Mary met the prelate’s gaze. The years of imprisonment had not been kind to William Lamberton. Like her, he was thin to the point of gaunt. But his eyes were kind, and oddly understanding. His words tugged at her, almost as if he were trying to tell her something.
Resolved, she nodded. “Of course. Of course, I shall go.”
Perhaps it wouldn’t be as painful as she feared. It could be worse. She’d thought when Edward finally remembered her, it would be to try to marry her off to one of his barons. She shuddered. Being a peace envoy to Scotland was infinitely more palatable than that.
She had no intention of spying for Edward, but she would do her duty and return to her quiet life in England, hopefully with more opportunities to see her son.
Sir Adam looked much relieved. He took her hand, patting it fondly. “This will be good for you, you’ll see. You’ve been too long alone. You’re only six and twenty. Far too young to lock yourself away.”
Having heard similar words a few hours earlier, Mary bit back a smile. No doubt the proud knight turned respected statesman would be surprised to realize how much he had in common with a merchant. Sir Adam didn’t approve of her choice of attire either, but she suspected he’d guessed the reason for it.
“I haven’t been to the Games in years,” Lamberton said. “As I recall, your husband was quite a competitor.” She remembered. It was where his armor had begun to shine. “It will be fun.” Then, apparently forgetting which side he was supposed to be on, he added, “Perhaps one of the competitors will catch your eye.”
Mary thought she was more likely—and perhaps more eager—to catch the plague.
Two
Late August 1309
Dunstaffnage Castle, Lorn, Scotland
Kenneth Sutherland was surrounded as soon as he entered the Great Hall of Dunstaffnage Castle. He was accustomed to a certain amount of feminine attention, but the frenzied atmosphere of the Highland Games took some getting used to. The competitors enjoyed an almost godlike status, with the favorites such as himself having large entourages of followers. Very enthusiastic followers.
Though usually there was nothing he liked more than being the focus of so many beautiful women, tonight he was on a mission. While the king had been here at Dunstaffnage negotiating with the envoys from England, Kenneth had been on a peacekeeping undertaking of his own. He’d just returned from a two-week-long journey north to pacify the Munros, longtime allies of his clan, after a misguided attempt by Donald Munro, his brother’s henchman, to kill the king.
Now that Kenneth was back, he was anxious to speak with the king. The Bruce, as the men had taken to calling him, had been putting him off for too long. But as the king seemed to be locked away in the laird’s solar with his men, it seemed their conversation would have to wait.
He should be enjoying hearing his deeds on the battlefield recounted minute by minute, but it was out of habit more than true enthusiasm that Kenneth laughed, teased, and accepted the ladies’ compliments for a few minutes before taking his seat at one of the trestle tables just below the dais. Normally being the heir to an earldom would warrant a place at the high table, but with the Highland Games about to begin, most of Scotland’s nobles—at least those loyal to Bruce—were here.
His sister Helen was seated at the opposite end of the table and rolled her eyes at his “throng of worshipers,” as she called them. He responded with a helpless shrug that didn’t fool her one bit. If women wanted to throw themselves at him, he sure as hell wasn’t going to stop them.
He supposed there were much less pleasant ways of biding his time than being seated between two beautiful young women with a goblet of wine in his hand. But for once, big blue eyes, soft red lips, enticingly low bodices, and platitudes didn’t hold his attention. His gaze kept slipping to the solar door.
“Will you be competing in all the events, my lord?”
Kenneth turned to the woman on his left, aware of the gentle pressure of her leg against his. Lady Alice Barclay had been sending him less-than-subtle signals all evening, and it was impossible to miss the invitation in her eyes as she fluttered her lashes up at him. If there was any doubt—which there wasn’t—the way she leaned forward to give him a fine view of some rather remarkable cleavage all but shouted “take me.”
He smiled. Though she was certainly pretty enough, and those soft, round breasts were generous enough to tempt a monk, this was one invitation he didn’t plan on accepting. Lady Alice was the young wife of one of Bruce’s most trusted commanders, Sir David Barclay, and therefore forbidden fruit. Kenneth wasn’t going to do anything to draw the king’s ire. He’d worked hard to prove himself and wasn’t about to throw it all away on a woman, no matter how tempting.
But Lady Alice wasn’t making it easy. She leaned forward a little more, resting her hand on his thigh under the table and letting one of those plump breasts graze his arm. He felt the hard bead of her nipple through the wool of his tunic, and his body reacted.
A slow smile curved his mouth. At least forbidden fruit until Bruce gave him an answer, and then he might have to reconsider.
“Most of the events, Lady Alice, although I fear I’m not much of a dancer. I will leave the sword dance for those with more nimble feet.”
“I think you are being modest. I’ve heard you are quite nimble, my lord. Especially with your sword.” Her hand inched closer to the growing bulge between his legs just in case he’d missed the suggestiveness of her words.
Though he was tempted to see how far she would take it—he’d been a squire the last time a lass had stroked him under the tablecloth in the middle of a feast—he wasn’t going to take any chances. With a sigh of regret, he covered her hand with his and eased it off his lap. He smiled, hoping to ease the sting of his rejection. “In the practice yard, perhaps. Alas, that is all I can focus on right now.”
Thankfully, the woman on his right decided his attention had been on Lady Alice long enough. “The ladies are already making wagers, my lord. I believe you are favored to win many of the weapon competitions.”
He lifted a brow in mock disappointment. “Only the weapons?”
Lady Eleanor, the daughter of Sir William Wiseman, another of Bruce’s closest cohorts, blushed, not realizing he was teasing her. “Perhaps the wrestling event as well. But Robbie Boyd still has not said whether he will enter.”
As Kenneth was fairly sure Robbie Boyd was a member of Bruce’s secret army, he doubted the king was going to let him anywhere near the competition field. Magnus MacKay, Tor MacLeod, Erik MacSorley, and Gregor MacGregor as well. All past champions of the Games, and all, he suspected, members of Bruce’s famed phantom band of warriors. “Famed” because of their almost mythical deeds, and “phantom” because they seemed to slip in and out of the darkness like wraiths, identities unknown. The king wouldn’t want to draw attention to their skills, not when the names of the members of his secret army were so sought after.
Rumors of an elite group of warriors—a secret army—had been floating around for years. But it wasn’t until Kenneth and his Sutherland clansmen had come over to Bruce’s side late last year that Kenneth had figured out that not only was it real, his foster brother had been a part of it. Until he’d been killed in battle, that is. Kenneth intended to take his friend’s place among the best warriors in Scotland. If the Highland Games were the recruiting ground for the secret army, he wasn’t going to leave any doubt as to his skills.
