Page 48 of Wicked Passions

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One more victory, just one more.

Isla clasped her hands in an attempt to calm herself. Callum had fought so well against Lord Spalding, but it had been exceedingly difficult to stay in her chair and not leap about when he scored a point and shake her fists when his opponent did.

Yet after this rest would come the final— and largest—obstacle to happiness: the MacDonald of Carnoch. She’d never liked the red-haired Highlander and her initial dislike had soon grown into loathing. Everything about him was vile; his character, his manners, the way he treated others. The MacDonald wouldn’t be a husband who offered choice, he would only humiliate and oppress.

“So, daughter,” said her mother, leaning close. “Soon you will be wed to Rory MacDonald. How happy you must be! A strong, handsome husband to give you fine sons. He will ensure you are an obedient wife who brings honor to his clan and your own.”

Isla frowned. “The tourney is not over.”

“Surely you do not think Glennoe will win? How foolish.”

“Not think,” she said. “Believe with my whole heart.”

Anne laughed, the sound without warmth. “There is no chance of such an outcome. None whatsoever, my dear.”

“You don’t know that.”

Her mother’s eyes gleamed with malice. “But I do.”

Isla froze. She knew that look. The careless spite of a woman who did as she pleased and suffered no consequences because her husband was a powerful man and the king needed their goodwill. “What have you done?”

“Merely ensured you will wed in the best interests of the Sutherland clan. A poor nobody who lusts after men is no use, even if he had a fine weaving house.”

Saints alive.

Someone had recognized the MacIntyre cloth of her borrowed shirt and hose.

Black spots danced in her vision, but Isla forced herself to choke out the words once more. “What have you done?”

Anne glared. “No need for theatrics, Glennoe will be quite well by morning,” she snapped. “It’s just wine with some powdered Lily of the Valley.”

“He’ll not drink it. Not a gift from you,” she replied in relief.

“Which is why I sent it to him, and his squire, with your best wishes and compliments.”

No!

Pure horror cleaved through her body. Quickly followed by a surge of rage, and Isla stood to leave the dais. Anne tried to grasp her wrist, but after years of sword fighting, she knew exactly how to twist away from such a grip.

Nothing mattered but getting to Callum and Alastair.

Uncaring of the audience, Isla stormed from the Great Hall then ran as fast as she could across the inner close to the castle proper. At least living in Stirling Castle the past week, she knew where the various chambers and antechambers were. Thankfully there were few rooms available for guests, so if fortune smiled upon her, she would find her men before they drank the poisoned wine.

In the long hallway, she began pounding on doors. Both the first and second chambers were locked, but the third swung open to reveal Alastair, scowling darkly and holding a goblet.

“Isla?” he said, his frown easing to concern. “What is the matter?”

She snatched the goblet and hurled it onto the floor, wincing at the sound of pewter meeting stone. Then she pushed past him and hurried into the room. Oh no. Callum was drinking! “Put that down!” she screamed. “Spit it out. Spit it out!”

The laird’s eyes flared and he thumped the goblet down on a side table. “Not from you, then. Who sent it? What was in the wine, Isla? Do you know?”

Tears spilled down her cheeks. “My mother. Lily of the Valley. You both must retch it up. Please.”

Alastair cursed. “I only took a few sips, but Callum nearly finished his wine…my laird, what do you need from the medicine satchel?”

Callum sank to his knees. “It only takes a little. We must both retch. There is a small bottle of boiled water, and packages of powdered milk thistle, peppermint, and chamomile. A pinch of each. Hurry.”