Page 50 of Wicked Passions

When Isla returned to the Great Hall, she curtsied to the king and queen but ignored her mother completely.

“Daughter—”

“Do not speak,” she snarled. “You are the worst woman I’ve ever known. The worst mother. Fortunately, good shall triumph and your spite, your evil will not succeed. Now, you are dead to me. I renounce the Sutherlands and shall think of you no more.”

Anne gasped in outrage, but Isla turned her shoulder away. This woman she’d tried so hard to please, had begged for attention and love from, was now as insignificant as an ant.

Please God, let Callum win.

* * *

After Isla departed, Callum waited for a few minutes with Alastair in the chamber. Neither spoke, but their hands remained clasped, the narrow green ribbon binding them to Isla even when she wasn’t with them. Then, they disengaged and walked side by side back to the Great Hall.

Never had he felt such fury.

He’d endured many slights in his life, but tried to remain fair and just. To improve himself and the lives of the others around him. The only reason he’d entered this tourney was to save his clan from destruction; that he’d not only found the woman of his dreams, but also renewed and strengthened his love for Alastair, was a wonderful addition.

However, as so often happened in his life, there were those who conspired against him and wished him harm. And as always, curse him to purgatory, Red stood at the center.

In childhood, it had been Red who encouraged others to throw stones, to mock Callum’s English mother and humiliate him in front of his father. As a grown man, that spite and greed and selfishness had only become worse.

However, today’s act was beyond all.

He’d seen the look that Red and Lady Sutherland exchanged after he defeated Sir Leslie. One that spoke of an unholy alliance. But never had Callum thought it would be an attempted poisoning that would unleash this need for vengeance. In the Great Hall he had to be more than a man of words; for a chance at love and happiness he’d scarcely dared to hope for, was on offer. Three points stood between him and victory over his cousin. And nothing would stop him. Not insults, not threats, not trickery, and certainly not his roiling gut.

Callum winced. While he hoped his retching and dose of herbed water had been enough to halt the flow of poison into his body, it was hard to be sure. He had nearly downed an entire goblet of wine, and Lily of the Valley was a harmful plant. Certainly not deadly like Belladonna, English Yew, or Water Hemlock, but still enough to make a body very ill. God forbid he succumb to any sudden body purges during the fight. That would be a woeful tale to follow him for the rest of his life.

“My laird…” said Alastair, with a gentle squeeze to his shoulder. “Is there anything you need?”

“Just those I love,” he whispered.

His squire stared at him, tenderness and fierce pride in his eyes. “Good fortune.”

The king rang his bell, and the guests and envoys took their seats. “Welcome back. This tourney started with thirty men, and now just two remain, each hoping to win the hand of Lady Isla. To my right, the MacDonald of Carnoch!”

Loud cheers sounded in the hall, and Callum gritted his teeth. If they knew Red as he did, would his cousin still have this support? It was hard to know with the wheels of favor in the Scottish court ever-turning.

“And to my left, Callum MacIntyre, Lord of Glennoe!”

Generous applause followed, alongside some raucous whoops, and he stifled a smile. Yes, everyone else expected Red to win, but Isla and Alastair, and his unexpected supporters Lady Marjorie and Lady Janet, would urge him on every moment of the swordfight. Maybe even the king as well.

Sir Lachlan stood between him and Red, an immovable man-mountain of judgment and justice. “Clasp hands.”

Red smirked and held out his hand. “Cousin. At least you are well used to defeat, having enjoyed it for a lifetime.”

“Cousin,” Callum replied, clasping it for the least time possible, before stepping back.

“The rules of engagement…have not changed,” said Sir Lachlan. “First man to three points…shall be the victor. Stop and start…on my command. No blades to the head. Trickery or misdeeds…shall be punished harshly. Here are your longswords.”

Red took his and strolled to the center of the Great Hall, waving to the guests seated on benches either side of him. Callum glanced at Isla then Alastair; both nodded in encouragement. Bolstered by their support and the green ribbon wound around his wrist that symbolized their trio, he set his stance. Left foot forward, both hands gripping the sword hilt next to his right cheek. Isla had tutored him, Alastair had massaged him, now it was time for his part.

The king rang his bell. “Begin!”

Red swung his sword in a wide arc. “Come to me, cousin. Show everyone your measure, small though it may be.”

Ignoring the taunt, Callum circled him and attempted a few false cuts, just to see what Red would do. While his cousin was much taller and stronger, his feet did not move overmuch. Red expected to win easily with a series of single blows. Because of Isla, Callum now knew ways to halt that. It would take speed, graceful footwork, and near-perfect timing; not to mention a few miracles for him to not curl up on the Hall floor with belly gripes as his herbal tonic fought its own battle with the plant poison.

But he had a chance.