Eight
 

Kenneth tried to keep his mind clear, but all he could see was red. His temper was running loose, and the heat of battle was only making it run hotter. He grabbed the fist that was heading for his face and twisted it behind his opponent’s back, hearing a satisfying pop.

Not in the market for a husband, damn it!

With a cut of his foot behind the heel of the man now howling in pain from a dislocated arm, Kenneth knocked the other warrior to the ground, pinned him with his foot (which wasn’t necessary, as he wasn’t intending to get up), and claimed his victory—the third of the long morning.

All she’d wanted was a quick tumble in the hay. He didn’t know why it was angering him so much, but he kept seeing those big eyes looking at him wide and unflinchingly. Knowingly.

Profligate? Bloody hell!

The sun beat down on him as he jerked the helm off his head and stormed out of the arena, barely acknowledging the cheers of the crowd. For a man one win away from being declared champion and fulfilling his bargain with MacKay, thereby earning a place in Bruce’s secret army, he sure as hell wasn’t enjoying himself. All he could think about was the earlier exchange he’d had with Lady Mary. Mary of Mar, damn it to hell.

His blood still surged and his pulse still spiked just thinking about it. In fact, he was spending more time thinking about her than he was about his opponents. He knew he’d been lucky so far. None of the men he’d faced had given him much of a battle. But he needed to get himself under control for the final challenge.

He’d retired to the barracks between rounds to rest and have Helen rewrap his ribs, but his squire, Willy, had told him a new contestant had entered the ring and was creating quite a stir. It was probably just the mystery. The man had refused to give his identity. Nothing like a mystery to rile the crowd’s excitement. Hell, had he thought of it, Kenneth might have done it himself.

But Willy said the warrior was a skilled competitor, and nearly as strong as Robbie Boyd. Kenneth knew it had to be an exaggeration—he would have heard of such a man before.

He wasn’t worried, but he thought he’d see for himself.

He sat on a bench just on the other side of the gate reserved for the competitors and allowed Willy to wipe the blood and sweat from his brow and fetch him some ale thinned with water as he waited for the next competitors to take the field.

If anything stung more than his pride right now, it was the throbbing in his side. But his ribs were holding up well enough, and the pain wasn’t anything he couldn’t manage. He’d protected his side without being obvious, not wanting to give his opponents a target. Fortunately, the thin shirt and cotun the contestants wore as armor hid the bindings. Often the wrestling event was conducted naked to the chest, but Bruce followed the more modern, “civilized” approach of light armor. Usually, Kenneth found it an impediment, but right now he was grateful for it.

His eyes kept straying to the king’s platform, although he knew she wouldn’t be there. Had she gone already, he wondered? It was embarrassing how tempted he was to go after her and stop her. Though why and how, he didn’t know. She’d already made her feelings clear. Damned clear.

She’d refused him. He still couldn’t believe it.

His mouth tightened and his temper boiled anew. She’d used him. If it weren’t so bloody humiliating, it would be almost humorous. He conveniently ignored the fact that he was the one that had given her the opportunity, and had started this whole mess, by taunting her in the stable.

What was important was that she’d tricked him. Used him, even though she’d known full well that the king wished for an alliance between them. She’d suspected that he wouldn’t have taken her to his bed if he knew her identity and had purposefully kept the truth from him to take her pleasure.

Why was it bothering him so much? It wasn’t anything that hadn’t happened before. He knew there were other women who’d wanted no more from him than she did—a good tumble—but damn it, hearing it from her had been different.

Because it wasn’t what he wanted from her. That was the problem. He was angry at himself because he’d felt something, and she hadn’t.

He didn’t know why, but for the first time in his life he’d felt what could only be described as tenderness for a woman, and his tentative attempts to show it had been rebuffed. He’d told himself the little things he’d noticed when they were making love had been his imagination. The turning from his gaze. The request for him to take off his shirt. Wanting him to go faster.

But it hadn’t been his imagination, damn it.

He took another swig of ale and tried to calm the pounding in his blood. The sense of restless energy. The urge to slam his fist over and over again into a wall.

He needed to calm down, to get himself under control and forget about it. Hell, he should be thanking her. He had enough strife in his life; he didn’t need it from a woman.

He glanced over to the castle, but the yard was still deserted. Had he missed her, then?

Suddenly, a hush fell over the crowd.

“There he is, my lord,” Willy whispered.

Kenneth’s eyes narrowed on the man entering the arena. He wore a steel helm that covered his face, but even on first glance, Kenneth could see that Willy was right. He was nearly as big and strong-looking as—

Bloody hell.

The blood slid from his face for one frozen moment in time before surging hotter and harder than before. His mouth fell in a flat line and his fists clenched into balls of steel at his side.

Kenneth recognized the man even if the crowd didn’t. Magnus MacKay, the bloody bastard! Apparently, there was nothing he wouldn’t do to see that Kenneth didn’t win. Even take to the field against what Kenneth suspected were the direct orders of the king.

Kenneth watched in icy fury as MacKay played to the crowd, whipping them into a frenzy. MacKay could have defeated the last opponent between him and the final round in a matter of minutes, but drew out the battle with the skill of a born showman. Yet it was more than that, and Kenneth knew it. MacKay was good. One of the best he’d ever seen. But Kenneth was better. And he was going to do what he’d been doing since the day he was born: prove it.

He was a man to be taken seriously, even if his wee wanton in a nun’s habit didn’t think so. Part of him wished she were here to see it. But he wasn’t going to think about her anymore. He was in for the battle of his life, and he couldn’t afford to let anything distract him.

Sangfroid, damn it. He’d better remember it.

* * *

“Surprised to see me, Sutherland?” MacKay taunted as they squared off in the arena a short while later.

They circled one another, each one waiting for the other to make the first move.

“I’d wager I’m not the only one,” Kenneth replied. “Did you tell the king what you had planned, or did you come up with this little disguise all on your own?”

He could see the other man’s eyes harden through the steel slits in the helm. “I told you you’d have to get past me first.”

“Beating you will only make victory that much sweeter.”

“You sound confident for a man who’s already suffered a few blows today.”

MacKay feigned a step toward him as if he meant to attack, but Kenneth wasn’t fooled into taking the opening as MacKay quickly retreated.

“What are you talking about?” He’d won all his contests so far.

“Why, Lady Mary, of course. I assume that since she’s still leaving, you did not convince her to marry you. The king will not be pleased.”

Kenneth didn’t need to see his face to know that MacKay was grinning. He could hear it in his damned voice. He wanted to lunge at him, but forced himself to get a rein on his temper and stay back. Be patient, he told himself. Don’t let him get to you. But MacKay was a provoking bastard. “You let me worry about the king.”

“It won’t be necessary.” MacKay made the first move. It was a good one. He stabbed a hard punch with his right and then threw a low uppercut with his left. When Kenneth moved to block it, he attempted to get a lock on him by twisting his body and locking him in a stranglehold. But Kenneth read the move and rallied with one of his own, hearing the satisfying crunch of MacKay’s jaw as his fist connected with his chin under the helm to snap his head back.

MacKay swore, and that was the last recognizable sound they made for a while as the two men launched into a fierce battle. Nothing was off limits. They pounded with their fists, kicked with their feet, pummeled with their bodies. They took turns at wrapping one another in deadly holds and fighting to break free.

They were evenly matched. Too evenly matched in both strength and stubbornness. Neither of them would give up.

And they both knew how to fight dirty. MacKay lost no opportunity in targeting Kenneth’s bad side, landing whatever punches he could on his bruised ribs. “How are those ribs feeling, Sutherland?” he managed to taunt through deep breaths. “I hope nothing is broken.”

If they hadn’t been, they were now. But Kenneth didn’t care. All he could think about was seeing that bastard on the ground, and finally putting the matter of who was best behind them.

And he was close, damn it. He could feel it. One mistake, that was all he needed. One little opening and he’d have him.

“The ribs are fine,” he managed, his breath just as short as MacKay’s. “How’s your jaw?” Kenneth feigned with his right and landed another satisfying uppercut with his left to MacKay’s jaw. “Helen isn’t going to be too happy if it’s broken for your wedding.”

Something flashed in the other man’s eyes.

Guilt? Kenneth shook his head. “She doesn’t know about this, does she?” He laughed. “Maybe there won’t be a wedding to worry about.”

MacKay swore and launched himself at Kenneth, pummeling and swinging with a violent ferocity that took every ounce of his skill to defend against.

MacKay had to tire eventually. Kenneth just had to be patient awhile longer.

Finally, they broke apart, both bending over heaving great gulps of air as they fought to breathe.

Unconsciously, Kenneth glanced toward the castle and stiffened. A handful of guardsmen were gathered in the yard, and a small figure had just emerged from the donjon and was making her way down the tower stairs.

He looked away quickly, but it hadn’t been quick enough. He’d made a mistake. MacKay had caught the movement and recognized what was happening. “If you want to go after her, I’ll wait,” he taunted.

Kenneth bit out something foul, telling him he could go do something that was physically impossible.

“Hit a nerve, did I?” MacKay added. “Don’t tell me you actually wanted to marry the lass.”

Kenneth felt his blood spike but tamped it down. Stay cool. But his fists clenched at his sides with the urge to retaliate. It wasn’t in his nature not to fight back—or to be patient, for that matter.

MacKay let out a low whistle. “I never thought I’d see the day. I guess the lady wasn’t impressed?”

“Shut the hell up, MacKay.”

“Or what?”

Kenneth held himself still, refusing to be baited. But the urge to wipe that taunting grin off the face behind the helm was nearly overpowering.

“Or maybe that was all she wanted? Is that it, Sutherland? Tell me, do you get paid a fee like a prized steed? Aye, a stud fee.” He laughed.

That was it. The last thread Kenneth held on his temper snapped. He lunged toward MacKay, not thinking about anything other than shutting him up.

He lost control, and with it, the battle. MacKay took full advantage of his anger, lulling him into a false sense of victory before snatching it back at the last minute. MacKay feigned submission, bending over and letting Kenneth pound on him until he was exhausted. Then he rose from the apparent dead and attacked, striking blows against Kenneth’s weak side until he collapsed on the ground.

He must have passed out. Either that or he was deaf to the cheers of the crowd, because he never heard the call for MacKay’s victory.

He’d lost. Lost!

He stayed on the ground, not wanting or having the strength to get up.

MacKay stood over him, looking down on him with that superior smirk of his. “Your temper, Sutherland. It will get you every time. Until you can learn to control it, you’ll never be one of the best.”

The worst part was that he was right. Kenneth had let his temper get to him. Had let her get to him.

He picked himself off the ground and struggled to his feet, as he’d done many times before. Too many times. The knowledge burned in his gut. He’d been so close …

But this wasn’t over. He wasn’t going to give up. He’d find a way into Bruce’s army, if it killed him.

And heaven help Mary of Mar if their paths ever crossed again. He would teach the wanton little siren in nun’s clothing a lesson she would never forget.