Page 2 of Wicked Passions

A grand feast? No. Too short.

Accompanying the king and queen on a royal progress? No. Too costly.

A tourney?

Isla’s heart leaped. Such an event would bring together many men. Strong, salt of the earth warriors who might even admire her gift with a sword. In that group, surely at least one with a good and faithful heart. And skilled at bedsport…

She took a deep breath. “Your Grace, I humbly suggest a tourney.”

Gasps echoed around the presence chamber. The stares of the courtiers grew even more disapproving. Yet Lady Janet winked and the king looked…interested.

“A tourney?” he mused as he adjusted his heavy purple mantle. “Go on.”

“If it pleases you,” Isla said slowly. “Send word to the four corners of Scotland that a great royal tourney is to be held. All who enter must be of suitable rank, with a squire to assist. The prize would be…my hand in marriage and all that entails.”

Silence greeted her announcement, surely the longest in history. But with her entire future at stake, she forced her gaze to remain on the king.

Eventually, James nodded. “I know my queen would enjoy such a spectacle. And there are many in my realm who would value the chance to win the hand of such a fair maiden.”

Isla nearly snorted. The king was a gallant, but she held no illusions over her charms or lack thereof. Unlike her mother and sisters, all flaxen-haired, buxom beauties, she had her sire’s pitch-black curly hair and moss-green eyes. She was neither tall nor short, with narrow hips, coltish limbs, and breasts barely big enough to fill a bodice. Yet as she well knew, her looks were by the by. It was money and an alliance that mattered, and the last Sutherland heiress would tempt even a reluctant suitor.

“Thank you, Your Grace,” she said politely.

James stood and clapped his hands together. “Let it be known…a week hence, Stirling shall host a grand tourney open to all unwed men ranked knight, lord, or laird. There’ll be five events, determined by me. The victor wins Lady Isla as his wife, and shall receive her dowry, the friendship of the Sutherland clan, and a gift of cloth from the royal household. I look forward to an event celebrating the best of Scotland. That is all.”

Isla curtsied again, near-giddy with anticipation. While it would take a miracle for a handsome, honorable man to enter a tourney without knowing the events, and be skilled at them all, and have good fortune throughout, at least she now had a sliver of hope for a happy future.

Far, far better than no hope at all.

* * *

Glennoe Castle, on the shores of Loch Etive

Western Highlands

Failure.

As he stared out the second-floor window of the small stone castle he called home, the word pounded Callum MacIntyre’s head like a battering ram at the gates. In the past, when the cares of being a young laird threatened to overwhelm him, he’d been comforted by this view: the cold, deep waters of the sea loch, and the craggy, imposing presence of Ben Cruachan, the mountainous guardian of the glen.

Not anymore.

The coffers were nearly empty; the weaving house—source of most of the clan’s income—razed to the ground in a brutal raid; and the mighty neighboring clan, the devil-spawned Campbells, continued to circle and swoop like a golden eagle toying with a plump field mouse.

Since his reckless father’s death six months ago, Callum had tried his best to heal the breaches, to make peace and expand trade. But he was an oddity in the Highlands: a nondescript laird of twenty-five summers, average height and lean build, fair hair and gray eyes, the reserved scholar who preferred negotiation to swords. His rule had always been precarious. Now it seemed the whispers were growing even louder to get rid of him: our laird should be a true Highlander. Not a cursed halfling, spawn of an Englishwoman who calls herself healer but is really a witch…

“Callum. Are ye listening? Now is not the time for daydreaming!”

Stifling a growl at the disrespect, he turned to gaze upon Rory ‘Red’ MacDonald. Red was pure Highland stock; a tall, strapping, battle-hardened bull with flaming auburn hair. As he was also laird of his clan branch, the son of Callum’s aunt, and ten years older, many viewed him as the true leader of the MacIntyre clan.

Callum tried not to hate anyone. But his cousin made it difficult.

“I heard you, Red,” he replied evenly. “Once again insisting I wed a MacDonald lass and bring my clan under your protection.”

“’Tis the only way! Unless you wish further Campbell evil?”

“It is not the only way. Just a plan to ensure my name ceases to exist. And I won’t have that, not when we fought so long to be recognized by the king and council and admitted to the Clan Chattan Confederation.”

“What a proud fool ye are,” said Red, his lips twisting with scorn. “And who will pay for that? Your people. Any more bloodshed will be on your hands.”