“I shall go and advise them now,” said Maude, dipping into a curtsy. “Do not forget to take your satchel of herbs, salves, and poultices to Stirling, my son. On the morrow, I shall bless your journey and bid you both farewell with a glad heart. Good day to you. And you, Alastair.”
After she departed, Callum walked across the library to his favorite ‘thinking’ window. As he’d discarded his mantle in the warmth of the fire-heated room and wore only an embroidered doublet and hose, his unhurried gait offered prime viewing of his perfect arse.
“A tourney in Stirling to try and win a rich wife,” Callum said, absently tracing a pattern in the cool stone with his elegant fingers. “Not how I foresaw my next few weeks.”
Alastair moved closer, attracted like a moth to flame. “Leave such gifts to your lady mother. She is never wrong.”
His laird nodded. “She did bring you home, after all. And also assumed you would travel with me to Stirling. But I shall ask. Will you be at my side for the tourney?”
At your side? Always.
“Yes,” he rasped, placing one paw of a hand on his laird’s narrow shoulder. “Callum—”
The younger man inhaled unsteadily. “I feel all at sea not even knowing what events I must take part in, and there’ll be men twice my size from all over Scotland eager to humiliate me on the field. After that, if by some miracle I win, my reward is wedding a stranger.”
Unbidden, Alastair’s other hand rose to rest on Callum’s shoulder, and he kneaded the rigid muscles. Once upon a time his laird had welcomed regular massages; he had an unfortunate habit of sitting hunched over documents and manuscripts until his back seized up. But since that night, touch had become too much of a temptation, and Alastair rarely allowed himself the pleasure. “We’ll take each day as it comes. But I will need to work on these slabs of stone—”
“They are. I miss your massages,” said Callum softly.
Alastair gritted his teeth. He missed giving them, for he preferred touch to words in demonstrating care. But for his own peace of mind, he couldn’t torture himself like that. “Well. You’ll need one after each event, or you’ll be too stiff the following day.”
“Each event? Now that is confidence, presuming I will succeed. Far more likely I’ll be one of the unfortunates riding away in the dead of night after being soundly defeated in the first round.”
“Continue thinking like that, and you will be,” said Alastair irritably, hating that Callum thought so little of his own abilities thanks to the long shadow of his late father. “I doubt all events will reward brute strength. Some perhaps, but we know the king also values intellect and strategy. Besides, you really think all those trying for Lady Isla’s hand will be part mountain? Not everyone in the realm is Sir Lachlan Ross.”
“Or you,” said Callum, tilting his head back to look up, his cheeks pink.
Plague take it, he loved that blush. Callum was too-often bound by harsh reality, but his sweet soul always found a way to shine through. Yet another reason he craved his laird so helplessly.
Alastair cleared his throat. “Speaking of Sir Lachlan, he is to be the chief judge, so at least the contests will be fair. He would never permit trickery…well, apart from letting a lass dress as a lad to learn sword fighting from him.”
“What?”
“I should have said earlier. That is the reason for the tourney; Isla told her father and mother she traveled to St. Andrews to learn piety, instead she disguised herself as a lad for months and attended Sir Lachlan’s trainings. I hear she is uncommonly good with sword in hand; but she is not permitted to fight any longer. Poor lass. Imagine having great skill at something and being forbidden from doing it…”
Like bedding my laird.
“Anyway,” Alastair continued, “There’ll be a feast at Stirling Castle on Sunday to announce the five events and introduce all the lords, lairds, and knights. Then one event each day where men will either progress or retire, before Lady Isla weds the winner.”
Callum nodded thoughtfully. “I’ve never met a lady sword fighter. She does sound interesting.”
Jealousy flared again.
It was a terrible thing and quite unworthy of their longtime friendship, that he wished for victory to gain the money and alliance, but defeat so he would not lose Callum forever.
Alas, he suspected that Lady Isla Sutherland might just turn their entire existence upside down. For a man who spent every day striving to earn his place at Glennoe, an unnerving thought indeed.
Chapter 2
Stirling
The number of people gathering in anticipation of the tourney was staggering.
From the relative safety of the modest but comfortable two-roomed cottage provided by a distant cousin of his father’s, Callum watched the frantic activity down in the village proper. It seemed half of Scotland had arrived already; musicians, tinkers, blacksmiths, and pie sellers all jostling for space with lasses offering everything from mending to healing elixirs to a quick fuck. Indeed, anything could be purchased…apart from lodgings, as increasingly angry travelers with overstuffed luggage wagons were discovering.
He shook his head. There was as much chance of finding rooms in Stirling now as the kings of England and France swearing fealty to James. This cottage was perfectly placed though; probably no more than a few hundred yards to the castle gates, and next door there was a stall for the horses, generous supply of hay, and a small well for water. They’d also secured the services of a young lad to feed and walk them each day. Inside the cottage boasted a well-stocked larder, even proper beds with straw mattresses and thick quilts rather than wooden pallets. He and Alastair had been fortunate to get so close; Stirling Castle was unusual in that it had few rooms for guests. What it did have was the largest and most magnificent Great Hall in Scotland, a newly finished, lime-washed structure that shone like gold and could be seen from miles around. It was there they would meet Lady Isla today, before the tourney began in the morning.
“Shall we go and register, then?”
At Alastair’s voice in his ear, Callum near-trembled. The long ride to Stirling had been punishing, he’d insisted on short rests so they might have a few days here before the tourney started. But staying here together in a private dwelling with thick stone walls, all he could think about was that night in his bedchamber when his closest friend had owned him body and soul.
How long could he choose duty when faced with such overwhelming temptation?
“Yes, we should register. Far more chance of winning a bride if I’m on the lists,” he jested weakly.
“You look well. Prosperous.”
Callum glanced down at his dark brown hose, fine linen shirt embroidered at the cuffs and neck with sprigs of heather, blue velvet doublet, and black cloak. It was true, even if he lacked the size of a warrior or the wealth of a grand lord, at least he looked the part of a laird. Before the latest raid, the garments created in his weaving house had been the finest in Scotland; the clan especially noted for quality hose and stockings. His coffers might be nearly empty, but the wooden closets, chests, and drawers were full. “Aye. The falsehoods fine clothing can tell.”