Had Winnifred wondered if Lady Abercairn held the convictions to assist her husband with a rebellion? That answered seemed to fall definitively in the positive.
“The cause of freedom is indeed a worthy fight.” Montague rolled back to his elbows. His posture was relaxed, his voice easy, but Winnifred wasn’t deceived. The duke paid close attention to the words of Lady Abercairn. “But the manner of fighting is always in question. The past fifty years are proof enough that more is gained through negotiation than battles between two peoples who should be as brothers.”
Lady Abercairn laughed, a light tinkle. “My husband would agree with you. I am most proud of the influence he’s wielded in your House of Lords, and how he has served our country. I trust his influence continues long into the future.”
A cheerful wail sounded through the air, and everyone turned to look where a young man stood in the middle of the beach, bagpipes under one arm, calling the games to a start. Winnifred bobbed her foot to the melody. The crowd’s excitement was a palpable thing. Every crofter, farmer, and baker felt it just as Winnifred did. Pride warmed her heart. Sin’s decision to hold the festival was the right one. Everyone needed this diversion to uplift their spirits from such a hard summer.
“What a skirl.” Lady Abercairn shook her head. “Who is killing that poor goat a second time?”
Deirdre clenched her fist in the blanket, her knuckles going white. “Young Hamish, our assistant gamekeeper, plays our bagpipes. He plays for services every Sunday, too, and a verra fine job he does of it.”
Winnifred nodded. Truly, Lady Abercairn’s tongue was poison-dipped and she was growing tired of it. She opened her mouth, preparing a set-down, when a flash of auburn hair tied back in a neat queue caught her eye. Her gaze dropped to the broad back crossed with a strip of blue and green checked wool that exposed as much as it covered. The fabric continued down to wrap about narrow hips and drape over a muscular arse.
She snapped her jaw shut, her lower belly tingling. Even in an unfamiliar kilt, she knew that arse. She’d bitten it just the other night.
Sin turned, his eyes locking with hers. His nostrils flared as though he scented the air. There was no chance he could smell her scent, not through the throngs of sweaty men, but her nipples drew tight and tingled just the same. The crowd grew muted, the edges of their bodies indistinct until only her and Sin remained.
He possessed her. Made her feel when for her whole life she’d locked her emotions away. He’d brought her joy and pleasure, smiles and moans.
He loved her.
And she … Her chest constricted. Why couldn’t she love him back? Was she so broken that love was lost to her forever? She’d always believed her sensibility to be a strength. A protection against her mother’s wildness. She’d never thought of all that she was missing by excising those emotions.
A man slapped Sin on the shoulder, and her husband turned to speak with him. The connection snapped, like a worn thread. She stared at her hands, breathing deeply and fighting against the burn in her eyes. Now wasn’t the time for such maudlin thoughts. It would hardly do for the marchioness and hostess of the gathering to be sniffling into her handkerchief at what was supposed to be a joyous festival.
When she raised her head, her smile was back in place. “What is the first event?” she asked Deirdre.
“A foot race.” Her mother-in-law waved at a young boy selling chestnuts and gave him a shilling for a small bag of them. “I believe Sin has designated that old oak tree on the far side of the loch as the turnaround point.”
A foot race seemed … normal. Winnifred had expected something a bit more exotic. She tried not to let her disappointment show. She clapped her hands along with the rest as around thirty men lined up along the shore. Bare shoulders jostled. Booted feet scuffed the earth as they dug in.
The thin crack of a gunshot sounded, and the men were off.
And Winnifred realized that this foot race wasn’t at all as she expected.
The first blow occurred before the leaders even reached the first curve of the lake. A young man with a shock of pitch-black hair threw his elbow into the jaw of the man next to him. He leapt over the man when he stumbled to the ground.
A man old enough to know better stuck his leg in front of the runner next to him, shouting in triumph when the racer went down.
“What on earth …?” Winnifred gaped at the spectacle.
“Ye didn’t think Scotsmen would merely run peaceably around a loch, did ye?” Deirdre smirked. “Our men want to win and will do most anything to accomplish that.”
The first men reached the oak tree. There was a blur of arms and swinging kilts and a man was heaved into the lake.
Montague shifted. “My decision to remain a spectator looks better and better.”
Lady Abercairn tilted her head. “You don’t appreciate physical exertion then, your grace?”
Winnifred couldn’t determine if the silky threads in her voice were meant as a seduction or an insult. With Lady Abercairn, those were most like one and the same.
Whichever bait the lady dangled, Montague didn’t rise to it. “Not of this type,” he said mildly. He winced, and Winnifred turned to follow his gaze. The one man wearing trousers tumbled forward as he was pushed from behind.
Rothchild took his forward momentum and made a neat roll before rising back to his feet and charging back toward the finish line. He closed the distance between his assailant and himself and with a quick turn of his hand, pulled the man to the ground by his hair.
“I do believe the earl might win.” Deirdre held a hand over her eyes. The leaders were pounding around the final curve of the lake, rounding on their target. Sin was back near the middle of the pack. He wasn’t a man built for speed, but there was nothing wrong with how he looked while running. Leg muscles bunching and flexing. Arms bulging as he pistoned them back and forth. Sweat dampening his chest ….
Well, Winnifred couldn’t actually see that last bit, but she could envision it. She dug her teeth into her lower lip. Her mouth watered to lick every last bead of sweat from his body.
