Page 23 of Wicked Passions

Her cheeks went pink at those final words. All three exchanged heated glances; it seemed they remembered the previous afternoon’s pleasures as vividly as he.

Alastair met Isla’s gaze. “Why don’t you hold the bow, lady? We should like to see your grip.”

“I would enjoy that,” she replied with such a falsely demure smile, he coughed once more.

When Isla demonstrated that she handled the weapon as well as any man earlier, she leaned close again. “I am curious, Callum. What did the MacDonald of Carnoch say to you after he succeeded with his final arrow?”

Alastair snorted. “Knowing Red, it would have centered around himself.”

“You are acquainted with the laird? Oh, wait. Of course, you must be. Your lands are both in the Western Highlands?”

“Red’s lands border mine to the north east,” said Callum stiffly, all amusement gone from his face. “He is also my cousin. His mother is my late father’s older sister.”

“What did he say, Callum?” she whispered. “For I saw it angered and distracted you, and that cannot happen again.”

“I’d rather not repeat something so vile. But Red would not be a good husband unto you.”

Isla put her hands on her hips and glared. “Listen carefully, laird. I welcome friends who stand beside me or protect my back. But friends who stand in front of me in a misguided attempt to protect my maidenly eyes and ears will get a firm kick up the arse. I am a Sutherland. I know the twists and turns of court, and the worst impulses of men. I’ve heard the jests, and the threats. What do you think was said when my fall at St. Andrews revealed I was a lass? Do you think they cheered and said well done, Isla?”

Alastair sent his laird a stern look. “Tell us.”

Callum rubbed a hand across his jaw. “Forgive me. I do not mean to belittle, only to spare you distress.”

Her gaze softened. “You have a gentle soul. But I will expect my husband to share all with me. The good and the bad. To trust me, as I shall trust him.”

Leaning forward, Callum beckoned them closer, so their faces almost touched. “He said a proud, defiant bitch needed to learn her place. With whip if necessary. See, I told you it was vile.”

Alastair’s stomach turned. He’d never liked Red. As the only son of the MacDonald laird, he’d been spoiled which had turned him cruel and spiteful. When he’d grown into a tall, bullish man and then became laird himself, those flaws only worsened. Red’s decisions were made for the benefit of Red and no one else. He was about as far apart in character from Callum as it was possible to be; if Alastair had not known both men nearly his whole life, he would not believe they were even related.

“Hell-spawned devil,” he snarled under his breath.

“Indeed,” said Isla, as she handed back Callum’s bow. “That is why it is even more important you improve your longsword skills, Callum. Expect a lad to visit your cottage.”

“Good day, lady,” Alastair bellowed. “We both hope you feel better soon.”

“Thank you, kind sirs,” she replied weakly over her shoulder as she trudged back outside to the field.

When they were alone, Alastair attempted a teasing grin. “Come, lord of the bow. The king will have another gold coin for you, then we must oil that sword of yours.”

Callum’s answering smile was grim at best.

The stakes were only getting higher.

* * *

“Maybe I shouldn’t go to the feast. Maybe the king would be impressed and offer further favor if I stayed and sat with you. He is difficult to read at times.”

As her mother paced and pondered aloud beside her bed, Isla resisted the urge to shriek with frustration. Anne Sutherland had not coddled an upset, scraped knee, or belly gripe in her entire life; she had servants for that. But tonight she thought to play at cooing and fretting?

“I just need to rest, Mother,” Isla replied, careful not to let any irritation show. That would only invite suspicion, and then she would never get to Callum and Alastair’s cottage. “And have someone sing my praises at the feast. Who better than you?”

Anne nodded. “That is true. Your father will spend all his time discussing politics or battles, then jest that you could defeat the entrants in swordplay. Imagine that, your greatest flaw beside your wretched willfulness, pronounced as a virtue! No, you are correct, daughter. I must go and ensure they all know that despite your unfortunate looks, to take you to wife is to receive a great dowry, a great alliance, and with my own example and that of your sisters, an excellent chance of a fertile womb.”

Under the quilt, Isla’s fists clenched. “Yes, Mother. Dowry. Alliance. Womb. That is the best of me.”

“Rest now,” said her mother, but she was already halfway across the chamber. “Should you need anything, Morag will assist.”

Aye, she would. As she always had, because Morag cared in truth, not when it made her look favorable in front of others.