The Recruit (18 page)

A glint of steel sparked in his eyes. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“It means that
if
I were ever to marry again, which I certainly have no intention of doing, it wouldn’t
be to a profligate with a penchant for taking women in stables or storerooms.”

Though his expression betrayed nothing, she could feel the fury radiating from him
in hot, pulsing waves. “I think you mean libraries.”

She flushed. “Be that as it may, we wouldn’t suit.”

“On the contrary, I think we suit quite well.”

The heat of his gaze left no doubt as to what he meant. He was right. Even now, the
attraction snapped and crackled between them like wildfire.

But it wasn’t enough. “As you pointed out last night, what does that have to do with
marriage?”

She forced herself not to wither under the intensity of his gaze. His voice when he
spoke was deceptively calm, but she sensed he was one hair’s breadth away from snapping.
“Are you saying you would be my mistress but not my wife?”

She lifted her chin, forcing herself to meet his gaze. “I’m saying I will be neither.
I’m returning to England, and that is the end of it.”

She turned away, but not before seeing the dangerous white lines tightening around
his mouth. He was struggling to control his temper, and she knew her dismissiveness
was testing the limits of that control. She suspected it had been a very long time
since someone had refused
Kenneth Sutherland anything, and coming from a pinched sparrow of a woman past her
youth, she wagered it stung. But she knew it was better this way. He was a fighter,
and showing any weakness or vulnerability would give him a place to attack.

“And the king?” he said. “Have you informed Bruce of your intentions?”

“Robert understands my position. He knows I have no wish to marry anyone—Scot or English.
Nothing has changed that.” When he looked as if he might challenge that point, she
added, “He will not learn of anything else from me, and even were he to discover what
happened, such interludes are hardly uncommon.”

His teeth clenched so tightly, she could almost hear them grinding. “Aye, I believe
you’ve pointed that out.”

Something in his voice made her uneasy. If she weren’t certain it was his pride speaking,
she might think her refusal had genuinely hurt him.

She picked up the veil that was lying on her bed like an albatross and carefully folded
it. “Now, if you will excuse me. I need to finish packing.” She peeked out at him
from under the edge of her lashes. From the way his muscles were bunched up at his
shoulders and his fists were clenching and reclenching, she thought he might argue
with her. Her heart raced; she needed a way to be rid of him. “Don’t you have a competition
to win?” She glanced out the window at the stands, which even now were beginning to
fill. “It looks like they will be starting soon.”

He took a step toward her, and she held her breath when he reached out as if to take
her arm again. But he glanced out the tower window behind her and let it drop.

For a long moment he stared at her as if he wanted to say something. Say quite a lot
of something, actually. But then, he seemed to think better of it. He gave her a mocking
bow. “My lady.”

And in one hard tug of a heartbeat, he was gone.

She thought she should feel relieved, but standing there alone, the room suddenly
empty, she felt a loss that didn’t make sense. Nor could she escape the feeling that
she’d just made a terrible mistake.

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.