Nine
 

Kenneth was going to be the last man standing if it killed him. And it seemed the others were determined to do just that. Perdition? That was putting it mildly. He’d rather spend an eternity of punishment in the fiery pits of hell than another two weeks of Tor MacLeod’s “training” in the wintry bowels of the Cuillin mountain range.

They’d been climbing up the icy, desolate mountainside for hours at a pace that might as well be called a run. He couldn’t ever remember being this cold and tired. Every muscle, every bone in his body hurt—even his teeth. Although that was probably because he’d been grinding them so hard trying to keep a rein on his temper. Sangfroid! It was so damned cold he should have ice in his veins, let alone “cold blood.”

But unfortunately, his blood was still running hot. It wasn’t just MacKay testing him now; he had ten of the fiercest, most highly prized warriors in Christendom doing everything they could to get to him. To make him quit. But no matter how unpleasant or harassing the task, how difficult the ordeal, or how many irritating names they called him, he was determined to grit his teeth and bear it. He’d been given one more chance, and nothing was going to stop him from earning a place in Bruce’s secret army.

Of the handful of potential recruits who’d started with him over three months ago, only two remained in the war of attrition that was MacLeod’s training. One had quit the first week; the other two had lasted the first few months of training, only to fall in the first few days of Perdition once training had resumed after an all-too-short break for Christmastide, the twelve days from Christmas Eve to Epiphany.

Apparently MacLeod was human after all; he’d wanted to spend the holidays with his expectant wife and young daughter. Otherwise it was sometimes hard to tell. Over the past few months of training, MacLeod had pushed Kenneth and the other recruits to the edge of their physical and emotional limits. Kenneth might have come to despise him if “Chief,” as he was known among the men (to protect their identities, the members of the secret army used war names), hadn’t done every task he’d asked of them right beside them—usually better than all of them. Even now, when most of the men appeared ready to collapse, Chief barely seemed winded. Kenneth respected the hell out of him.

MacLeod’s endurance nearly matched MacKay’s. After living side-by-side for nearly three months, MacKay, too, had Kenneth’s grudging respect. The skills that had brought each team member to Bruce’s attention had become apparent, and his brother-in-law’s (the wedding had gone on, although Helen had been nearly as furious as Bruce, which had resulted in Kenneth being given another chance) ability to navigate the Highlands, his physical endurance, and his toughness were extraordinary. It was MacKay’s place as the best all-around warrior on the team that Kenneth intended to challenge.

His efforts to perfect the recipe for black powder had not progressed much beyond unstable, inconsistent, and dangerous. He could manage to put together something that would cause damage, but he was hardly at the level Gordon had been. Unfortunately, his friend hadn’t thought to leave any notes behind.

Finally, MacLeod called a halt to the march. “We’ll stop here for the night.”

Kenneth wasn’t the only one to heave a sigh of relief. He shrugged off the heavy pack he wore strapped to his back—the terrain was too steep and rocky for goats or deer, let alone horses—and collapsed on the nearest rock. A quick glance at the other weather-beaten faces, mostly hidden by various forms of wool and fur, told him the rest of the men were doing the same.

Even Erik MacSorley, known as Hawk, was quiet—a rarity, indeed. Some of the men were still a mystery to him, but Hawk wasn’t one of them. The gregarious, quick-with-a-jest seafarer could always be counted on to lighten the mood. He was an easy man to like. Much like Gordon, he thought sadly.

Kenneth bent over, leaning his forearms on his thighs and willing his body to recover. If he’d learned anything in the past few months, it was that when he was at his weakest point—when he most needed a rest—he was sure not to get it.

He had all of five minutes to recover before MacKay proved his point. Kenneth didn’t need to glance up—the large, looming presence had become instantly recognizable. A bit like the shadow of the grim reaper.

“Rest time is over, Recruit. You’re on watch tonight,” MacKay said. “Unless you’re too tired?”

Admitting that would give the whoreson too much bloody satisfaction. Kenneth clenched his jaw and used what little strength he had left to drag himself to his feet. “Not to do my duty.”

Kenneth couldn’t bring himself to use MacKay’s war name of “Saint.” The appellation couldn’t be farther from the truth. “Satan’s spawn” suited him much better. Kenneth’s longtime nemesis might have been forced by Bruce and Helen to let Kenneth join the men who would battle for a position on the team, but that didn’t mean he had to like it—or that he would make Kenneth’s path an easy one.

But as much as Kenneth would like to claim otherwise, MacKay didn’t single him out for extra torture. Nay, the torture was spread around evenly and thickly. Even when he was a squire he hadn’t been forced to do so many menial tasks. He’d never dug so many cesspits, fetched so much wood or peat for a fire, cleaned armor until his fingers were raw, and even washed soiled linens. Yet ironically, the tasks that he looked down upon as beneath him a few months ago had become his moments of peace and relative relaxation.

“Good,” MacKay replied. “You, too, Recruit,” he addressed the only other man unfortunate enough to still be around to answer to that name. Kenneth had come not to mind it. It was a hell of a lot better than some of the other names they called him.

The first time Hawk had seen him taking a piss, he’d taken to calling him The Steed. Kenneth was used to the jests about the size of his manhood, and normally he would have shrugged it off, if Steed hadn’t transformed into Stud thanks to MacKay. Though his brother by marriage hadn’t shared the origin of the name, the private jest was enough to set his teeth on edge every time he heard it. It was also a constant reminder of exactly who was to blame for his current predicament.

He was sure that was why he thought of her so often. Even more than four months later, Lady Mary’s easy dismissal of him as a potential husband stung. His own reaction to her, he tried not to think about. He was sure it hadn’t been nearly as incredible as he remembered. Surely he’d had better, even if he couldn’t remember a specific instance. He would prove it, just as soon as he finished his training. Profligate? More like monk, of late.

But just because he chose to accept a few of the offers thrown his way didn’t make him a profligate. He was glad she’d refused him. The last thing he needed was a wife who didn’t understand a man’s needs. But why had it seemed to bother her so much?

“You need to see to the evening meal,” MacKay was saying to the other recruit, “starting with a fire. Then you can find us something to eat. I think we could all do with some fresh meat tonight.”

Although he knew everything about him as a warrior, Kenneth knew little personal information about his fellow recruit other than that he spoke and dressed as if he were from the Isles. He was certainly large and fair enough to have some Viking blood in him. His brother-in-hell was unable to stifle a groan. Kenneth didn’t blame him; finding something to eat in these stark, frozen mountaintops was going to be a Herculean—if not Promethean—task.

Watch suddenly seemed like a pleasure jaunt by comparison. Kenneth pulled a few things from his pack, and as he started away to take his position on the outskirt of camp, he wondered at MacKay’s unusual generosity.

But the voice that was anything but saintlike stopped him. “Where do you think you’re going, Recruit?” Kenneth turned around slowly, dread seeping through every inch of his aching limbs. “You’ll watch from up there.”

Kenneth followed the direction of his hand to the peak of the mountain above them, still a good two hundred feet up. Straight up. It wasn’t the distance as much as the steep, sheer facade that made dread settle in his gut like a stone. To reach the place MacKay indicated, Kenneth was going to have to scale the rocky peak with his hands and feet, a task that would be difficult even were he well rested and able to feel his fingertips. Pulling his body up with his already weary limbs was going to be next to impossible.

For the past few weeks, he’d swum until he thought his lungs would give out, been pushed over varying terrains at a pace that would kill most men, fought with every kind of weapon imaginable, and had even been buried to his waist and had to defend himself with just a shield as spears were tossed at his head by a circle of warriors. He hadn’t balked at any of it, no matter how impossible it seemed. But this was too much.

The two men faced off in the near darkness. Though it was only a few hours past noon, daylight was already slipping away. Kenneth could feel the scrutiny of the ten other men as they waited in silence for his response, but none of them would intervene. This contest was between MacKay and him alone.

Every instinct in Kenneth’s body urged him to tell McKay to bugger off. To refuse.

To quit.

Going up there right now would be a suicide mission. One slip on the icy rocks and Kenneth would fall to his death. MacKay knew it as well as he did. Kenneth could see the challenge in the other man’s gaze, not daring him to refuse as much as daring him to accept.

How far will you go? he seemed to be asking.

To the death. That was what was required of them. Chief had told them many times before. If you want on this team, you have to be willing to sacrifice your life for the good of the team. Did Kenneth want it that badly?

He thought he did, but it wasn’t until that moment that he knew it for a certainty. He wanted to be the best. He wanted to be part of something that was not just important but also historic. He’d been working for this moment his entire life, and he wasn’t going to turn back now.

“Aye, you’re right,” he said equitably. “I’ll be able to see much better from there.”

Something flashed in the other man’s eyes. Respect? Kenneth didn’t know. Truth be told, he no longer cared. He wasn’t proving anything to MacKay, he was proving it to himself. He turned and started toward the peak. Almost impossible wasn’t impossible. He would do this, damn it.

He’d reached the base of the area from where he would start his ascent when he heard the sound of footsteps behind him. It was bloody disconcerting how he knew who it was. Apparently, he didn’t even need a shadow to recognize his old nemesis.

“Have you learned nothing in three months?”

Kenneth turned slowly to face his brother-in-law. He bit back a few choice replies, and simply stared at him. For once he didn’t feel like fighting, even with MacKay—he was too bloody tired.

MacKay gave him a long look. “If you’re going to get yourself killed, don’t do it without your partner.”

“Aye, well you sent my partner on a fool’s mission for fresh meat.”

He couldn’t bite back all the sarcasm, and MacKay shook his head. “You had me worried for a minute. I’ve grown so used to seeing that belligerent, ‘I dare you to try’ look on your face, and I thought we’d actually beaten it out of you. Hell, without the prickly attitude I could actually learn to like you.” He gave a dramatic shudder from behind the long wool scarf wrapped around his neck and lower face. Like the rest of them, he hadn’t shaved in nearly two weeks and tiny droplets of ice clung to his face. They had all begun to look and smell like wild beasts. “And you never know, the recruit might find something. You just have to know where to look.”

Belligerent? What was he talking about?

MacKay had retrieved a rope from his pack and had started to tie it around his waist. He handed him the other end.

“You’re going to be my partner?” Kenneth couldn’t keep the incredulity from his voice.

A flash of pain crossed the other man’s face, and Kenneth knew he was thinking about his first partner, the man who’d been a friend to them both: William Gordon.

Rather than lash out as he usually did, however, MacKay merely shrugged. “Aye, well, the rest of them are too exhausted. Besides, your sister would have my hide if I let you crack your pretty head open on those rocks. She’s still mad about my taking advantage of your injury at the wrestling event.” He shook his head. “I must admit, you’ve surprised me these past few months. I didn’t think you had it in you. But you’ve shown more control than I thought possible. Hell, even I lost my temper a few times with Hawk’s needling.”

Kenneth couldn’t believe it. He stared in shock at the man who’d been his enemy since the day he was born. “Does that mean you won’t stand in the way of my joining the Guard?”

The Highland Guard was how they referred to the team.

MacKay gave him a long look. “It isn’t over yet, but if you make it through training and the rest of it, I won’t object.”

Kenneth wondered at “the rest of it,” but he knew he had to focus on one thing first: getting himself up this damned mountain. Whatever they threw at him these next few days—what remained of Perdition—he was going to be the last man standing. After that, “the rest” was going to be easy by comparison.

Mary sat before the looking glass in the tower chamber that had been provided for her and her attendants, as the serving girl put the finishing touches on her hair. It had been brushed to a shimmery veil of gold, twisted, and then braided around her head with a cerulean silk ribbon that matched her gown and—not coincidentally—her eyes. The back had been left loose to tumble around her shoulders in the manner of a young girl. She actually felt like a young girl. The intricate hairstyle was said to be popular on the Continent, and she had to admit it was flattering.

After years of hiding and fading into the background, it felt strange to have her hair so visible. Strange, but also freeing. Slowly and cautiously, in the months since Mary had returned from Scotland, she had cast aside the dour armor that she’d used to protect herself. Armor that had kept her safe and hidden but had also prevented her from living a full life. A life of not just contentment, but passion and happiness. She was done hiding.

She forced herself not to think about the man responsible for her transformation. The man who’d brought passion and so much more into her life. She’d thought of that night—thought of him—far more often than she wanted to admit, even to herself.

The feeling that she might have made a mistake had not waned. She’d panicked, beset by a cacophony of feelings she hadn’t expected. She regretted the cold manner of her dismissal of his suit and wondered if she’d misjudged him. Admittedly, she barely knew him. But he’d reminded her so much of her husband and so much of her painful past that she’d felt her heart breaking all over again.

She had given him a chance, she reminded herself. When she’d asked him about his betrothal, he’d made his views on fidelity in marriage perfectly clear: What does that have to do with us?

If she’d hoped running away would make her forget, however, she’d erred.

But it was too late now. Her life was here in England, and she had even more reason than the rational or irrational fear of another unwise emotional entanglement for never wanting to set eyes on Sir Kenneth Sutherland again. Still, she would thank him for what he’d given her for the rest of her life. She closed her eyes for a moment as the bubble of joy rose inside her, impossible to tamp down.

As the serving girl stepped back, Mary took one last look in the glass and nodded her approval. There was very little that remained of the pale, gaunt woman in plain clothing who’d gone to Scotland to negotiate on her son’s behalf and had been awakened like a butterfly shedding its cocoon. Her face was fuller, her eyes brighter, her lips redder, and her skin a more healthy pink. Her gown, although not like the extravagant, height-of-fashion concoctions she’d been partial to in her youth, was pretty and befitting a lady of her stature—a far cry from the shapeless black, gray, and brown gowns she’d hidden behind for three years.

The old merchant would be ecstatic, she thought with a smile. She might not be in the first flower of her youth, but the bloom was not completely off the rose. And more important, she was happy. Happier than she’d been in a long time. And it showed.

With a word of thanks to the serving girl, Mary made her way down to the Great Hall of Alnwick Castle with her attendants, Lady Eleanor and Lady Katherine, the same two women who’d accompanied her to Scotland. She found pleasure in their company now. Once she relaxed her guard, she realized how much she’d missed female companionship. Perhaps it had been Margaret who’d made her remember.

The trip to Scotland had brought back many memories, and though she knew it was best not to dwell on them, she missed her old friends and her former home. Maybe someday …

She stopped the thought before it could form. Her life was here now; she would make do with what she had.

The Hall was already crowded and boisterous when Mary and her ladies entered. The Great Hall of Alnwick Castle was something to behold, even without the colorfully dressed noblemen and women gathered for the midday meal. The castle itself was one of the largest and most imposing she’d ever seen, with its seven semicircular towers, square keep, and massive curtain wall. The Great Hall was its jewel. The massive, vaulted room looked like a small cathedral, except that the crown of rafters was of wood and not of stone. The plaster walls were painted a bright yellow and lined with wooden panels and decorated with tapestries. Colorful silk cloths with embroidery every bit as fine as hers covered the long tables and fine silver platters, candelabra, and pitchers sparkled from every corner of the room. Huge circular iron chandeliers hung from the rafters, and despite the midday hour were set ablaze with scores of candles.

Lord Henry Percy had become one of Edward’s most important magnates, and his new castle certainly showed it. He had plans, he’d confided in her, to make it even more formidable, with more towers and improvements to the curtain wall and barbican. Those Scot barbarians (he immediately apologized—excluding her, of course) wouldn’t dare attempt an attack.

Sir Adam was already seated at the dais, but he rose and came forward to greet her as she approached. She returned his smile, grateful as always for the presence of her old friend.

“You look beautiful, my dear,” he said, leading her to her seat.

She blushed, still not used to compliments.

Another man rose and gave her a gallant bow. “I couldn’t agree more,” he said. The way his gaze slid over her brought another rush of heat to her cheeks.

Sir John Felton was Percy’s best knight, and much to Mary’s surprise, since her arrival a few weeks ago he’d shown a marked interest toward her. As the mother of a young earl—who was presumably subject to influence—she was as much a marriage prize to the English as she was to the Scots. But his interest seemed to go beyond that, and she had to admit, she was flattered by it.

At thirty years of age, Sir John was in the prime of his manhood. He was close to six feet tall (not as tall as Sir Kenneth, she thought, before she could push away the comparison), with a thick, muscular build that gave credence to his reputed invincibility on the battlefield. He was also reputed to be the most handsome of all Percy’s knights, and nothing Mary could see disproved that. With his thick, golden-blond hair, deep green eyes, and finely wrought features, he could give Gregor MacGregor a challenge—or Sir Kenneth, she thought again, this time unable to prevent the pang.

Why was she doing this? What hold did this man have on her? For goodness’ sake, it had only been one night.

But oh, what a night! Even as the memories flooded her, she pushed them away. She had to stop this pointless fixation on a man who could never be hers. Her future was here. But maybe some day, if she let herself, she might find a man with whom to share it.

The idea of marriage, of giving up her independence, which had once been anathema to her, no longer felt out of the realm of possibility. With the right man, under the right circumstances, perhaps she could be persuaded. The peace and solitude she’d once craved were now tinged with loneliness. She’d caught a glimpse of a life she’d been missing and had opened her eyes to the possibility.

It wouldn’t be with Sir John. There were too many … complications. But perhaps it could be with someone else when she returned from France late in the summer—yet one more thing she had to thank Sir Adam for. He’d arranged for her to accompany him on his journey to the French court in the late spring.

Had he guessed the truth? At times, she wondered. Something about their relationship had changed, although she couldn’t quite put her finger on it. He didn’t seem pleased by Sir John’s courtship.

Unlike her son.

Her mouth quirked with a smile, thinking of Davey, as she murmured her thanks and took the proffered seat between the two men on the bench. He would be vastly disappointed. Her son idolized Sir John in the way of a young squire who looked up to a great knight. He’d been shocked by his hero’s interest in his mother.

Actually, it was probably Davey’s reaction just as much as Sir Kenneth that was responsible for Mary’s transformation. The first time her son had complimented her on her appearance, she’d realized it pleased him to see her looking well. She wanted to make him proud of her. Had she unwittingly embarrassed him by her former drab appearance? She cringed, hoping not.

She knew preciously little about young boys, but since Davey had joined Percy’s household a few months ago, she’d begun to feel as if she was beginning to understand her son a little more. He was at an impressionable age, but also an age when he was trying to assert his manhood. As Sir Adam had suggested, the king had been pleased by her efforts on his behalf—even if it had yielded little—and had permitted her to see Davey as often as her duties allowed. Sir Adam had brought him to see her at Ponteland every other Sunday, but it wasn’t until the invitation came to Alnwick that they’d been able to spend any extended amount of time together.

The polite reserve that had characterized their relationship had relaxed enough to make her think she glimpsed the occasional sign of genuine affection. Sir John was partially responsible for that, she knew. She peeked out from under her lashes at the formidable knight beside her. If he approved of her, she followed her son’s thinking, she couldn’t be all that bad.

Mary was trying not to press Davey on their relationship, but her normal patience seemed to have deserted her. She longed to be closer to him and feared her eagerness showed along with her pride every time she looked at him. He was a favorite of the king and was on his way to becoming the same with Lord Percy. Having recently turned thirteen, her son was already exhibiting hints of his father’s prowess on the battlefield. He was a well-formed lad, tall and boyishly handsome. Though quiet and more reserved than his father had been, he was also more thoughtful—and more deliberate. Cautious, she realized. Like she. She had every right to be proud of him, and she was.

“I hope you don’t mind,” Sir John said from her side. “But I arranged for David and a few of his friends to join us at the dais tonight.”

“Mind?” Mary turned to him in surprise, just in time to see her son enter the hall and look toward her. Tears of joy pricked behind her eyes. It wasn’t just at Sir John’s thoughtfulness—it must have taken some persuading to allow squires to sit at the dais—but also at what her son was wearing. Beneath his velvet surcote, she could see the edge of his shirt. A shirt she’d embroidered for him. She’d given him things before, but this was the first time she could recall seeing him wear one. “Thank you,” she said to Sir John, her eyes damp.

He took her hand and bowed over it as he stood to make way for the youths. “You’re welcome,” he said with a smile that hovered just on the edge of intimacy. “I hope I shall have many more opportunities to bring a smile to your face.”

She lowered her eyes, feeling the blast of heat to her cheeks. She knew she should stop him, that it wasn’t fair of her to encourage him, but it had been so long since a man had shown an interest in her. Appropriate interest, she amended, thinking once again of the man about whom she’d vowed not to think.

But she couldn’t stop seeing Sir Kenneth’s face. Hard and intent in the semidarkness as he’d held himself over her—

She pushed the image away. It hadn’t meant anything. He probably looked at every woman he’d made love to like that. Except she knew for a fact he hadn’t—at least he hadn’t with the woman in the stable.

She had to stop this. But that one night had given her far more than she’d bargained for, in more ways that one.

If Sir John noticed her momentary distraction, he didn’t show it. “I hope you have decided to accept Lord Percy’s invitation and travel with Sir Adam to Berwick for Gaveston’s arrival?”

Mary nodded. She could hardly refuse. Piers Gaveston, the recently created Earl of Cornwall and King Edward’s much despised favorite, had been recalled from exile in Ireland (where Edward had been forced to send him when Gaveston had riled the anger of many important nobles) and been ordered to Berwick to ready for the planned campaign against Scotland when the truce expired in March. The king would follow in late spring. The barons had been called to rally at Berwick, including Sir Adam and Lord Percy—which meant Davey as well. Despite the call to war, her son’s presence guaranteed her eager acceptance.

“Good,” he said, a decidedly anticipatory glint in his eye. “I want you to know, Lady Mary, you can rely on me for anything.”

Mary didn’t know what to say. The last thing she wanted to do was rely on a man again, but she heard the heartfelt honesty in his words, and the tiniest part of her—the girl-who’d-longed-for-a-handsome-knight part of her—responded.

Would he feel the same way when she returned from France? It seemed unlikely. There were some things no man would be expected to overlook. Although she had a plan, she knew there would be whispers.

She was saved from having to reply, however, by her son’s arrival with his friends. Sir John had made room for him to sit beside her, and when Davey sat down on the bench, all her thoughts turned to her son.

“You’re wearing your shirt,” she said, unable to hide her eagerness.

His face heated and his gaze flickered to his friends. She could see the relief when it was clear they hadn’t heard. “It’s very … fine.”

Mary couldn’t tell whether that was good or not. Should she not have mentioned it? She bit her lip.

“Thank you,” he added, looking uncomfortable but not ungrateful.

“You’re welcome,” she answered softly, letting his attention return to his friends.

It was clear he was in awe of being seated at the high table but was doing his best not to show it in front of the other lads. Though she longed to pepper him with questions and learn everything she could about his new duties, Mary took a cue from her son and forced aside her exuberance, acting with an equanimity she did not feel. Even if she still thought of him as the babe torn from her arms, he wasn’t that child anymore. He didn’t need her to wipe his nose when he sneezed, cut his meat when he ate, or dry his tears when he fell.

What did he need her for?

She didn’t know but was determined to find out.

It soon became apparent that as eager as she was to learn about him, the boys were eager to hear from Sir John. So rather than ask questions, Mary contented herself with basking in her son’s happiness as Sir John regaled them with war stories. Though many times Mary wanted to object to the more gory details, she kept her mouth firmly closed. Davey and the boys were spellbound.

She had her reward at the end of the night. Davey was about to race off with the rest of his friends, when he turned over his shoulder and said with all the careless, nonchalance of youth, “Thank you, Mother. That was the best meal ever.”

He didn’t realize the gift he’d given her or the swell of happiness he’d put in her chest.

This was going to work.

Mary was being given another chance at motherhood, and she would do whatever she had to do to hold on to it. Nothing and no one would take it away again.