Page 44 of Wicked Passions

“However,” the king continued. “For the tune, each entrant must be accompanied by his squire. He may sing or play an instrument, but they must both take part. A good husband, worthy of Lady Isla, shall have a range of skills and the trust and respect of those closest to him.”

His spirits soared. At last, rather than just applaud or encourage or massage, he could truly assist his laird in winning the tourney and Isla’s hand. Lady Maude had taught them both to dance and play instruments in her solar, and those times were some of the happiest of his childhood. The old laird had disapproved, shunning anything he deemed ‘soft’ but thankfully had not forbidden either activity.

“Excellent,” called Lord Spalding. “Who shall entertain you and your lovely queen first, Your Grace?”

“Sir Leslie Hay,” announced the king. “Followed by Callum MacIntyre, Lord of Glennoe, yourself, Lord Hamilton of Arran, the MacDonald of Carnoch, and to finish, Lord Ruthven of Perth. My lords, lairds, ladies, and honored guests from Scotland or abroad, please do sit and be entertained.”

The young knight looked a little ill at the thought of performing first, but he played the pipe more than passing fair, and his squire sang with a deep and powerful voice. When they finished, applause rippled around the Great Hall.

Now it was their turn.

“They were very good,” muttered Callum as he chose a wooden flute, while Alastair reached down for the lute.

“We’ll be better,” Alastair replied. “Now is not the time to be modest; the king and queen must have no choice but to choose you as one of the final four.”

All eyes were upon them as they returned to the center of the Great Hall, apart from Isla who glanced, but just as swiftly looked away. Irritably, he stared down at his lute, cradling the pear-shaped instrument against his chest. His left hand curled about the long neck, while the fingers of his right hand plucked at each course of strings, the first a single, then five pairs.

Plague take it, what was wrong? Did she have regrets about the hours they’d spent together?

Did the lady regret submitting to an orphaned, penniless squire? Had she decided, as most did, that he was unworthy of her time and affection?

The thoughts clawed at him, and he plucked the bottom string too firmly, causing a discordant note to echo in the Hall. Several men laughed, devil-spawned Red the loudest.

Mortified, Alastair gritted his teeth then met Callum’s gaze.

“Begin.”

* * *

Before he performed, Callum inhaled and exhaled slowly, allowing himself one glance at Isla. Alastair was correct, she did look unhappy. Not sad, though. More like she wished to find a dark chamber and stab a cushion sixty-five times. There might be a reasonable explanation, but at this moment his stomach roiled with dread.

No. He needed to take control. Like archery, playing music was something he could do well. He and Alastair had often entertained his mother as she sat embroidering in the solar or working in her herbal chamber. ‘A merry tune’ she would say. ‘To lift my spirits and give praise unto God.’

That was the answer. Something to show Isla they cared, something to make her smile.

Callum met Alastair’s gaze. “A merry tune,” he whispered, before settling the flute near his lips.

His squire nodded. Shortly afterward, Alastair began tapping his shoe heel on the floor, a sharp and constant sound to keep them in time.

It was much easier to move about with a flute. As Callum’s fingers danced up and down the wooden instrument, a kind of mist descended, blocking the other men and the Great Hall. He could see the king and queen, but played only for Isla. With a flourish of deep, low notes, he stomped forward as though in a temper. Then with a deliberately large side step he unleashed a flurry of high notes, complete with a twirl and heel kick behind him, the other side of the argument. Back and forth he went, low to high, temper to playful, and soon several ladies including the queen herself were giggling and clapping in time with Alastair’s heel taps. Greatly encouraged, Callum made his movements even more expressive, and soon the sound of laughter from other guests and envoys was too loud to ignore.

He returned to Alastair and they began a musical duel, several notes from his flute challenging several notes from the lute. His squire remained in place, heel still tapping, but Callum circled him using several of the foot movements that Isla had helped perfect. Front. Back. Diagonal. False step.

“What a sight to behold,” called the king delightedly. “Musical swordplay!”

Only then did Callum permit himself another glance at Isla. This time she met his gaze, the tiniest smile at her lips as she clapped a few times, before turning away again. Now certain that something was amiss, Callum moved forward so he played directly in front of the dais. God’s blood, it was a contrast, the genial approval of the king and queen, and the frigid, false smiles of the Sutherlands. How had a warm, bold, unconventional lass like Isla survived in such treacherous waters?

He completed one final high note flourish on the flute, Alastair did the same on the lute, before both sank to one knee.

The king stood, applauding wildly. “Marvelous! What a spectacle! Glennoe and Master Graham have laid down a mighty challenge to the other entrants, have they not, my queen?”

Margaret nodded, her cheeks flushed and eyes bright rather than her usual petulance. “Very enjoyable. It…reminded me of Richmond Palace.”

Callum bowed. “Thank you both.”

“And what say you, Lady Isla?” asked James cheerfully.

Her smile was thin at best. “Good, Your Grace.”