Page 34 of Wicked Passions

“Because Alastair Graham has offered instruction? Callum. You’ll never rise to greatness if you surround yourself with lowborn scum. Look what happened to the old king. Bedded men as well as women, took advice from tailors and masons…and was murdered in a barn. Some say a fitting end for such ungodly weakness, I say God will judge those so wretched that not even their own family want them.”

Callum’s fists clenched so hard he could have crushed the river stone to powder. First vile words about Isla, now sly insults and threats directed at him and Alastair. But a surrender to rage was no path to victory. Sir Lachlan would probably not intervene a second time; to succeed in this event he had to shut Red out of his mind.

At last, the stone put began for the second group. The first two men achieved no great distance with their throws, then Red stepped up and passed them by several yards, heaving the river stone as though it were a velvet cushion.

Sweat dampened Callum’s temples. But he set his stance as Alastair had taught him many years ago at Glennoe; the stone balanced in his right hand against his neck with his fingers spread. Elbow high, left foot forward, yet all weight on his right foot.

The stone was heavy. Too heavy. Already his arm ached.

Throw the damned thing.

Moments later he drove hard from his hips, rocking his weight from his right foot to his left as he heaved the stone. It flew a short distance, hit the ground, and flopped forward.

Hmmm.

Not terrible; better than the first two entrants, but well short of Red’s effort. The two men following him both bettered his distance, leaving Callum in fourth position. If they remained this way, he would progress. If one of the first two men improved, he would be the one trudging from the field in shame.

Each stone was measured, then all returned for their second throw.

Callum permitted himself one glance at Alastair, who briefly tapped his elbow, and lifted it. His squire had always scolded him about that, even as a young lad.

“Ready, Callum?” said Red, grinning like a wolf now. “Fourth position, you must be very anxious. Lady Isla is keeping a close eye on you, how does it feel to be pitied so?”

“Maybe it isn’t pity,” he replied.

Red blinked. “Of course it is. What else would she feel for you?”

Fortunately, he did not need to answer, for Sir Lachlan demanded silence before the second throws began. The first man’s distance appeared similar to his first. The second man bettered his. Red stepped up and effortlessly heaved his stone at least a yard further. Gah. Every day it became so much easier to hate him. Then it was Callum’s turn. Again, he set his stance, although this time he purposefully lifted his elbow higher. The stone scraped his neck and his wrist shook under the weight, but he gritted his teeth and heaved it forward with all his might.

A better throw than his first, but he had to wait and see how the last two men fared.

Eventually Sir Lachlan took measurements, then cleared his throat. “I have a decision. The four men…who shall progress are: the MacDonald of Carnoch. Sir David Erskine. Lord Hamilton of Arran. And Callum MacIntyre…Lord of Glennoe.”

He’d done it! He’d cleared the first obstacle.

Callum gulped in air as the crowd cheered and when he looked over at the royal pavilion, Isla beamed at him, which dulled his aches and pains a little. Now Sir Lachlan was directing his men to widen the roped area to allow for eight men rather than six, so Callum took the brief respite to hurry over to Alastair. “Well?”

“That second throw was much better,” said his squire, as he took Callum’s arm and began expertly stretching his shoulder. “Higher elbow. Do that again, and you’ll be dancing with Isla tomorrow at the revels. One more throw, that’s all it is. Better than two other men. You can do this, my laird, I know you can.”

Once again, he wanted to wrap his arms around Alastair for his unwavering support. “I couldn’t have got this far without you. I—”

But the trumpet sounded and Callum had to return to the roped area. This time he was placed seventh in the row; blessedly, Red would throw at the other end in second. None of the other men spoke or smiled, but Callum did not hold it against them. He had no desire to speak either. What would they discuss? The unusually warm day, like Englishmen with no conversation did?

In truth, the wait was agonizing. The sun in his eyes, his skin itchy with sweat and his stomach churning with anxiety at being so close to progressing and yet so far. Finally, the men began to heave their stone puts. Barrel-chested Sir David Erskine, who offered a loud grunt but not much distance. Red, with a throw that flew like a spear rather than a stone and landed a jaw-droppingly long distance away. Lord Spalding, who grinned as though it were all a lark, and casually landed a very decent throw. Sir Leslie Hay, who beat his chest with a closed fist, picked up his stone, and proceeded to heave it just as far. Lord Hamilton of Arran, a handsome behemoth who let out a roar and sent his stone past Red’s. Lord Ruthven of Perth, a startlingly tall but lean man who struggled with the stone but managed to heave it about equal to Sir David’s.

Now it was his turn.

Callum dashed his shirtsleeve across his face, but sweat still dripped down his forehead and into his eyes. Even balancing the stone on his hand made it ache, like he held up a damned mountain, and his fingers slipped as he wedged it against his neck.

Please, please do not let it drop at my feet.

Everything felt wrong. His knee trembled, his heart thundered, and for a moment he couldn’t catch his breath. Not even his elbow would stay high, and when he heaved the stone it landed on the grass with a dull thump…in what looked like the worst throw of all.

Despair hit him like an arrow to the chest, and he sank onto his haunches.

His tourney over. Alastair and Isla lost to him, all because he couldn’t throw a stone properly. No wonder his father had rejected him in favor of a nephew better in all ways…

“A failed throw!”