasping breaths and thudding feet of his fellow runners, the yells and cheers of the crowd, all fading away to nothing. Had one man already fallen behind? He didn’t dare look to confirm, not when it might cost him time or a misstep. At last, he reached the flagpole and ran around it, trying to keep his pace steady and his body as close to the pole as possible so not to cover extra distance.

God’s blood, the finish line was far away.

You can do this. For Alastair and Isla.

His feet ached, his lungs burned, but Callum forced himself to charge on, the way he had as a child when chased by lads with stones and rotten fruit, calling him witch’s spawn.

How much farther? My chest is going to burst.

There it is! There is the line!

He lowered his head, hurling himself forward to cross it, before tumbling onto the ground in an exhausted heap.

“Laird.”

Alastair’s voice pierced the fog around him, and he sat up, unsure if he could bear the answer to his question.

“Did I…” he choked out.

His squire grinned. “Aye, you damned well did. Second of five! We continue on to the archery round. But now I beseech you…accept kindness from those who offer.”

Callum flopped back onto the ground. After the king had been so kind; even the thought of disobeying a royal edict made him feel ill. And sword fighting held enough bad memories to send an icy shiver down his spine.

But now that he’d met the bold and beautiful Lady Isla, talked to her and kissed her hand…he would never forgive himself if his timidity led to a bad marriage for her. There was also the fact that she liked him. Had said so. Rather than a union of cold duty, wedding such a bold and sensual woman could be rather pleasant indeed.

He took a slow, deep breath. “Very well.”

Chapter 4

Eighteen men remained in the tourney, his laird was one of them, and he’d just agreed to accept Lady Isla’s help.

Relieved beyond measure, Alastair crouched next to where Callum lay sprawled on the ground recovering his breath. In truth, he needed to recover also. Watching that race, his heart had been in his mouth the entire time. His laird had started strongly but he’d begun to tire as he rounded the flagpole, and for a few sweat-inducing moments he’d been fifth. But in the last hundred feet or so, Callum had proven to all he had the will of a champion as he passed three of the men to finish a mighty second.

“Here,” he said, handing Callum the flagon of small ale he’d packed into the medicine satchel. “You’ve earned it.”

His laird smiled gratefully as he took a gulp. “I know it was only a half mile, but it feels like I ran the length of Scotland.”

“Aye, well, you’re faring far better than most. The defeated twelve and their squires have left the field already; but those who remain are in varying states of health. Five have purged their stomachs, three are having their feet treated for cuts, and several are still wheezing despite finishing their race a quarter hour ago.”

“Really?” said Callum, blinking.

Alastair stifled a sigh. The old laird, and that wretched Red had a lot to answer for, pecking away at Callum’s spirit like two evil roosters. But he was spared the need to further comment when a liveried guard from the royal enclosure approached and inclined his head at Callum.

“Beg pardon, laird. His Grace the king, Her Grace the queen, and the Earl and Countess of Sutherland request you attend them at the pavilion so you might be recognized for your first day achievement.”

“Of course,” said Callum as he scrambled to his feet, and soon they all stood in front of their delighted king.

“My lords, lairds, knights, and squires,” called James, resplendent in purple velvet and gold chains of state as he leaned on the wooden frame and thumped it enthusiastically. “What a magnificent day of competition, ably judged by Sir Lachlan! Twelve entrants have left us, but you remain to be celebrated for your athletic prowess. Each of you shall receive a gold coin, to be presented by Queen Margaret and Lady Isla.”