Page 22 of Wicked Passions

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Would it be so wrong to heave Red MacDonald from the ramparts of Stirling Castle?

Alastair watched the man stalk back to his tent. Whatever he’d said to Callum, it had provoked a strong reaction. For a laird renowned as cool and calm and a man of peace to throw down his bow and appear ready to let fists fly…

He folded his arms, lest he get himself into trouble. Sir Lachlan had intervened on the field; to confront Red and spark that flint again would be unforgivable. Especially when it was Callum’s chance to progress to the stone put event on the morrow. Plague take it, he could scarcely bear to watch, even though he knew how talented his laird was. Six men had already departed the field in defeat this day and after Red progressing by the narrowest of margins, it would be a travesty if Callum did not. Yet there was nothing he could do. Prayer seemed rather pointless, it wasn’t like he and God were on particularly good terms.

The crowd hushed as Callum set his arrow and drew the bowstring back taut. A chill wind swept across the battlefield, ruffling his laird’s shirt and hair, and it was enough to make Alastair wish he could paint or sketch. This was a moment to be captured, one of fierce concentration, courage, and leashed strength, representing the man that so few saw, but he knew intimately.

So very intimately.

Callum released the arrow, and as though guided by angels themselves, the tip pierced the goose so deeply that it rose in the air before tumbling to the ground.

All eyes darted to Sir Lachlan. He in turn gestured to the royal pavilion for the king’s decision.

James laughed and thumped his hand on the wooden frame. “Glennoe, you have quite killed my goose! And just one attempt! What a fine arrow. I hereby declare you lord of the bow, and wish you good fortune in the stone put.”

Noise erupted around the field, the din near deafening as the crowd clapped, stomped their feet, and yelled Glennoe! Lord of the bow!

Callum waved awkwardly; even from this distance his scarlet cheeks were clear to see. His laird was bashful at the public celebration of his victory, for it happened so rarely. In truth, it was galling that Callum could be feted here in Stirling for merely piercing a stuffed goose with an arrow, when everything he’d done for the MacIntyre clan was viewed with indifference at best and outright suspicion and disdain at worst. The clan measured success in one way: battles won and lost. Not kindness and self-sacrifice, meetings attended, ledgers balanced, or treaties negotiated and signed.

“Well, squire, it seems we shall remain in Stirling another day.”

Alastair did not reply. Instead, with triumph and relief and aching need coursing through his veins, he ushered his laird into the privacy of the tent, cupped his face and kissed him forcefully.

Callum’s hands gripped Alastair’s shirt as he surrendered for a long, sweet moment, before pulling away. “We can’t. Not here.”

“Forgive me,” he rasped, swallowing hard against a rush of bittersweet lust, for it seemed this would forever be his lot: stolen moments of forbidden passion.

But for how much longer?

Wickedly unconventional Isla had allowed him to watch as Callum pleasured her. Had touched herself as he fucked Callum’s mouth and spent down his throat. Yet he did not dare hope for more. As Callum and Isla, they might permit him to join their play. But if this tourney led to a wedding, and a new alliance with the cold and haughty Sutherlands, the Lord and Lady of Glennoe might feel quite different when the harsh reality of duty set in.

Would he ever truly belong somewhere?

“Lord of the bow!” came a voice from outside the tent. “It is Lady Isla. May I enter and offer my congratulations?”

“Of course,” said Callum too-heartily.

She trudged in, one hand pressed to her belly, and Alastair frowned.

“Are you well, lady?”

Isla winked. “Alas not, Master Graham. I have a terrible stomach ache and fear I shall be resting this night rather than feasting with the king and queen, and honored guests in the Great Hall.”

“Sad news indeed,” said Callum solemnly, his eyes glinting.

“Very sad,” echoed Alastair. “Be sure to have some, now what is it your mother recommends, laird? Boiled water with peppermint?”

“Aye. Peppermint for belly gripes.”

“Thank you,” said Isla, as her lips twitched madly. “Your concern is most kind. Glennoe, I wonder if you might show me your trusty bow? I should like to admire your grip."

Alastair pressed his fist to his mouth and coughed. Pure mischief danced in Isla’s eyes, she knew perfectly well the ribald meaning in her words. Plague take it, why did the woman who might overturn his precarious place in the world have to be so damned likeable?

“Here, lady,” said Callum, picking up his bow and a single arrow, and settling himself into the correct stance for the benefit of anyone walking past the tent entrance. “See how I hold this at chest height?”

“Oh indeed,” she replied, before moving closer and lowering her voice to the barest whisper. “I’ll come to your cottage once the feast begins. My manservant Leith shall fetch me after he has delivered messages to Stirling, so less time than yesterday. I can offer some further swordplay advice, but nothing more. Much as I would like that.”