Page 35 of Wicked Passions

Callum blinked, trying to clear the fog in his mind. But the sharp words weren’t directed at him. The eighth man in the row, the Ranald of Clan Ranald, had just heaved his stone put outside the roped area. With great dignity, the laird bowed to the royal pavilion and Sir Lachlan, before he and his squire departed the field.

Seven entrants. Six places.

Sir Lachlan gestured for his men at arms and their measuring ropes. The king walked from the royal pavilion, the queen on one arm and Isla on the other, to inspect the process.

“The first three,” said Sir Lachlan, “are clear. Lord Hamilton of Arran. The MacDonald of Carnoch. Sir Leslie Hay. But the remaining four…must be measured.”

It took forever.

God’s blood, could they not just end his misery and declare him the loser?

Eventually, the king clapped his hands, breaking a silence so profound they could practically hear the grass growing under their feet.

“I have a decision on this most excellent event! My gratitude to all for their efforts, however just six men shall progress to the revels. Sir Lachlan informed you of the first three, Lord Hamilton of Arran, the MacDonald of Carnoch, and Sir Leslie Hay. The second three, in a very, very close finish decided by less than an inch…are Lord Spalding, Lord Ruthven of Perth…and Callum MacIntyre, Lord of Glennoe.”

Utterly shocked, Callum’s knees buckled and he sprawled onto his arse. Yet he still heard Alastair whoop in triumph, and saw Isla applauding wildly until the queen sent her a quelling look.

Just like the first group, less than an inch and a failed throw had been the difference between success and failure. But he’d made it through to the revels.

It was enough to make him believe in miracles.

Chapter 8

“Isla’s not coming, my laird. If she could escape the castle, she would be here. It is as pitch black as her hair outside.”

Sighing glumly, Callum retreated from his position beside the street-facing window to the chaise in front of the fire. Anyone with a cool head would tell him that two long visits to this cottage had been risky enough; a lady could only claim visiting a friend, or illness, a certain number of times before invoking suspicion. But his heart still hoped to see Isla before the revels so they might celebrate his miraculous progression from the stone put. Tomorrow among the music, dancing, pageantry, and six remaining suitors vying for her hand, he and Alastair might not be able to speak with her at all.

“I know. I so wished to see her, though. Did you notice how swiftly Lady Sutherland ushered her away after the stone put? The countess doesn’t like me at all.”

Alastair set down his wine goblet. “Her opinion has naught to do with liking, and all with your power compared to the others. But the tourney rules have been set, and she must accept the outcome and any decision the king makes. You have a supporter in him. He has given you more of his time than he offers to others. Especially Red.”

Callum nodded. “That is true. Alas, though, the king is a practical man. He will think of his realm first and foremost, not a lady’s wishes, no matter who her family is. And he certainly won’t choose an unimportant laird from the Western Highlands above an alliance that suits his purposes.”

“Bah. James has a soft heart for those he cares about. You remember the scandal and trial after Sir Lachlan’s secret marriage to Lady Marjorie. She was supposed to wed an English baron, but they live with Lady Janet at St. Andrews. I would wager a large sum all three in a bed. And the king allows it. Remember that.”

“Lady Janet was his mistress, and is still a beloved friend,” said Callum as he leaned back against the chaise and drummed his fingers impatiently on the arm. “Sir Lachlan is his champion. It is hardly the same situation. I haven’t fucked the king. Or fought at his side.”

“Glad to hear you haven’t fucked him. I should dislike having to shove our sovereign into the River Forth.”

Callum stifled a grin. Alastair shied away from tender sentiment, and much preferred to show he cared with touch or deeds rather than say it.

And he did care. But was it love? Or just his own heart foolishly wishing that close friendship and hot lust took the final step forward to forever after?

“Devilish beast,” he said instead, stealing the opportunity to lean over and kiss his squire on the cheek as he yearned to do more often. Naturally Alastair took control of the moment, cupping the back of his neck and mastering his lips, before plunging his tongue deep. The only other person Callum could imagine enjoying such intimacy with was Isla. Unlike Alastair’s hard lips, hers were soft and plump, but they also made him forget his own name.

A sharp knock at the door jolted them apart.

Frowning, Alastair rose to his feet. “Sounds urgent. Could be from the castle.”

Callum silently lit another candle and handed it to him. A weapon as well as illumination; few things slowed evil intent like hot wax to the face, then Alastair would have time to unsheathe his dagger and stab.

Slowly, cautiously, Alastair opened the cottage door. “Yes?”

“Saints alive, let me in. It’s cold out here.”

Callum leaped to his feet. “Isla!”

She grinned and twirled in her short cloak, hose and shirt. “Yes, ‘tis I.”