Eventually, James nodded. “I know my queen would enjoy such a spectacle. And there are many in my realm who would value the chance to win the hand of such a fair maiden.”
Isla nearly snorted. The king was a gallant, but she held no illusions over her charms or lack thereof. Unlike her mother and sisters, all flaxen-haired, buxom beauties, she had her sire’s pitch-black curly hair and moss-green eyes. She was neither tall nor short, with narrow hips, coltish limbs, and breasts barely big enough to fill a bodice. Yet as she well knew, her looks were by the by. It was money and an alliance that mattered, and the last Sutherland heiress would tempt even a reluctant suitor.
“Thank you, Your Grace,” she said politely.
James stood and clapped his hands together. “Let it be known…a week hence, Stirling shall host a grand tourney open to all unwed men ranked knight, lord, or laird. There’ll be five events, determined by me. The victor wins Lady Isla as his wife, and shall receive her dowry, the friendship of the Sutherland clan, and a gift of cloth from the royal household. I look forward to an event celebrating the best of Scotland. That is all.”
Isla curtsied again, near-giddy with anticipation. While it would take a miracle for a handsome, honorable man to enter a tourney without knowing the events, and be skilled at them all, and have good fortune throughout, at least she now had a sliver of hope for a happy future.
Far, far better than no hope at all.
Glennoe Castle, on the shores of Loch Etive
Western Highlands
Failure.
As he stared out the second-floor window of the small stone castle he called home, the word pounded Callum MacIntyre’s head like a battering ram at the gates. In the past, when the cares of being a young laird threatened to overwhelm him, he’d been comforted by this view: the cold, deep waters of the sea loch, and the craggy, imposing presence of Ben Cruachan, the mountainous guardian of the glen.
Not anymore.
The coffers were nearly empty; the weaving house—source of most of the clan’s income—razed to the ground in a brutal raid; and the mighty neighboring clan, the devil-spawned Campbells, continued to circle and swoop like a golden eagle toying with a plump field mouse.
Since his reckless father’s death six months ago, Callum had tried his best to heal the breaches, to make peace and expand trade. But he was an oddity in the Highlands: a nondescript laird of twenty-five summers, average height and lean build, fair hair and gray eyes, the reserved scholar who preferred negotiation to swords. His rule had always been precarious. Now it seemed the whispers were growing even louder to get rid of him: our laird should be a true Highlander. Not a cursed halfling, spawn of an Englishwoman who calls herself healer but is really a witch…
“Callum. Are ye listening? Now is not the time for daydreaming!”
Stifling a growl at the disrespect, he turned to gaze upon Rory ‘Red’ MacDonald. Red was pure Highland stock; a tall, strapping, battle-hardened bull with flaming auburn hair. As he was also laird of his clan branch, the son of Callum’s aunt, and ten years older, many viewed him as the true leader of the MacIntyre clan.
Callum tried not to hate anyone. But his cousin made it difficult.
“I heard you, Red,” he replied evenly. “Once again insisting I wed a MacDonald lass and bring my clan under your protection.”
“’Tis the only way! Unless you wish further Campbell evil?”
“It is not the only way. Just a plan to ensure my name ceases to exist. And I won’t have that, not when we fought so long to be recognized by the king and council and admitted to the Clan Chattan Confederation.”
“What a proud fool ye are,” said Red, his lips twisting with scorn. “And who will pay for that? Your people. Any more bloodshed will be on your hands.”
The sound of pewter goblet slammed onto wooden table made them both jump.
Callum’s mother, Maude, glared at her nephew, her violet eyes flashing. It was said a glance from the Lady of Glennoe could welcome a soul into paradise or purgatory; at this moment his cousin would be travelling directly to a much warmer place.
“Pray remember you are on MacIntyre land and speak to its laird.”
Red bowed mockingly. “Aye, madam. As neither of you will listen to reason about an alliance, I’ll take my leave. Just remember, Glennoe, you can only hold the wolves at bay for so long.”
“If an alliance is needed so badly by the MacDonalds,” said Maude, her gaze icy, “perhaps you should find a wife.”
“I’ll be wed soon enough,” said Red with a shrug. “I have my eye on a great prize in Stirling, and travel tomorrow to win it. Farewell.”
When his cousin’s heavy footsteps were no more than a faint tap on the stairs below, Callum sighed and slumped into a chair beside the library fireplace. “Do not say a word, Mother.”
“Who, me?” she replied archly, adding a piece of wood to the fire before stepping back and smoothing her cream velvet gown. With her pale skin and long fair hair, those violet eyes were even more startling. His father had seen her at an English tourney and been so captivated by her ethereal beauty he’d brought her home. Callum arrived nine months later, but no other children followed. Knowing how miserable the marriage had been, he could easily understand why she didn’t seek another husband. In time perhaps she might seek a lover, and he would support her happiness wholeheartedly.
“Yes, you.”
“I only speak up because Rory grows in confidence and supporters. Be wary, my son. Why would he travel to Stirling?”
Callum frowned. “I don’t know. It is a long distance for someone who always picks the lowest hanging fruit. And if he had an audience with the king, he would brag of it.”
“Exactly. Let us hope dear Alastair brings news when he returns from the market.”
He looked away, so his mother might not see his true heart. It was getting harder and harder to conceal his feelings for Alastair Graham. Twenty years prior, Maude had rescued a starving, sickly boy abandoned by a roving clan. Once Alastair had healed, Callum had begged for him to be allowed to stay. They had become close friends, and after years of playing, exploring, and studying, Alastair was appointed his official squire. Eventually they fought and drank and wenched together, although sometimes Alastair bedded men instead. Callum had never quite known how to feel about that. The clergy said lust between men was wrong, but Alastair held no shame or guilt about it, and sometimes the need that coursed through Callum’s veins when he thought about his squire shocked him. As the laird’s heir, he could do nothing about it, and they had remained just the best of friends.
Until the night Callum’s father was buried.
Overwhelmed with regret at things unsaid and the heavy burden now on his unworthy shoulders, Callum had paced his bedchamber for hours. Yet when Alastair’s awkward words and soothing massage turned into intoxicating kisses, Callum had discarded all good sense and pleaded to be taken so he might forget his cares for a little while. His squire had been tender and gentle to start, then rough and demanding with mouth and hands and cock, leaving Callum sore and so thoroughly pleasure-sated he’d actually slept with a measure of peace in his soul. But as the first rays of dawn inched their way through the tapestries, he made the hardest and worst decision of his life: telling his lover of one night that it could never happen again. That they must never speak of it. And they hadn’t.