Callum’s heart near pounded out of his chest as Red set his stance and took aim with his third and final arrow.
Miss. Miss. Miss.
The arrow flew through the air, the short feathers rippling in the slight breeze. Everyone understood the gravity of the moment; not a soul on the field moved or made a sound, not even the young children or those selling refreshments.
Miss. Miss. Miss.
The arrow thudded into the false goose.
Wild applause erupted, and the people chanted Red’s name as they threw sprigs of purple heather onto the edge of the field. Red waved and bowed before turning and walking to Callum.
“Did you see that, cousin?” he said in a low voice, his eyes gleaming. “My arrow pierced that goose the way my cock will take Lady Isla’s virginity. Hard and deep.”
Callum’s fingers clenched around his bow. “Do not speak of her so.”
Red laughed and leaned down to speak directly into Callum’s ear. “Oh-ho! Has the lady a protector in the little laird? Do not delude yourself, there is no chance you will take her to wife. Lady Isla and her coin shall be mine. She’ll soon know who her master is, and if she is slow to learn…I’ve a whip to assist. That proud, defiant bitch will learn her place.”
A startlingly feral snarl tore from Callum’s throat; he jerked away from his cousin and threw his bow to the ground, wanting nothing more than to tear the man limb from limb.
Until a heavy hand clamped on his shoulder.
“Something the matter, Glennoe?” growled Sir Lachlan.
Callum gulped. Only a damned fool would succumb to Red’s deliberate baiting. If he hit his cousin as his fists itched to do, he would be thrown out of the tourney and Alastair and Isla would rightly think the worst of him. The king’s champion had just done him a great service, even if it did not feel like one.
Closing his eyes briefly to regain composure, he then turned and faced the judge. “Nay, Sir Lachlan. My bow…slipped from my hand, but all is well.”
“Good. Rory MacDonald, you have progressed…to the stone put. No need to remain. Return to your tent. Now.”
Red’s lip curled, but he inclined his head the barest distance and walked away.
Abruptly Sir Lachlan turned to the royal pavilion and beckoned one of the men at arms. “Bring a new goose! This one has…too many holes.”
Startled at the unexpected boon of time, Callum leaned down to retrieve his bow. First, he tested the tautness of the draw, before adjusting the leather guard protecting his left forearm. Slowly, his rage dwindled and his thundering heart calmed. In truth, Sir Lachlan had done him two services this day, far more favor than he deserved. But why? The Lord of Glennoe was certainly the least important title remaining, and it wasn’t like he’d led an army for the king, built a splendid palace, or discovered some wondrous elixir to cure all ills.
“Our last entrant, Callum MacIntyre, Lord of Glennoe!”
Callum stepped up.
Now or never.
Would it be so wrong to heave Red MacDonald from the ramparts of Stirling Castle?
Alastair watched the man stalk back to his tent. Whatever he’d said to Callum, it had provoked a strong reaction. For a laird renowned as cool and calm and a man of peace to throw down his bow and appear ready to let fists fly…
He folded his arms, lest he get himself into trouble. Sir Lachlan had intervened on the field; to confront Red and spark that flint again would be unforgivable. Especially when it was Callum’s chance to progress to the stone put event on the morrow. Plague take it, he could scarcely bear to watch, even though he knew how talented his laird was. Six men had already departed the field in defeat this day and after Red progressing by the narrowest of margins, it would be a travesty if Callum did not. Yet there was nothing he could do. Prayer seemed rather pointless, it wasn’t like he and God were on particularly good terms.
The crowd hushed as Callum set his arrow and drew the bowstring back taut. A chill wind swept across the battlefield, ruffling his laird’s shirt and hair, and it was enough to make Alastair wish he could paint or sketch. This was a moment to be captured, one of fierce concentration, courage, and leashed strength, representing the man that so few saw, but he knew intimately.
So very intimately.
Callum released the arrow, and as though guided by angels themselves, the tip pierced the goose so deeply that it rose in the air before tumbling to the ground.
All eyes darted to Sir Lachlan. He in turn gestured to the royal pavilion for the king’s decision.
James laughed and thumped his hand on the wooden frame. “Glennoe, you have quite killed my goose! And just one attempt! What a fine arrow. I hereby declare you lord of the bow, and wish you good fortune in the stone put.”
Noise erupted around the field, the din near deafening as the crowd clapped, stomped their feet, and yelled Glennoe! Lord of the bow!
Callum waved awkwardly; even from this distance his scarlet cheeks were clear to see. His laird was bashful at the public celebration of his victory, for it happened so rarely. In truth, it was galling that Callum could be feted here in Stirling for merely piercing a stuffed goose with an arrow, when everything he’d done for the MacIntyre clan was viewed with indifference at best and outright suspicion and disdain at worst. The clan measured success in one way: battles won and lost. Not kindness and self-sacrifice, meetings attended, ledgers balanced, or treaties negotiated and signed.
“Well, squire, it seems we shall remain in Stirling another day.”
Alastair did not reply. Instead, with triumph and relief and aching need coursing through his veins, he ushered his laird into the privacy of the tent, cupped his face and kissed him forcefully.
Callum’s hands gripped Alastair’s shirt as he surrendered for a long, sweet moment, before pulling away. “We can’t. Not here.”
“Forgive me,” he rasped, swallowing hard against a rush of bittersweet lust, for it seemed this would forever be his lot: stolen moments of forbidden passion.
But for how much longer?
Wickedly unconventional Isla had allowed him to watch as Callum pleasured her. Had touched herself as he fucked Callum’s mouth and spent down his throat. Yet he did not dare hope for more. As Callum and Isla, they might permit him to join their play. But if this tourney led to a wedding, and a new alliance with the cold and haughty Sutherlands, the Lord and Lady of Glennoe might feel quite different when the harsh reality of duty set in.
Would he ever truly belong somewhere?
“Lord of the bow!” came a voice from outside the tent. “It is Lady Isla. May I enter and offer my congratulations?”
“Of course,” said Callum too-heartily.
She trudged in, one hand pressed to her belly, and Alastair frowned.
“Are you well, lady?”
Isla winked. “Alas not, Master Graham. I have a terrible stomach ache and fear I shall be resting this night rather than feasting with the king and queen, and honored guests in the Great Hall.”
“Sad news indeed,” said Callum solemnly, his eyes glinting.
“Very sad,” echoed Alastair. “Be sure to have some, now what is it your mother recommends, laird? Boiled water with peppermint?”
“Aye. Peppermint for belly gripes.”
“Thank you,” said Isla, as her lips twitched madly. “Your concern is most kind. Glennoe, I wonder if you might show me your trusty bow? I should like to admire your grip."