Callum’s finger’s gripped his shirt, but eventually he pushed Alastair away. “Of course I remember,” he said hoarsely. “Every single day. Never have I known such pleasure, or peace. But having you in my bed is a luxury I cannot afford. Only a wealthy bride and a strong alliance will save my clan. If by some miracle I won the tourney, do you think Lady Isla would wed me if she knew I sucked my squire’s cock, that I’d begged him to fuck me harder? What do you think the Sutherlands would do?”
Alastair flinched. “The lady is unconventional. She might understand, even if her family disapproved…”
His words trailed off, for even he understood how foolish they were. Few wives would accept that their husband lusted after men as well as women. One of the reasons he’d not yet wed.
To distract himself from the harsh truth, Alastair took the small glass bottle of clove oil, shook some of the strong-smelling concoction onto a cloth, and dabbed it onto the underside of Callum’s right foot. Then he did the same with the left. The skin went a little pink and blotchy, and having had this treatment before the removal of a splinter, he knew how odd and uncomfortable it felt. But as his laird had noted, it was far better than the alternative.
Once the oil had dried, he wrapped Callum’s feet in a layer of linen bandage, under the arch and around the ankle, thick enough to provide some protection, but not so much it would impact mobility at all.
“There,” he said at last. “Now you’re ready to win a race and a bride. We should go to the field.”
Callum took his hand and squeezed it. “Thank you. I know this is difficult. But without your support I have even less chance of success. That you are choosing to assist means the world to me. It is so very noble.”
Alastair grunted. Maybe that would drown out the sound of his heart shattering into a thousand pieces. “After this morning, the less said about nobility, the better. If you don’t leave those puffed-up peacocks—including your damned cousin—far behind, I’ll thrash you myself.”
“Aye, Master Graham.”
The tender warmth in Callum’s gaze hurt like the cauterizing of a wound. He would trade his soul for such looks every day, to be able to claim this man as his own, in bed and out, for the rest of his life. “Then let us march to the field of battle. At least in the foot race you must face just four other men, and defeat two, to proceed to the second event. After which you will make a decision on Lady Isla’s offer. Swear that, at least.”
His laird nodded slowly. “I do so swear.”
Alastair repacked the satchel of salves, oils, concoctions, and bandages, but also added a small flagon of wine, and a cloth-wrapped parcel of dried fruit and chunks of soft white bread from the larder, as they would probably be hungry later.
But for now, Callum had a race to win.
Their very future depended on it.
While the king hosted the tourney, the Sutherlands had funded it and spared no expense.
Callum halted, both impressed and overwhelmed. When he and Alastair first arrived in Stirling, this large field west of the castle had been a peaceful grazing spot for cows and sheep.
Now it was a battleground.
To their right, directly in front of the craggy cliffs and deep green vegetation of Castle Hill, sat the hastily constructed royal pavilion. Under the canopied roof were cushioned chairs for the king and queen, Lady Isla and the Sutherlands, honored guests like Lady Marjorie Ross and Lady Janet Fraser, privy councilors, and foreign envoys. Servants scurried about with trays of food and drink, as well as messages and documents for the king. Either side of the pavilion were long, tiered, wooden stands to accommodate wealthy spectators, and past those were large fenced areas where villagers crammed in to stand and watch. There were also refreshment stalls, and enterprising men and women walked about with trays selling small ale, meat pasties, and thick slices of fruit cake.
To their left was a long row of small white canvas tents, one for each tourney entrant. Outside each tent sat a sign with the entrant’s clan badge painted upon it; about halfway down he could see the MacIntyre white heather. Well. That put a little spring in his step. Whoever arranged it had been exceedingly kind—each tent and sign were the same size, no matter the rank or wealth of the entrant. In this row at least, he belonged.
A trumpet blast sounded as he and Alastair took a knee in front of king and queen. For his own sanity, he did not look at Lady Isla.
“Son of the late Donald MacIntyre, Lord of Glennoe…presenting Callum MacIntyre, Lord of Glennoe. And his squire, Master Alastair Graham!”
At the herald’s bellowed words, polite cheers rang out, and Callum raised his hand to acknowledge the crowd before he and Alastair walked to their tent.
“See?” said his squire. “The people want you to win.”
“I doubt they have any idea who I am.”
Alastair’s brow furrowed. “You have distant kin in Stirling. Why should they not cheer you?”
“A truth,” he conceded.
“You also assume that all other entrants are beloved. From the character demonstrated so far, I hardly believe that. If they treat you badly, how do you think they treat their tenants and servants? Strangers?”
Callum held up his hands, stifling a grin at the endearing irritability. “Very well, old man. Do not lose your voice lecturing me.”
“Old man? I am three years your senior. And as vigorous and lusty as any here.”
Another truth.
His bound feet had tingled after Alastair applied the numbing clove oil, but that sensation was nothing compared to the way his heart pounded and cock throbbed at the foot massage. He’d yearned then to not be laird, just a man who could indulge his desire for another man in the privacy of their own cottage. While his mind might try to forget, his needy body well remembered the rasp of Alastair’s beard, the teasing lap of his tongue, and the brutal plunge of his huge cock.
A discreet cough jolted him from such ribald thoughts.
“Beg pardon, laird.”
“Yes?” he replied, smiling at the guard wearing the king’s livery and holding a large sack.
The man bowed. “In this sack are wooden squares painted six different colors. One color for each race, all those who select a blue square will race together and so forth. Each race will have five entrants; the first three will progress to the archery, the last two must retire from the tourney. Is that clear?”
“Indeed. Thank you.”
“Choose your color, laird.”
Callum delved into the sack and withdrew a square. “Green.”
“Much obliged. Oh, green is the final race. Good fortune to you.”
He groaned inwardly as the man made a note on his parchment before moving along to the next tent. Of course, it would be the final race, allowing him ample time to fret.
“Cousin,” said Red, sauntering into the tent without invitation. “Bringing the MacIntyre name into disrepute already, I see. Are those bandages on your feet?”
“Good morrow,” Callum replied stiffly. Red wore nothing but hose, his massive chest and shoulders glistening with oil, his feet bare. God’s blood, he looked like a champion.
“Oh, you’re in the green race. Shame. I hoped we might run against each other. I’m in the yellow race, which looks to be the most competitive.”