Alastair snorted. “There’ll be many men hiding empty purses behind clothes and jewels this week. You think they all came to Stirling to win Lady Isla for her wit or fair face?”
“God’s blood, I felt the scolding lash of that eyebrow raise from here. I surrender the point.”
“Only the point, alas.”
Yearning nearly crushed him. Nothing would raise his spirits and calm his nerves more than pleasure. Those sturdy beds were right there…
Swallowing hard, Callum straightened his shoulders. “We must go.”
While it was a short walk to the castle, the path grew much steeper as they neared the imposing gray stone structure perched atop Castle Hill. It offered a breathtaking view of the surrounding lands, and in the distance the River Forth twisted and turned in several directions, like a lady’s hair ribbon dropped on the ground. Several burly men at arms guarded the gates, and when he and Alastair approached, one stepped forward.
“Good morrow. State your name and purpose, sirs.”
“Good morrow,” said Callum, holding out his right hand to show he held no weapon and came in peace, and also to display his hereditary gold ring with the clan crest stamped upon it. “I am Callum MacIntyre, clan chief and Lord of Glennoe, here to register for the king’s tourney. This is my squire, Master Alastair Graham.”
“Welcome,” said the man, inclining his head. “The king is in the Great Hall, but you must first register in the outer close. We are all eager to watch the events. Good fortune to you.”
“My thanks.”
There was something special about Stirling Castle. While the Great Hall and the forework with its towering gatehouse and conical roofs were new, there were parts of the castle that were hundreds of years old. It had withstood siege and war, not to mention many changes of ownership between Scot and Englishman. The tales those thick stone walls could tell!
Alastair cleared his throat, giving him a look that said he’d tarried too long. Cheeks heating, Callum entered the short, dark tunnel under the forework, before emerging in the wide empty space of the cobblestoned outer close.
Struck speechless, he could only stare in awe at the massive Great Hall in front of him. After the darkness of the tunnel, the limewashed stone gleamed like heaven itself.
“Glennoe!”
At the unexpected hail he turned to see the King of Scotland approaching, black velvet mantle fluttering in the light breeze, and the heavy chain of state clinking about his neck. How on earth did James remember him? They’d only met twice; the last time several years ago at a meeting of Highland lairds.
“Your Grace!” Callum replied, as he and Alastair dropped to one knee before kissing the gold ring on the king’s outstretched hand, a renewed pledge of loyalty to the crown.
“I’m pleased you are entering my tourney,” continued James in excellent Gaelic. “You and Master Graham are most welcome to Stirling Castle. My condolences on the loss of your father, but I hear great progress has been made in talks and trade. Sometimes a warrior is needed. Sometimes a gentler touch, eh?”
The king was extremely well-informed.
Stunned, Callum rose to his feet. “Thank you, Your Grace. I was just admiring the buildings. Old and new together.”
James beamed. “As it should be. Honor the past, welcome the future. ’Tis the only way to secure Scotland’s place in the world. Now. Go and register, then come into the Hall. I shall be announcing the five events very soon.”
Still reeling from his audience with their sovereign, brief though it was, it took a nudge from Alastair to get him moving to the trestle table where two stern faced men clad in black robes stood. Ugh. Lawyers. “Good morrow, sirs. I am Callum MacIntyre, clan chief and Lord of Glennoe. This is my squire, Master Alastair Graham.”
“Good morrow. Write your name here,” said one of the men briskly, pointing to an empty line near the bottom of a large piece of parchment. Gah. So many names already, including his wretched cousin.
“Very well.”
“Then make your mark in the red wax with your crest. His Grace takes no responsibility for injury or death resulting from this tourney. Do you understand and consent?”
“I do,” said Callum, only his mother’s reassurance about the probable events suppressing an involuntary shudder at the ominous words.
The lawyer added a drop of wax to the parchment, and Callum pressed his ring into it. There. He was officially on the lists.
“You’re doing the right thing,” said Alastair as they walked to the Great Hall and ascended the front steps.
“Remind me of that on the morrow when I’m curled up in a corner…”
His words trailed off, for at the other end of the Hall on the dais reserved for royalty and honored guests, stood King James, Queen Margaret…and a captivating stranger.
Surely not Lady Isla?
Callum weaved his way through the growing crowd so he might get a closer look. The woman was similar in height to him, her slender form encased in a costly scarlet velvet gown with jeweled girdle and heavily embroidered sleeves. Hair as black as night peeked out from under her gable hood. She did not smile and her creamy skin held the pallor of someone uncomfortable in their surroundings, but her emerald eyes near gleamed with defiance and fierce intelligence.
When her gaze settled on him, he caught his breath at the jolt of awareness that passed through his body.
Then she winked.
Startled, he laughed, and when she smiled in return, one full of mischief and barely leashed sensuality, he blushed like a virgin.
Alastair elbowed him and Callum winced at the gouge to his ribs, while appreciating the reminder to behave like a gallant and not a simpering fool. But his attraction to the lady was entirely unexpected. If his heart had long ago settled on Alastair, why did he now feel like it could expand and make room for her as well?
Troubled, Callum looked away. How typical to be having such thoughts when there were countless obstacles in his path. Namely the thirty or so knights, lords, and lairds in this Hall who would fight to the death for a prize like Lady Isla Sutherland.
The chance of him winning her hand was very small indeed.
Who were they?
Isla forced herself to remain on the dais with the king and queen, rather than leaping into the fray of men to meet the two who had caught her attention.
One was of average height, beautifully dressed, fair-haired, possessing a merry grin and an air of such gentle sweetness that she was torn between wanting to hold him close and corrupting him with the naughtiest behavior she could think of. The other was a tall, brawny, brown-haired man in plain but well-made clothing, who gazed at her with cool sternness. Not dislike, just wary caution. The way he stood half a step behind the other man, his eyes darting about and assessing potential threats reminded her greatly of Sir Lachlan’s protectiveness toward his wife and mistress, which made him even more interesting.
She wanted to talk to both of them at once. Discover their names, their character, their reason for entering the tourney.
Kiss them.
Isla blinked at the startling thought. Apart from worshipping Sir Lachlan, she’d never really been tempted by the men—young or old—around her. The goal of returning to her clan in triumph as a warrior had been all-consuming; only improving her sword fighting had mattered. Besides, no fine arse, large cock bulge, or broad shoulders could compare to the heady thrill of victory. It was a glorious moment indeed when all the failures, the aching limbs and blisters and cuts, the will to be better and faster and more skilled, resulted in a conquered opponent.