Page 10 of Wicked Passions

Hot tingles danced along her skin, as in her mind, the men each eased a finger into her tight channel. When she did the same, thrusting two fingers to the first knuckle, in and out and in and out, Isla had to muffle her gasp of release into the pillow.

Saints alive.

Flopping onto her back, she fought to catch her breath and not wake her father or mother. Thankfully no others shared their well-appointed chamber; their servants were in a small adjoining room. But even in here she dared not show a preference for Glennoe and his squire, let alone anywhere else in Stirling Castle or on the tourney field. The laird did not meet any of her family’s requirements for a spouse. Sutherlands did not wed for love, kindness, interesting conversation or lust. They wed for wealth, land, and power. But she’d seen her fill of cold marriages, where the only thing that brought them satisfaction was destroying others.

She wanted warmth. Tender touch. The freedom to be her true self. So once again, her rebellious side had marched onward and she’d offered sword lessons in the hope that if Glennoe progressed to the final event of the tourney, he might win and take her to wife.

Would he accept her offer?

Isla burrowed under her quilt. Any decision to disobey the king needed time and much thought, but she hated not knowing Glennoe’s mind.

Callum’s mind.

Unwilling to say the names out loud, Isla wrote them instead across her quilt with a fingertip. Callum MacIntyre, Lord of Glennoe. Isla MacIntyre, Lady of Glennoe, and her lover Master Alastair Graham.

Heat scorched across her cheekbones. Somehow writing the forbidden wish was far more scandalous than what she’d imagined while touching herself. And yet already, her heart had decided this must be the way forward. All she had to do was convince Glennoe to accept her offer…

“Daughter! Get up. We’ll be late for chapel.”

Isla’s eyes flew open at the sharp reprimand and she peered out from under the quilt. No. Her mother was wrong. Surely it couldn’t be dawn. But weak rays of sunlight were beginning to lighten the chamber, which meant another endless day of formal court dress rather than the airy woolen hose and linen shirt that she’d worn while living and training at St. Andrews. Not a moment went by when she didn’t think of those months of freedom; how she’d pretended to live with a noble family but instead rented a room from an elderly widow nearby who feigned ignorance as long as three rules were followed: home by nightfall, coin paid each Sunday, and her ale left untouched.

All at once Isla’s quilt was yanked away, and she yelped as the morning chill cooled her warm skin. “No need for that! I’m awake, Mother.”

Lady Anne Sutherland glared at her, looking so elegant in her rose-pink velvet gown, gold girdle, and pearl-encrusted gable hood that Isla scowled. Her blue-eyed, fair-haired mother had been the celebrated beauty of her day, with marriage offers from across the realm and even England and France. It was decidedly unfair that her older sisters inherited that coloring while she resembled her father.

“Awake is not up, sponge-bathed, or dressed. Your sire has already departed to attend the king, I’ll not have us late to chapel and be looked down upon by that puffed up child queen. I cannot believe James wed a Tudor; they’ve held the English throne all of five minutes. Any other royal bloodline would have been superior, even if the mother was a York. French, Spanish, Portuguese, even one of the Low Countries. It sticks in my craw to curtsy to her.”

Familiar with this particular rant and well aware she was not required to reply, Isla merely nodded. In all honesty, she did not want to earn the queen’s displeasure with a second scolding, not when she held such power by virtue of her position. Instead, Isla climbed out of bed, discarded her nightgown and shift, and hurried over to the washbasin to give herself a swift sponge bath. Thankfully, their longtime servant Morag had heated the water over the fire. “Which gown do you suggest I wear? To, ah, look nice.”

And by look nice, I mean helpful in persuading Glennoe to accept sword lessons.

Anne blinked, her icy demeanor thawing a little. “The dark green will become you well, and the silver girdle to show off your narrow waist. A little padding to enhance your bodice—”

“No padding.”

“When God is less then generous in his bounty, we must help ourselves.”

“No padding,” Isla repeated. She would not pretend to have curves. Her body was her body, honed by countless hours of sweat-inducing sword fighting, and that was not something she would ever feel shame about.

Instead, she completed her sponging before Morag expertly dried her with a linen towel and assisted her into a fresh shift embroidered with roses at the neck.

Ugh. Dressing for court took forever.

Silk stockings affixed with garters. Linen kirtle. The dark green velvet gown with its square neckline, wide, fur-lined sleeves, low waist, and a train she found especially bothersome, for she often forgot it was there and dragged it through mud rather than hooking it up. Then the jewel-encrusted silver girdle around her waist. Lastly the tangles were combed from her unruly curls, and the cumbersome gable hood with a black velvet veil to cover her hair, was settled atop her head.

“Hmmm. You are too pale. No man wants a sickly-looking wife,” said Anne, pinching her cheeks.

At last Isla was declared ready for chapel. Her stomach grumbled, but there was no point asking for bread and butter or small ale, there wasn’t enough time.

“Will all the tourney entrants be at mass, do you think?” she asked carefully as they made their way from the chamber to the castle chapel at the edge of the inner close.

Anne nodded, her eyes gleaming. “If they are wise, they will be. I was pleasantly surprised at the quality of the men, considering you are the prize. Some great lords indeed. Enough land and position to ensure our clan remains high and mighty as we should and deserve to be. You have a favorite?”

“No, no,” Isla replied quickly. “It’s too soon. And so many men. I shall know better after the foot race, I think.”

A lie, but under no circumstances would she reveal her preference. Knowing what her mother was capable of and how easily she could strike made Isla’s stomach roil.

She wanted to help Glennoe and his squire, not hurt them.