Page 36 of Wicked Passions

“You walked alone?” growled Alastair. “That is dangerous.”

“Of course I didn’t. I joined a group of lads who had finished their duties and decided to go and visit a tavern for some ale and amiable company. However, I will require an escort part of the way back, though.”

“All the way,” said Callum. “You are far too precious to risk and don’t have a sword.”

Isla tilted her head, then wound her arms about his neck, and kissed him.

Sweetness exploded in his mouth, and he immediately surrendered to her questing tongue. Even with the binding he could feel the slight swell of her breasts, and he cupped the firm perfection of her arse and rubbed his cock against her.

Isla eventually moved away, panting for breath. “I’ve been waiting to do that for hours. You did so well at the stone put. I was very proud.”

“Hardly well,” said Callum, his cheeks heating. “Pure good fortune assisted me today.”

“It doesn’t matter how you progressed to the revels. It only matters that you did.”

“What I told him,” said Alastair.

“Because you are a great and wise devilish beast,” replied Isla with a wink, as she danced over, went up on her toes, and kissed him passionately also.

Callum swallowed hard at the erotic sight. While he loathed the thought of Isla wedding another tourney entrant, oddly he didn’t feel a whit of jealousy at the affectionate lust between his lover and his potential wife. Just an overwhelming urge to join them, discard all clothing, and pleasure both however they wished.

When Isla stepped unsteadily back from Alastair and removed her short cloak, he thought maybe she agreed. But then she gazed at him, all humor gone. “Fetch your swords. We must commence your lesson at once.”

Quickly, he obeyed her order. Alastair moved furniture to clear a space in the center of the room, then lit extra candles so it appeared bright as day. Callum kept his own sword, while Isla took Alastair’s.

“What will you teach me this night?”

Isla swung the sword up and rested it on her shoulder. “I have shown you grip, footwork, stance, and ways that a person who is smaller in build can defend themselves against a much larger opponent. But today I must show you how to attack. If you surprise your opponent, whoever they are, you may have just enough time to defeat them. Ready?”

Callum took a deep breath, firmly suppressing the old sweat-inducing fear and shame that holding a sword invoked. This was the only way forward, and Isla cared so much she would risk all to visit and help him in the dead of night.

“Ready,” he replied, settling into the stance she had taught him.

“Begin,” commanded Isla.

Callum nodded and attempted a short slashing stroke, remembering to keep his chest and belly protected. But before his sword was even in front of his face, Isla sharply blocked him and the clash of steel on steel sent a shudder down his arms. “That was swift…”

“Yes. Your opponent will expect to be the aggressor, the one who decides the speed and direction and so forth. They will also expect you to allow their attack then defend against it. No. They are wrong. You need not wait until a cut or thrust is nearly complete to block it. In fact, the faster you respond, the less power they have. Understand?”

“I do.”

“Now, I shall attack you slowly. Halt me.”

Again and again, Isla attacked. Again and again, his response was ponderous and weak, and the third time his sword clattered to the floor.

Frustrated despair dropped his shoulders. “I’ll never learn this.”

“Yes, you will,” said Alastair. “But you must fight as though she is Red whom you loathe, not Isla whom you like. Remember all those insults. Take that rage and use it. Isla is an expert with sword in hand, not a delicate flower. Treat her thus.”

Callum stared at his blade. Then at Isla. “Forgive me. I am poor at—”

“No,” she snapped, her green eyes flashing. “Not poor. Your grip and footwork are most adequate, and your excellence with a bow and arrow is testament to your strength and awareness of what is happening around you. There is only one reason you cannot improve your swordplay…and that is because you heed the man in your mind who long ago decided your worth and ability based on your size rather than your skill. We are near the same height. You are larger than me. If I can do this, you can also. But you must believe.”

Callum didn’t wince at the scolding; the words were far too familiar even if the tone was Isla-fiery rather than Alastair-gruff. Really, he owed his squire a thousand favors for not storming away in disgust when he wallowed in bad memories. Especially when Alastair’s own childhood had been so terrible. His closest friend might be the most steadfast in the realm.

“My late father is the man in my mind,” Callum confessed. “He often told me I was worthless. Too short. Too delicate. Soft in head and hands from reading rather than fighting. My cousin Red was his favorite.”

“Wrong,” she replied fiercely. “Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Now pick up that damned sword and show me Callum MacIntyre. The learned scholar who negotiates trade. The lord of the bow. The lover who brings such pleasure. Show me him with sword in hand, for he is worth all the treasure in the kingdom.”