The Recruit (7 page)

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.

Three
 

Having just made her third mistake in the last ten minutes, Mary put down her embroidery.
She had to do something. She was so restless. Stretch her legs, perhaps? Despite the
lateness of the hour, she decided to go for a walk.

The journey, the return home after so many years, simply
being
in Scotland again had affected her more than she’d expected. Though her immediate
family was gone, seeing Lady Christina, Lady Margaret (Atholl’s sister who was now
wed to the MacKenzie chief), and even Robert had been nearly as overwhelming.

All the memories that she’d kept so carefully bottled up inside were threatening to
explode. She didn’t want to remember. Didn’t want to miss them. Didn’t want to think
of Scotland as home when her life must be in England.

She’d been here only a week, yet she felt the pull so strongly it threatened to destroy
the contentment she’d fought so hard to achieve. It was as if she’d taken a piece
of slate and wiped it clean, only to discover later that the lines had been etched
into the stone, not made from chalk.

Worse, her mission had been a failure. The negotiations for peace had stalled, as
they always did over the issue of Bruce’s kingship. Robert refused to sign a peace
treaty that did not recognize his sovereignty and Edward refused to sign one that
did. No woman’s voice could change that.

As she expected, Robert was sympathetic and understanding
toward her son’s plight—and had no intention of forfeiting his lands—but he also would
not recognize David as Earl of Atholl until he did fealty for those lands. Something
that was impossible as long as her son was in Edward’s power.

The stalemate continued.

Moreover, also as she expected, Robert was hardly inclined to share his secrets with
her. Her mouth twitched with a wry grin. Especially after she’d told him outright
that Edward wished her to spy on him, so if he had any dark secrets, to make sure
he made them easy for her to discover.

After a moment of shock, Robert had burst out laughing and told her she sounded just
like her sister. Isabel, he’d meant. The bold, speak-her-mind sister he’d fallen in
love with and married when he’d been a lad of eighteen, and who’d died a few years
later in childbirth. Mary hadn’t realized how much she’d changed, but he was right.

Of Janet’s presumed death, his sorrow had been nearly as great as Lady Christina’s.
And like her brother’s widow, he claimed to know nothing of what had become of her.

The peace envoys had managed one small success, however, in extending the truce until
November.

Mary could hear the sounds of merriment coming from the Hall as she hurried down the
stairwell from the tower chamber she shared with some of the other ladies and the
two attendants Edward had provided for her—probably to keep an eye on her.

Highlanders could dance until dawn, and from the sounds of it, the feast was still
going strong.
Perhaps I should have …

She stopped herself. She was right to have begged off the feast tonight. She couldn’t
allow herself to be drawn in.

She’d been doing her best to keep to herself, but it was getting harder and harder
to stay away from the festivities.
Harder and harder not to get caught up in the excitement. In the
fun
.

God, how long had it been since she’d had fun? She’d almost forgotten what it was.

But being here made her remember. Being here made her remember a lot of things.

One more week. That was all she needed to make it through. They were leaving at the
end of the Games, and then she could return to her life in England.

But the sounds around her seemed to challenge that characterization. Music. Voices.
Laughter. Those were the sounds of life.

No
. She pushed it aside. Quiet. Peace. Solitude. Independence. That was what she wanted.

Finding those things at a castle in the midst of the Highland Games, however, was
all but impossible. She hurried down the corridor and out into the
barmkin
, heading for the postern gate, which exited toward the beach.

It would be peaceful there, gazing up at the moonlit sky. The stars were different
in the Highlands. Bigger, brighter, closer. Her mother had told her it was because
the “high” lands were so near to heaven. Mary could almost believe her.

The stars in England were—

She stopped herself again. She couldn’t let herself keep comparing; it would only
make leaving that much more difficult.

Don’t dwell on what you can’t have
.

She was about to pass by the stables when she heard a strange sound that stopped her.
It sounded like a pained moan. Glancing around, not seeing anyone, and thinking that
it was odd not to have a stable lad at the entry, she was about to walk away when
she heard it again. Louder this time, and followed by a hard grunt.

Was one of the horses in distress?

She rushed inside, following the beam of light from the
torches, barely noticing the pungent smells of animal and hay that hit her the moment
she entered. It was pleasantly warm and sultry, the animals providing a natural, radiating
heat.

Two torches had been fixed on the posts at the entrance, spilling off a wide enough
pool of light to see that nothing appeared out of the ordinary. Well, except for the
apparent absence of anyone to watch over the animals. The horses were in their stalls,
and—

She stopped, hearing it again. Then, as if following their own direction, her feet
started moving toward the sound, which seemed to be coming from one of the stalls
at the far corner of the building. More moans and cries. Not animal, she realized,
but …

She felt a prickle of something tingle down her spine, a premonition, right before
they came into view.

Human
.

She came to an abrupt stop, as if she’d slammed into a wall. She sucked in her breath,
her body frozen in shock. The sight that met her eyes was unlike anything she’d ever
seen. She felt as if she’d been plunged into a den of sin, an orgy of sensation, a
sensual banquet for the eyes.

A man—an extremely muscular and powerfully built man—stripped to the waist, with his
braies loosened and hanging onto his buttocks by the barest of margins, was on his
knees in the hay, gripping the hips of a woman who was on her hands and knees before
him. He was plunging in and out of her from behind. Mary’s eyes widened.
From behind!

Her first reaction was one of concern. Was he hurting her? But although the scene
was in profile, from the half-lidded eyes and fierce sounds of pleasure the woman
was making no effort to contain, she was enjoying it. Enjoying it rather a lot.

Mary knew she should go, but her feet seemed incapable of movement. She was transfixed
by the look of rapture
on the woman’s face. She didn’t recognize her, but she was young, probably about nineteen
or twenty, and very pretty. Her long blond hair was loose and tumbling around her
shoulders in soft waves. She was well curved, with wide hips, full breasts, and softly
rounded limbs. Although technically the woman was clothed, her gown was loose to the
point of falling off at her bodice and the hem was tossed up around her waist, leaving
little of her body that was not exposed.