Page 7 of Wicked Passions

Startled, he laughed, and when she smiled in return, one full of mischief and barely leashed sensuality, he blushed like a virgin.

Alastair elbowed him and Callum winced at the gouge to his ribs, while appreciating the reminder to behave like a gallant and not a simpering fool. But his attraction to the lady was entirely unexpected. If his heart had long ago settled on Alastair, why did he now feel like it could expand and make room for her as well?

Troubled, Callum looked away. How typical to be having such thoughts when there were countless obstacles in his path. Namely the thirty or so knights, lords, and lairds in this Hall who would fight to the death for a prize like Lady Isla Sutherland.

The chance of him winning her hand was very small indeed.

* * *

Who were they?

Isla forced herself to remain on the dais with the king and queen, rather than leaping into the fray of men to meet the two who had caught her attention.

One was of average height, beautifully dressed, fair-haired, possessing a merry grin and an air of such gentle sweetness that she was torn between wanting to hold him close and corrupting him with the naughtiest behavior she could think of. The other was a tall, brawny, brown-haired man in plain but well-made clothing, who gazed at her with cool sternness. Not dislike, just wary caution. The way he stood half a step behind the other man, his eyes darting about and assessing potential threats reminded her greatly of Sir Lachlan’s protectiveness toward his wife and mistress, which made him even more interesting.

She wanted to talk to both of them at once. Discover their names, their character, their reason for entering the tourney.

Kiss them.

Isla blinked at the startling thought. Apart from worshipping Sir Lachlan, she’d never really been tempted by the men—young or old—around her. The goal of returning to her clan in triumph as a warrior had been all-consuming; only improving her sword fighting had mattered. Besides, no fine arse, large cock bulge, or broad shoulders could compare to the heady thrill of victory. It was a glorious moment indeed when all the failures, the aching limbs and blisters and cuts, the will to be better and faster and more skilled, resulted in a conquered opponent.

Yet these men, she wanted. And not one or the other, but both. Her former sword master kissed two women. Why could she not kiss two men?

“Lady Isla?”

She forced her gaze away from the strangers, to look at the king. “Your Grace?”

“We shall begin. I’ll introduce you, then draw the tourney events from the sack held by Queen Margaret. If you would read aloud each card to confirm the event and order, I would be most obliged.”

“Of course,” she said, as her palms grew damp. No turning back now.

James clapped his hands together twice, and a hush descended on the Great Hall. “My queen. Lords, lairds, and knights. Honored guests. I am delighted to introduce Lady Isla, youngest daughter of the Earl and Countess of Sutherland. As you can see, she is a true Highland lass of beauty and spirit who will make the tourney winner a splendid wife. Now it is time to announce the events. As this is Scotland, they shall be activities popular in this realm and no other. There will not be a joust.”

Murmurs echoed in the Hall; some men looked disappointed while others were relieved. In truth Isla shared that relief; many years ago an older cousin had died after an opponent’s lance found a gap in his armor and pierced his flesh. The wound had putrefied, poisoning his blood, and she would not wish that slow and agonizing passing on anyone.

“And so,” the king continued, “let us discover the first event to be held on the morrow. My queen?”

Margaret, elegantly clad in pale blue velvet, gold girdle, and jeweled gable hood, smiled and held up a small black satin sack. He rummaged inside and pulled out a card, then gave it to Isla to read.

She took a deep breath. “The first event is…a foot race! There shall be six races, each with five men competing over a half-mile distance. The first three men in each race shall progress. All others must retire from the tourney.”

The murmurs rose to a low roar, and Isla stifled a smile at the shocked dismay on certain faces. She was pleased to note that her fair-haired favorite and his squire had brightened at the news.

In quick succession, the king handed her three more cards to read, each event progressing men or sending them home. The second day would be archery, the third a heaving of the stone put, the fourth an occasion of revels; music and dancing. Even from her place on the dais she could see frowns and glares and gritted teeth at the choices the king had made, but if the entrants were surprised, they did not know their sovereign at all. James was a modern king and expected others to follow his enlightened lead.

As each event was called her favorite relaxed further, even grinning at his squire, and her heart leaped. One more. All they needed was one more event he might excel at, and there was a chance she could wed a man she very much liked the look of.

The king paused until the Hall became silent again, allowing the tension to build before handing her the fifth parchment card.

Isla beamed. “The final event shall be…sword fighting! It is anticipated four men shall remain on the last day, so there will be preliminary fights in the morning and a final fight for the two victors in the afternoon. The grand winner of the tourney shall gain my hand in marriage, my dowry, the friendship of the Sutherlands, and a gift of cloth from the royal household.”

Cheers echoed loudly, the din almost deafening, and Isla curtsied. While her head remained modestly bowed, she allowed her gaze to flick up to the two men in the audience, eager to see their reaction to the final event that would win her hand.

They weren’t smiling now. In fact, both looked grim.

Her heart plummeted. What on earth was the matter? Every knight, lord, and laird could fight with a sword; they were taught as lads, and with Scotland being Scotland, had ample opportunity to hone such a skill throughout their life.

James called for silence once more. “A final warning. This tourney will be judged by me, and my champion, Sir Lachlan Ross, who will cast a very stern eye over proceedings. Apart from a squire, or healer in the event of injury, entrants are permitted no other assistance. Deception, evil deeds, or other mischief will not be tolerated. Anyone committing such acts shall be banished in disgrace or even imprisoned. I will have an honorable husband for this lady, not a scoundrel. Now. My lawyer shall read out all the names, and each entrant may make himself known to Lady Isla.”