Two
 

Kenneth Sutherland was surrounded as soon as he entered the Great Hall of Dunstaffnage Castle. He was accustomed to a certain amount of feminine attention, but the frenzied atmosphere of the Highland Games took some getting used to. The competitors enjoyed an almost godlike status, with the favorites such as himself having large entourages of followers. Very enthusiastic followers.

Though usually there was nothing he liked more than being the focus of so many beautiful women, tonight he was on a mission. While the king had been here at Dunstaffnage negotiating with the envoys from England, Kenneth had been on a peacekeeping undertaking of his own. He’d just returned from a two-week-long journey north to pacify the Munros, longtime allies of his clan, after a misguided attempt by Donald Munro, his brother’s henchman, to kill the king.

Now that Kenneth was back, he was anxious to speak with the king. The Bruce, as the men had taken to calling him, had been putting him off for too long. But as the king seemed to be locked away in the laird’s solar with his men, it seemed their conversation would have to wait.

He should be enjoying hearing his deeds on the battlefield recounted minute by minute, but it was out of habit more than true enthusiasm that Kenneth laughed, teased, and accepted the ladies’ compliments for a few minutes before taking his seat at one of the trestle tables just below the dais. Normally being the heir to an earldom would warrant a place at the high table, but with the Highland Games about to begin, most of Scotland’s nobles—at least those loyal to Bruce—were here.

His sister Helen was seated at the opposite end of the table and rolled her eyes at his “throng of worshipers,” as she called them. He responded with a helpless shrug that didn’t fool her one bit. If women wanted to throw themselves at him, he sure as hell wasn’t going to stop them.

He supposed there were much less pleasant ways of biding his time than being seated between two beautiful young women with a goblet of wine in his hand. But for once, big blue eyes, soft red lips, enticingly low bodices, and platitudes didn’t hold his attention. His gaze kept slipping to the solar door.

“Will you be competing in all the events, my lord?”

Kenneth turned to the woman on his left, aware of the gentle pressure of her leg against his. Lady Alice Barclay had been sending him less-than-subtle signals all evening, and it was impossible to miss the invitation in her eyes as she fluttered her lashes up at him. If there was any doubt—which there wasn’t—the way she leaned forward to give him a fine view of some rather remarkable cleavage all but shouted “take me.”

He smiled. Though she was certainly pretty enough, and those soft, round breasts were generous enough to tempt a monk, this was one invitation he didn’t plan on accepting. Lady Alice was the young wife of one of Bruce’s most trusted commanders, Sir David Barclay, and therefore forbidden fruit. Kenneth wasn’t going to do anything to draw the king’s ire. He’d worked hard to prove himself and wasn’t about to throw it all away on a woman, no matter how tempting.

But Lady Alice wasn’t making it easy. She leaned forward a little more, resting her hand on his thigh under the table and letting one of those plump breasts graze his arm. He felt the hard bead of her nipple through the wool of his tunic, and his body reacted.

A slow smile curved his mouth. At least forbidden fruit until Bruce gave him an answer, and then he might have to reconsider.

“Most of the events, Lady Alice, although I fear I’m not much of a dancer. I will leave the sword dance for those with more nimble feet.”

“I think you are being modest. I’ve heard you are quite nimble, my lord. Especially with your sword.” Her hand inched closer to the growing bulge between his legs just in case he’d missed the suggestiveness of her words.

Though he was tempted to see how far she would take it—he’d been a squire the last time a lass had stroked him under the tablecloth in the middle of a feast—he wasn’t going to take any chances. With a sigh of regret, he covered her hand with his and eased it off his lap. He smiled, hoping to ease the sting of his rejection. “In the practice yard, perhaps. Alas, that is all I can focus on right now.”

Thankfully, the woman on his right decided his attention had been on Lady Alice long enough. “The ladies are already making wagers, my lord. I believe you are favored to win many of the weapon competitions.”

He lifted a brow in mock disappointment. “Only the weapons?”

Lady Eleanor, the daughter of Sir William Wiseman, another of Bruce’s closest cohorts, blushed, not realizing he was teasing her. “Perhaps the wrestling event as well. But Robbie Boyd still has not said whether he will enter.”

As Kenneth was fairly sure Robbie Boyd was a member of Bruce’s secret army, he doubted the king was going to let him anywhere near the competition field. Magnus MacKay, Tor MacLeod, Erik MacSorley, and Gregor MacGregor as well. All past champions of the Games, and all, he suspected, members of Bruce’s famed phantom band of warriors. “Famed” because of their almost mythical deeds, and “phantom” because they seemed to slip in and out of the darkness like wraiths, identities unknown. The king wouldn’t want to draw attention to their skills, not when the names of the members of his secret army were so sought after.

Rumors of an elite group of warriors—a secret army—had been floating around for years. But it wasn’t until Kenneth and his Sutherland clansmen had come over to Bruce’s side late last year that Kenneth had figured out that not only was it real, his foster brother had been a part of it. Until he’d been killed in battle, that is. Kenneth intended to take his friend’s place among the best warriors in Scotland. If the Highland Games were the recruiting ground for the secret army, he wasn’t going to leave any doubt as to his skills.

No matter who he faced.

“I would welcome the challenge,” he said truthfully. Wrestling was a bit of a misnomer. Hand-to-hand combat was more accurate. It was an all-out brawl—a melee of two. It was the ultimate contest of strength and fighting ability, matching two opponents with nothing but their fists.

Though Robbie Boyd had never lost in the wrestling event and was considered the strongest man in Scotland, Kenneth never shied from a fight—which admittedly sometimes got him in trouble.

“Are you so sure, Sutherland?” Kenneth stiffened at the familiar voice coming from behind him. “As I recall, last time you did not fare so well.”

His shoulders stiffened reflexively, but when Kenneth turned to look at the man who’d taken a seat beside his sister while his attention had been fixed on the solar door, there was no sign he’d heard the taunt.

He didn’t usually shy from a fight, he amended his earlier thought. Until now. Sangfroid, he told himself. Kenneth was going to be on his best behavior, even if it bloody well killed him. And not just with the women. He was determined to keep his temper in check and not let his bastard of a soon-to-be brother-in-law get to him, even if MacKay seemed to be making it his personal mission in life to rile his temper and prove him unworthy for Bruce’s secret army.

He wasn’t rash—or a hothead—damn it!

Magnus MacKay had been his enemy, nemesis, and all-around thorn in his arse since Kenneth had been old enough to hold a sword. MacKay had bested him on the field when they were youths more times than he wanted to remember. But he did remember, every one of them. No more. Kenneth was done coming in second. He’d spent the better part of the past three years honing his skills in battle, becoming one of the best warriors in the Highlands. He was determined to prove it by winning a place in Bruce’s army. If MacKay didn’t stand in his way, that is.

He smiled at the man his sister planned to marry at the conclusion of the Games. “As I recall, neither did you.” Magnus’s face darkened. He didn’t like losing any better than Kenneth did, and they’d both lost at the hands of Robbie Boyd that year. “But that was four years ago. Perhaps we’ve both improved?” And because he never could resist taunting the bastard back, he added to the women around him, “Although I’m afraid you won’t get to see MacKay fight. He is still nursing an arm injury.”

The women immediately expressed their disappointment and well-wishes for his swift recovery, while Kenneth grinned at the glowering Highlander. He knew full well that MacKay’s arm was fine, but Bruce had prohibited him from entering the competition. He also knew just how much the warrior who prided himself on toughness would bristle at the idea of “nursing” anything. He would feel the same.

“I’m not—” MacKay stopped so suddenly and with such an “oof” of air that Kenneth suspected his sister’s elbow had just connected rather firmly with his ribs. After looking down at Helen, who smiled angelically back up at him, MacKay’s anger fizzled. “Fortunately, I have a very talented healer to nurse me back to health.”

It was Kenneth’s turn to glower. Although no one else at the table had picked up on the sensual innuendo of MacKay’s words, he sure as hell had. The idea of MacKay marrying his little sister was bad enough, but the bastard had better damn well keep his hands off her until after the wedding. Noticing the heat rising to his sister’s cheeks, however, Kenneth suspected it was too late.

He was reconsidering his vow not to fight with MacKay, when the door to the solar opened and men began to emerge from the room. Intent on reaching the king before he left, he quickly excused himself and crossed the twenty or so feet to the solar. The guardsman standing at the door would have refused him entry if the king hadn’t glanced over and waved him in.

“Just the man I wanted to see. Come in, Sutherland, come in,” Bruce said.

As the king had seemed to be avoiding him, Kenneth was surprised by his words. “You wished to see me, Sire?”

Bruce motioned him forward toward a seat opposite him at the council table. Only a few men remained in the room. Kenneth recognized the famed swordsman and trainer Tor MacLeod on his left, Sir Neil Campbell on his right, and to his surprise, William Lamberton, the Bishop of St. Andrews, next to him. He’d heard the bishop was part of Edward’s truce delegation, but why was he here now?

After greetings were exchanged, Bruce said, “Have you given any more thought to our last discussion?”

It took Kenneth a moment to realize to what he was referring.

Then he remembered. The last conversation he’d had with the king was after Kenneth’s brother William, Earl of Sutherland, had announced his plans to marry their clan’s healer, Muriel, rather than the king’s sister Christina when she was released from English captivity. The king wanted an alliance with the Sutherlands, and now that duty would fall to him, as William had named him his heir. Kenneth didn’t know the details, but Muriel apparently was barren. At some point—he hoped many years from now—the earldom would fall to Kenneth or his son.

But finding a wife hadn’t been foremost on his mind. It wasn’t that he didn’t want one; it simply didn’t matter to him who he wed. As long as she was noble with the right connections and could bear him a few sons, one woman was as good as another. He supposed he’d prefer if the lass was attractive, as it would make the begetting of those heirs easier, but he had enough experience to call on memories if he needed a little help.

It wasn’t as if a wife would have any effect on his day-to-day life. He’d go on as he had before. His sister and brother might feel differently, but Kenneth was not moved by emotion. For men like him, marriage was a duty. He’d loved lots of women; he didn’t need to love his wife.

“Aye,” he lied. “I have. Did you have someone in mind?”

Kenneth was expecting the king to put forth his sister Christina, as he had to his brother Will. The former Countess of Mar was still being held in England, as was her young son, the current Earl of Mar. Kenneth knew how important it was to Bruce to unite all the Scottish earls under his banner, and the countess’s next husband might help influence that decision.

But it was a different widowed countess that Bruce spoke of—Atholl. “I’m not sure whether you are aware, but my former sister-in-law, Mary, is a part of Edward’s delegation.” Suddenly, the bishop’s presence made a little more sense. He vaguely recalled seeing Atholl’s wife once years ago when he was still a squire with the Earl of Ross. She’d been quite pretty, he thought, and much younger than her husband. He also knew she’d been kept a virtual prisoner these past few years in England after her husband’s execution.

He nodded, and Bruce continued, “The lass is dear to me, she was still a child when I married her sister, and I thought if she could be persuaded to remarry one of my men …”

He didn’t need to say the rest. As with Christina Bruce, Mary of Mar had a young son and earl in England. The right husband might be able to persuade her and her son to join Bruce. Of course, there was one major obstacle. “I doubt Edward would approve of the match.”

Bruce smiled wryly. “You’re right, with the way things stand now. But there are ways we might be able to get around that. There is, however, a bigger problem.”

“What’s that?”

It was the bishop who answered. “The lass has no interest in remarrying.” He paused. “She’s had a difficult time of it the past few years.”

Understandable, given the circumstances. He resisted the urge to rub his neck, thinking of the traitor’s death that had befallen Atholl.

“Where does her allegiance lie?”

The king and the bishop exchanged looks, but it was Bruce who spoke. “To her son, but beyond that I am not sure. She holds no love for the English king, but whether she would convince her son to rebel against him and join us, I don’t know.” He smiled. “My former sister-in-law is far more obstinate than I remembered—and far more politic in her answers. I doubt anything will come of it. All I ask is that you meet her, and see if you would suit. If not, I have other women for you to consider.”

They spent some time discussing a few of the other possibilities, but it was hard for Kenneth to feign enthusiasm when he had something else far more important on his mind. He finally had his opportunity when the meeting dissolved.

“Sire, there is something I should like to discuss with you if you can spare a few more minutes.”

The king nodded. Kenneth suspected he knew what it was about when Bruce dismissed Campbell and the bishop but had MacLeod remain.

He could feel the fierce Island chief’s scrutiny, but addressed his words to Bruce. “I want in. I want to be a part of your secret army.” He considered it a good sign when neither man protested with a “what secret army?” He continued, “I think I’ve proved my loyalty to you these past few months.”

Kenneth had been part of the king’s retinue on his royal progress across the Highlands. He’d helped save the king’s life a couple of weeks ago when his brother’s henchman and a secret killing team of Saracen-style “assassins” had made attempts on it.

“You have,” the king agreed.

He shouldn’t have to prove himself, damn it. “If you doubt my battle skills, I will cross swords with any man—”

MacLeod arched his brow in challenge, but it was the king who interrupted. “Your skills are not at issue.”

“I am not as adept as Gordon was with the black powder, but I have some knowledge.”

His friend and foster brother, William Gordon, had been a part of Bruce’s secret army and had died last year in an explosion. Kenneth suspected the unusual knowledge of the Saracen black powder was part of the reason he’d been on the team.

MacLeod and the king exchanged another look, but neither said anything.

Despite his intentions, Kenneth felt his temper prick. “This is about MacKay, isn’t it?”

“He has expressed some concern,” the king admitted.

“He says you are rash, have a hot temper, and lack discipline,” MacLeod said bluntly.

Kenneth swallowed his anger. As he suspected, Bruce wanted him on the team, but he wouldn’t invite him to join unless MacKay went along with it. “If he means fierce, aggressive, and fearless, I won’t argue that. If you wanted discipline, I would think you’d be at a tournament of knights, not at the Highland Games. Highlanders aren’t disciplined. We fight to win.” He paused, seeing the hint of a smile play Bruce’s mouth. “If MacKay agrees, will you consider it?”

After a moment, the king nodded.

Kenneth turned to go have a frank discussion with his future brother-in-law, when MacLeod stopped him. “But you’ll have to prove yourself to me.”

The way he said it suggested he wasn’t going to like whatever MacLeod had in mind. But proving himself wasn’t anything new; Kenneth had been doing it since the day he was born—even in that he’d come in second.

Kenneth waited for his sister to leave the Hall before confronting the man only God knew why she intended to marry. He stepped in front of MacKay as he exited the tower on his way to the barracks, blocking his path. “I thought we had a deal.”

MacKay smiled. “What deal?”

He gritted his teeth, fighting for patience. “I wouldn’t stand in your way of marrying my sister, and you don’t stand in the way of me joining the secret army.”

“I recall a conversation on the subject, but I don’t remember ever agreeing to anything. And if you think you could stop Helen from marrying me, I’d like to see you try.”

Kenneth’s jaw locked, knowing he was right. His sister had made it clear that his opinion on her marriage didn’t matter. God save him from a modern “independent” woman! Sweet and biddable suited him just fine.

The truth was, if he weren’t so used to hating MacKay, he might actually like the arse. His Sutherland ancestors were probably rolling in their graves at the sacrilege. The MacKays and Sutherlands had been enemies for as long as he could remember. MacKay might be a stubborn bastard, but he was also one of the best warriors Kenneth had ever fought beside. “Perhaps not, but I don’t think you want to be the cause of discord between Helen and me. She may love you, but she also loves me.”

MacKay frowned, as if he didn’t like being reminded of it. “What do you want? If you think I’m going to sing your praises to Bruce—”

“I don’t need you to sing my praises. I can do that on my own—on the field. I just need you to stay out of my way.”

His old enemy and longtime competitor eyed him carefully. “I’ll admit, you’re not bad. But ‘not bad’ is far from the best. You aren’t fighting with the English anymore,” he said sarcastically, referring to the Sutherlands’ recent shift in allegiance to Bruce. “Are you sure you can compete with the most elite warriors in Scotland?”

“Not only compete, but win.” He paused. “Look, I know you need someone to take Gordon’s place.”

“No one can take Gordon’s place,” MacKay snapped.

Their eyes met. He better than anyone understood that. Gordon had been his foster brother, but he’d been MacKay’s partner. A friend to them both—ironic, given their enmity. “You’re right. But I’m the next best man for the job, and you know it.”

MacKay’s jaw clenched, and his silence seemed a tacit agreement of sorts.

Sensing an opening, Kenneth went in for the kill. “Bruce has recruited men from the Games before. I’d wager that’s what brought you to his attention four years ago.” More silence. “Let these Games be no different. If I win the overall championship, you’ll agree not to interfere.”

It was a bold offer. The overall champion was the competitor who had the highest ranking across all the events. Given that he was no dancer and only a decent swimmer, he’d have to do extremely well in all the other events.

McKay shook his head. “Not good enough. Many of the best competitors won’t be competing.”

He meant himself, as well as the other members of the secret army.

Kenneth tried to rein in his temper, but MacKay made it bloody difficult. He was a provoking bastard. “Then what do you suggest?”

“Win them all, and I’ll welcome you in myself.”

He couldn’t be serious. “All?”

“Only the weapon events,” MacKay clarified, as if it were the most reasonable thing in the world.

“No one has ever done that.” Kenneth was so outraged, he feared he was sputtering.

MacKay shrugged, not bothering to hide his smile.

Kenneth cursed his own arrogance under his breath. MacKay had turned it against him. “You know I’m not very good with a bow. Neither are you, if I recall. Gregor MacGregor might not be competing, but his young brother John is, and he’s reputed to be nearly as good.”

“Fine. No archery, but you’ll have to win the wrestling competition instead.”

Kenneth gritted his teeth. Sangfroid, damn it. But he could feel the heat rising. MacKay had backed him into a damned corner and knew it. “Fine. It’s a deal.”

He stepped aside to let MacKay pass by—or swagger by, the smug bastard.

“Good luck, Sutherland. You’re going to need it.”

Kenneth wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of showing his anger. He didn’t care what it took; he was going to win.

If there was anything Kenneth knew how to do, it was fight. He’d been doing it practically since the day he was born. Nothing had ever come easily for him. But he didn’t mind. It had only made him stronger and more determined to win.

He was about to return to the Hall to find a nice big tankard of ale to cool his anger, when a group of women approached and he thought of a better way to soothe his temper.

He supposed there was one thing that had always come easily for him.