Page 32 of Wicked Passions

“I say His Grace declares the rules of the tourney and would not speak against him,” Isla said sweetly. “But cry to no one if the sun and wind turn you as red as a holly berry.”

Carnoch scowled. “I do not cry. Other men will, as you’ll soon see.”

“We are eager to see fine throwing,” said Marjorie, dismissing him with a turn of her head. “Ah, Glennoe! How do you fare?”

Callum stepped forward, Alastair at his side, and both men bowed. “Well indeed, Lady Marjorie. And you?”

“Excellent.”

“Lady Isla?”

At the sound of her name on his lips, Isla clasped her hands so she did not throw her arms about Callum, the kind, affectionate laird who had watched her swordplay and assisted her to a powerful release the previous evening. The man whose hard cock she had handled, whose seed had splashed upon her naked breasts as his low roar echoed in the room. Nor could she embrace his squire, the blunt, sensual beast who had yielded to her sword then introduced her to such forbidden pleasures; the master who owned her and Callum both.

“Glennoe,” she replied, holding out her hand. “I am well, and wish you good fortune this day.”

“I shall need it,” Callum said ruefully as he took her hand and squeezed it. “Alas, Master Graham cannot heave the stone in my place.”

“Do not fret, lady,” said Alastair, his gaze caressing her when his hand could not. “My laird is ready.”

Marjorie coughed and tugged Isla’s arm. “Glad to hear it. Do not let us keep you from your preparation. Come along, dear lady, still more suitors to greet…”

Isla couldn’t help a glance over her shoulder as she was purposefully ushered away. Of course, she hadn’t been able to say that she cheered only for Callum. Or that she resented each moment away from him and Alastair.

God willing, she would have another opportunity to say so.

* * *

“This tourney may go straight to purgatory.”

His laird’s words were too quiet for anyone but him to hear, but the sentiment was louder than a bellow in the tent. They had returned here after speaking with Isla, unwilling to wait and fret with the other men. Or watch bloody Red strut about.

Alastair paused in kneading Callum’s shoulders, an activity probably assisting him more than his lover. If he didn’t do something, he would go mad. “You finished second in your foot race and were named lord of the bow. All is proceeding to plan.”

“What if I am the first man in stone put history to not even lift it, let alone hurl it? The devil-spawned thing is the size of a crofter’s hut.”

“Aye, it is large and heavy,” he replied solemnly. “But you do not have to defeat all the men here. Only two, to get a third throw. Then two again to progress to the revels. One step at a time, my laird.”

Callum rubbed his face. “I keep thinking of Isla. It is getting very difficult to say nothing in public. About my feelings, I mean. I would never speak of our private time with her, but an action may betray me. A glance, or holding her hand too long.”

Alastair looked away. At least Callum, with lands and castle and title could glance at Isla and hold her hand. Unlike an orphaned squire who possessed only what the MacIntyre clan chose to bestow upon him. It was poison to feel like this but he could not halt it; such was his frustration and resentment that he had to remain silent rather than publicly declare in word and deed that Callum and Isla belonged to him. Never could he wed either, nor drape them in jewels and fine cloth for he had no coin to purchase such items.

He’d always loved Callum. But since meeting Isla, his yearning for a permanent home and family had only strengthened. How did one man say to another after twenty years of close friendship and a few rough fucks in times of emotional turmoil, that he wanted—he needed—not the crumbs but the whole feast? That he wanted to claim him forever, in bed and out? That he wanted to claim Callum’s prospective lady wife as well?

Only the worst fool in Scotland would dream of such a thing.

Probably the worst fool in the entire world.

Alastair grunted. “They’ll think you a gallant. As long as you say nothing about Isla’s true self. You cannot reveal her dreams or desires, for then they’ll wonder how you know.”

“Even the thought of her wedding another…being bedded by another…they won’t know her,” said Callum fiercely. “She’ll never be permitted to sword fight or wear shirt and hose again, and that will kill her soul.”

“That is exactly the thought you must hold close when you reach for that stone. For only a mighty effort on your part will prevent such a bad end.”

Callum turned, his gaze troubled. “What if Red—”

Alastair’s hand shot out and grasped his laird’s chin. “Do not speak of him or think of him,” he murmured. “He is one of twelve. Think of Isla and me. As I thought of you all night, sleeping in my bed alone when I should have been lying next to you. Are you still a little sore, my laird, after taking my cock deep inside you? Do you remember how it felt to have Isla kiss you so sweetly, to hold her in your arms?”

“I remember,” said Callum hoarsely. “Every moment. It was so good.”