Page 31 of Wicked Passions

“The king and queen approach,” Anne hissed.

Isla sank into a curtsy, her gold-embroidered brown velvet gown swirling around her legs. Today promised to be unusually warm; already she could feel sweat gathering under her gable hood. Others in the crowd might envy her being in the royal pavilion, but with so many people in an enclosed space, the stench of food and overheated bodies could be nauseating.

“Ah,” said the king with a friendly smile. “Lady Isla and her dear mother. Good morrow to you both. Lady Sutherland, would you indulge my queen in some advice about her wardrobe? She admires you so.”

Anne inclined her head, but irritation flashed in her eyes. “It would be an honor, Your Grace.”

“My thanks. Lady Isla, shall we greet your suitors? Just twelve left vying for your hand.”

She forced herself to nod. It annoyed her when the king spoke as though she had a choice, when she did not. In truth, she hated the trite words and pretty lies of court, the never-ending intrigues and hypocrisy. Give her plain-speaking, honest men any day. “Certainly, Your Grace. If I might ask one boon…have mercy on my complexion and do not ask me to tarry long in the sunshine. Freckles are the very devil and lemon juice is not nearly successful enough in removing them.”

James quirked a knowing eyebrow at her pitiful excuse. But ever the gallant, he held out his arm. “Of course. I would be a poor sovereign indeed if I did not protect such a delicate Scottish flower.”

“Your Grace!” called a liveried servant as he ran forward clutching a short scroll. “An urgent message from the bishop.”

The king frowned. “I must see to this. Hmmm…”

“Might I assist and escort Lady Isla to meet her suitors?” said Lady Marjorie Ross, rising from her cushioned chair in the pavilion.

“I would be most obliged, madam,” said James, kissing her hand before marching away.

Isla glanced at the other woman in relief. Sir Lachlan’s convent-raised wife was of a similar age yet startlingly beautiful, with brown hair, blue eyes, and lush curves. But Lady Marjorie was also sweet and delightfully pert, a woman brave enough to defy the queen’s edict to wed an English border lord and instead follow her heart. That she also loved and lusted after Lady Janet only made her more interesting. “Good morrow, my lady.”

“Good morrow,” said Lady Marjorie with an impish grin. “I’m happy to be ill all over the shoes of any man you dislike and blame it on my belly.”

“That is a very kind offer,” said Isla, smiling in return, “but Sir Lachlan would rampage if he thought you were unwell.”

“Alas, yes. He is even more protective now I’m with child. Shall we walk?”

The two women linked arms and made their way to the center of the field where the twelve remaining men stood, awaiting the start of the stone put. This event celebrated pure strength—in two groups of six, each man would throw a large and heavy-looking river stone twice. The best eight would receive a third throw, but only six would advance to the revels.

The sheer size of the other entrants compared to Callum had Isla’s stomach roiling. For the past few days, she had refused to consider him not progressing. Now, the fear was bone-chillingly real.

Isla swallowed hard. “I do not favor this foolish event. Throwing a rock. Bah.”

“I am praying for your favorite. Janet is also,” murmured Lady Marjorie.

She glanced sharply at the other woman. “My favorite?”

“Come now. We have seen the way you look at Glennoe. And his squire.”

A hot blush scorched Isla’s cheeks. “Er…”

Lady Marjorie giggled. “Aha! That is the face of a lady who has broken more rules. I heartily approve. May I add,” she said, her voice lowering to the barest whisper, “it is quite, quite wonderful having a husband and a lover. To be part of a trio. Stay strong. Happiness is there for the taking.”

“I want that,” Isla blurted. “But…”

“No buts. Just greet your suitors like they all matter to you. From my experience, no one must know the plan or preference. Not by a twitch.”

Isla nodded at the wise counsel. “Aye.”

When they reached the men, they first greeted a young border lord. Somehow Isla smiled and made conversation, and did the same for two battle-hardened knights, the laird of clan MacLeod, and the wily, silver-haired Lord Spalding. Yet then came the MacDonald of Carnoch, and knowing what he’d said about her, and that neither Callum nor Alastair could abide him, she couldn’t even muster a smile.

“Carnoch,” said Marjorie coolly. “I see you are ready to heave the stone put all the way to the village. But you have misplaced your shirt. Or torn it, maybe?”

The laird, clad only in hose, chuckled as he bowed with a flourish. “Come now, my lady. We are about to perform great feats in the sunshine and a shirt might impede my throw. Highlanders are not usually so modest. Wouldn’t you agree, Lady Isla?”

She barely refrained from spitting on his bare feet. No doubt many women fell prey to that smile and those broad shoulders, but to her the laird was less appealing than a serpent. Especially when compared to the finest of men like Callum and Alastair.