Isla nodded and pulled the shirt over her head. After Morag braided her hair and twisted it into a tight ball at the nape of her neck, Isla donned a short cloak and one of Leith’s soft velvet caps. “Young lad?”
“Aye. Now run. Leith has more messages than he thought; the king asked if he might add a few private letters to his satchel. I believe one is for the bishop. If you don’t leave now, you’ll be out for the entire evening and then your mother will have all our heads on a pike.”
Leaning forward, she wrapped her arms around Morag. “I wish you were—”
“Here now, don’t be sniffling all over me,” the servant replied, patting her arm. “I’ve mending to do and a large dish of marzipan to eat. Away with you.”
Blowing her a kiss, Isla dashed across the chamber before peering out the door into the wide, torchlit hallway. About twenty feet away, Leith leaned against the cool stone wall, his fingers drumming impatiently against his satchel, and she closed the chamber door, then hurried over to him.
The silver-haired man smirked. “You’re looking remarkably well for someone with belly gripes.”
“Shhh,” she replied archly. “You’re as tart-tongued as your wife.”
“Except she gets a roaring fire and a dish of marzipan. You conceded to all her demands, didn’t you?” Leith said with a mournful sigh.
Isla shook her head at the theatrics and dug into her cloak for a large handkerchief-wrapped square. “I brought you some, before you groan like an old oak tree in the wind.”
He brightened, tore the handkerchief away, then devoured the entire sweet treat in two bites. “Mmmm.”
“May we proceed?”
“We may,” said Leith happily, as they descended the steps and crossed the inner close of Stirling Castle.
The sun was just beginning to set, giving the golden lime-washed gleam of the Great Hall a peach hue. Deliberately, Isla lifted the collar of her cloak and widened her step as the lads did. The last thing she needed was someone glancing out one of the windows and recognizing her.
The armed guards at the gate made her throat as dry as a desert, but they merely inclined their heads and waved them through with a polite, “Leith. Laddie.”
When they were far enough away for privacy, Isla exhaled unsteadily. “That was easier than I thought.”
Leith shrugged. “I come and go frequently with messages for your father and mother, but now the king is making use of my fine thoroughbred legs, the guards are especially courteous.”
“I’m convinced Morag wed you for those legs alone.”
“Quite overcome at the turn of my calf, she was,” he agreed fondly. “And my hedgerow eyebrows.”
Not for the first time, envy surged at the deep, abiding love Leith and Morag had for one another. Twenty-five years they’d been wed, and although she knew their lack of children hurt their hearts, it had never stopped them lavishing care and affection on each other, or waifs in their path.
Could she have a marriage like that? With a man like Callum, it certainly seemed possible. Aside from Leith, he was the kindest, warmest soul she knew, with a magical tongue and a brilliant brain. Alastair would be quite a different husband; protective, earthy, and raw. He wouldn’t softly chide a tart wife, he’d be a stern master who ordered her onto her knees to take his cock in her mouth until she swallowed every drop of his seed. Or tease her swollen pearl mercilessly with his fingers while whispering lewd things in her ear, but withhold release until she begged and begged…
Isla nearly stumbled on the path.
Saints alive. Where had that thought come from?
She was a strong, unconventional young woman, as Morag had said, in need of a learned, steady husband. Not a rough and brawny squire with blue eyes to drown in and paw-sized hands that could both tenderly caress a cheek or possessively grip the back of a neck.
I want both. Together.
This time she did stumble, only halted from a face-first tumble down the steep path into Stirling village by Leith curling a hand under her elbow.
“Here now,” he said with a furrowed brow. “You’re not actually ill, are you?”
“No,” she mumbled. “Quite well.”
Ha. But she could hardly confess to her manservant the things she’d seen and experienced at that cozy cottage nestled near the bottom of this hill. Or that her increasingly wicked and forbidden wedding night wish was not just her husband bedding her…but her husband and their lover.
Really though, she didn’t have time to ponder a wedding night, not when she had no idea who would win the tourney. Her heart and soul screamed for Callum, and he’d been nothing short of magnificent with bow and arrow in hand, but there was still the stone put and the revels to navigate before the final event of swordplay. Good men had left in defeat earlier, and vile men like that MacDonald of Carnoch had succeeded. Such was the nature of a tourney.
All she—all they—could do was take each day as it came.
“Here ye are then, lassie,” said Leith as he halted outside Callum and Alastair’s cottage. “I’ll be back to fetch ye before nightfall; I have no wish to walk that hill with naught but moonlight to guide my way. Besides, we must return before the feast ends—”
“Or Mother will have all our heads on pikes, I know, I know,” Isla replied with a faint grin.
“I’ll knock thrice on the door. Teach him well.”
“I shall,” she promised.
Her very future depended upon it.
Chapter 6
“I’m rather envious at the care you are lavishing on that blade. Are you hoping to impress me or Isla?”
Alastair glanced up from where he sat on the chaise, polishing his laird’s sword to a gleaming shine. “I want it to look like the weapon of a champion.”
Callum tilted his head. “You didn’t answer my question.”
What was he supposed to say?
Yes, I wish to impress her. Also not just watch, but pleasure your future lady wife. Fuck her until she screams herself hoarse then hold her in my arms as I held you.
“Of course, I wish to impress. A poorly kept blade will hardly find favor with a swordfighter.”
“Alastair. I know you desire Isla. You don’t have to conceal it to protect me. In fact, I wish you wouldn’t because I don’t want any secrets between us. Unless your desire for me has cooled?”
He stilled. Callum was rarely so blunt. Then again, this was an unusual situation. “No,” he said forcefully. “Never. But while I do lust for her, I won’t make trouble or insist you choose…look sharp, laird. A lad approaches the front door.”
“Then we should let the lad in,” said Callum, smoothing his linen shirt, and his hair, for about the twentieth time.
It made Alastair want to kiss him; to disturb that perfect surface. Yet now he wanted to do the same to Isla. To leave his mark on her, let all and sundry know she was his and he would fight beside her unto death.
“Welcome lad,” he called as Callum ushered Isla into the cottage.
She grinned and bowed. “Why thank you, kind sir. I see you are doing good work there.”
Alastair gave the sword blade one last rub with the rag, twisting it one way and the other to ensure no oil spots or finger marks remained. “I pray it shall be deemed worthy of a warrior.”