Robert’s face shadowed. “Aye, lass, I know. I would that it had been different. You’ve been missed. I hope you will return soon.” He paused and gave her an innocent smile. “Perhaps next time you will bring your son?”
Mary’s mouth quirked with amusement. Robert Bruce had never been subtle about what he wanted. It had taken a bold man to attempt to wrest a crown from Edward Plantagenet’s iron fist. Robert had made no secret of his wish to have her son under his banner. But secreting her son out from under the English king’s nose would be a risky proposition, and for what? What was there for her in Scotland but politics, intrigue, and men who would control her future? Things from which she’d been blissfully free in England. Besides, she remembered what had happened the last time she’d tried to leave.
“I should like that, Sire,” she said noncommittally.
“I would like you to meet him.” At her confusion, he added, “Our soon-to-be champion. Perhaps you will sit with us at the feast tonight?”
Something about the way he said it set off alarm bells clanging in her head. If the king wished her to meet a man, it wasn’t hard to guess why. But she was just as eager for a Scottish husband as she was an English one. “It would be an honor, Sire. I do hope I shall feel up to it.”
But alas, she suspected her illness was going to return in full force.
The king moved off to have some words with the MacKenzie chief, and Mary settled back in her seat to watch the contestants who had just begun to gather in the field.
She could feel the excitement growing around her; it was impossible not to get caught up in it. Even in self-imposed exile in her room she hadn’t been immune. She’d watched from the tower window, too far to be a part of it, but not far enough away not to want to be.
She hadn’t been able to stay away. She told herself it was because people were starting to worry about her health—not just her former sister-in-law, Lady Christina and Margaret, but also the lady of the castle, Lady Anna Campbell. But she didn’t think she could listen to one more evening of the ladies she shared a chamber with reliving every minute of the day’s events without seeing it for herself. The only time she’d been to the Games, she’d been so enthralled with her husband that she didn’t remember much else.
All of a sudden she heard a large roar go up in the crowd. She turned to Margaret. “What is that for?”
Margaret grinned, pointing to a man who’d just entered the field. “Him.”
Mary followed the direction she’d indicated and froze. Oh God, it was him! Though he wore a steel helm that masked his face, something about that arrogant set of his shoulders made every muscle, every nerve ending, every inch of her body tense with instant recognition. Or perhaps it was that the very breadth of those shoulders, the bulk of his arms, and every muscle of that imposing chest had been emblazoned on her consciousness.
Her gaze dipped before she could stop herself. It wasn’t until she’d returned to her room that she realized she still had her glasses on—she’d tied them around her head with a ribbon so they wouldn’t keep falling off while she was sewing. That must be why he’d looked so … large.
So much for the hope to never see him again, to bury what had happened in the deepest, darkest corner of her memory and pretend it had never occurred. Seeing him brought it all back again.
Heat crawled up her face. What could she have been thinking? Why hadn’t she run away? She should have run away. She still couldn’t believe she’d stood there and watched as first he’d pleasured the woman and then as he’d …
As he’d pleasured himself.
She’d never seen a man take himself in his own hand before. Surely it was a wicked thing to do? She just hadn’t realized wicked could be so arousing.
She couldn’t think about it without feeling the heat of shame wash over her (at least she told herself the blast of warmth that shot over her skin was from shame). Sweet heaven, she’d never felt anything like that before in her life. For a moment, when he’d looked into her eyes as he’d found release, she’d actually let herself believe that she’d done that to him. That all that intensity, all that heat, all that raw masculine energy as he’d taken his pleasure had been for her.
The way he’d looked at her …
No man had ever looked at her like that. As if she were desirable. Even when she’d been young and pretty, her husband hadn’t seemed to notice. Not when he had so many beautiful women falling at his feet.
Listen to her, what a fool she was! After all these years she still thought she could inspire a man’s lust. She hadn’t been able to keep her husband’s interest when she was at her best; how could she think to attract a man now, when she’d purposefully made herself look as unattractive as possible?
Worse, she knew he’d seen her arousal and guessed how much she wanted what he was giving that woman. The passion and pleasure she’d only glimpsed but had never experienced.
How pathetically ironic that the most sensual moment of her life had occurred when she wasn’t even a participant!
Mary didn’t know whether she was more horrified at him or at herself. Him for his wickedness or her for enjoying it. Mostly, she was just embarrassed. He was probably still laughing at her. The silly little mortal who’d thought a god could actually be interested in her—even for a moment.
But she couldn’t help asking, “Who is he?”
“Impressive, isn’t he?” Margaret said with a mischievous twinkle in her eye.
Obviously, Mary had given something away in her expression. She shrugged indifferently, but it didn’t fool either of them.
“It’s the man the king mentioned,” Margaret said. “Sir Kenneth Sutherland of Moray. He’s been something of a surprise. No one expected him to do this well. His brother was a champion a few years ago, but Sir Kenneth has never won anything before.”
Mary’s heart lurched for one silly beat before she tamped it back down to reality. It was only natural to experience a flicker of girlish delight at the prospect of an alliance to such a handsome man, she told herself. But she wasn’t a young girl anymore. She was a woman who knew better than to let herself get carried away by illusions. She’d married one arrogant, handsome knight, and it had led to enough misery for a lifetime.
“It would be quite a coup, you know,” her former sister-in-law said.
Mary’s brows gathered across her nose in question. “A coup?”
“To bring him to the altar. There isn’t a young, unmarried woman here who wouldn’t like to do that. Especially since his brother the earl named him heir.”
Margaret appeared to have picked up on the king’s intent, as had she.
“But surely that is only temporary, until the earl has sons of his own?”
Margaret shook her head. “The rumor is that the earl will have no sons. One day Kenneth Sutherland or his son will be earl. If his handsome face wasn’t enough of a temptation, a future earldom has made him one of the most sought-after men in Scotland. And it seems the king is offering him to you like a stuffed bird on a gold-encrusted platter.”
Mary’s mouth quirked in spite of herself, the image was so ridiculous. She’d had her fill of overstuffed peacocks. “If that is what Robert intends, then I’m afraid he will be disappointed.”
Mary could feel Margaret studying her face and kept her expression impassive. “You can’t tell me you aren’t the slightest bit tempted.”
She was tempted, but not for marriage. The sinful thought popped in her mind before she could stop it.
Good God, what was wrong with her?
She sighed, knowing full well what was wrong with her. She’d seen exactly what was wrong with her. She shook her head firmly. “I’ve no wish to marry again.”
Margaret gave her a sympathetic look. She had witnessed the heartbreak and disappointment of Mary’s marriage firsthand. “Wishing has very little to do with marriage for women in our position though, does it?”
It was the harsh truth. But Mary would rather enter a nunnery than be forced to ma
rry again. At least then she would be in control of her own destiny.
“Not all men are like my brother, Mary.” Margaret frowned, watching as Kenneth Sutherland took the field to square off against his first opponent in the hammer event. “But perhaps you are right not to be tempted by him. I fear Kenneth Sutherland has left a trail of broken hearts behind him every bit as long as my brother’s.”
Hearing her suspicions confirmed was oddly disappointing. But the comparison, once made, was hard to dislodge. As the competition got underway, it only became more solidified in her mind.
She might have been eighteen again, sitting in the stands watching her husband for the first time and witnessing a hero in the making. Atholl, too, had been magnificent. She’d never forget how excited she’d been. How she’d sat in her seat, heart in her throat, and watched the man she’d been married to for three years but who was still essentially a stranger to her compete in the various events.
Separated from her by imprisonment during the first year of their marriage, and forced to fight for Edward in Flanders during the second, Atholl had only been permitted to return to Scotland a few months prior. He’d joined her at Blair Castle for only a few weeks before leaving to attend his duties at court. She’d been so looking forward to the Games, not simply because it was the first time she’d been allowed to attend, but also because she would finally be spending time with the handsome man to whom she was married. The unpleasantness of the first coupling on their wedding night had given way to a slightly more pleasurable experience on his return over two years later, and she had a very unmaidenly interest in learning more.
At first it had felt like a faerie tale, with him cast as the handsome knight in shining armor and her as the pretty maiden for whose favor he fought. She’d never forget when he’d won the spear event and he’d turned and bowed to her in the stands. The crowd had gone wild at the romantic gesture. She’d thought her heart would burst with pride and happiness.
But the faerie tale hadn’t lasted long. Atholl always knew how to play to the crowd. The gesture had been for them, not for her. A few nights later she’d learned the truth. Her husband did not come to her bed because he’d found another. Indeed, if the conversation she’d overheard the following morning was accurate, he’d found many to choose from.
When she’d tearfully confronted him, he hadn’t bothered to deny it. Instead, he’d been angry at her for interfering in matters that did not concern her. Yet even after that horrible conversation, she had refused to accept the truth. She’d thought that if she could make him fall in love with her, he would forget about the other women. But her attempts only seemed to make it worse. The harder she tried to hold on to him, the more he distanced himself from her.
She was his wife. The mother of his son. His occasional bedmate, when he was reminded of his duty. But one woman would never be enough for a man like him. There were some men that craved—nay, thrived on—the admiration of many. Atholl was one of them. It had taken her years of disappointment, jealousy, and heartbreak, however, to understand it.
It had partially been her fault, she knew. She’d idolized him, placing him on such a high pedestal that the only place he could go was down. She’d learned there were no such things as heroes, only men. Time had given her perspective. It had been foolish to pin dreams on him that he could never hope to fulfill. Theirs had been a political marriage. Had she not been so young and filled with unrealistic dreams, perhaps it would have turned out differently.
From the way Kenneth Sutherland incited the crowd, she suspected he was cut from a similar cloth as Atholl’s. He seemed to thrive on the cheers as one by one he defeated every man who took the field against him. Nevertheless, she found herself applauding along with the rest when he managed a particularly quick or otherwise impressive victory.
It was a brutal event, quick and dirty. The two combatants squared off in the makeshift arena, exchanging blow after blow of the bone-crushing hammer until one man was knocked to the ground. With Sir Kenneth it didn’t take long. His attacks were fast and fierce. He wielded the weapon as if it were a child’s toy, making his opponents look like, well, children.
Only his final two opponents gave him much of a contest. When Fergal MacKinnon, a great beast of a man, managed to get a solid blow into his left side, Mary held her breath along with the rest of the crowd as they waited to see whether he would fall. He didn’t. The blow only seemed to galvanize him, making him stronger and more determined. He mounted a no-holds-barred attack on the hulking warrior, taking him down with a series of powerful, merciless swings of the hammer.
Mary gripped the wooden plank of her seat more than once during the final competition, but never did she doubt that he would win. There was something driving him, a powerful force behind him that she along with the rest of the crowd seemed to sense. The Graham warrior gave him a battle, but in the end it wasn’t enough.
Kenneth Sutherland was hailed as victor of the hammer event to the enthusiastic cheers of the crowd. And for one moment, when he ripped off his helm and the sunlight caught him in its golden embrace, Mary’s breath stopped. He was truly magnificent. A man to be admired. As the flock of women who suddenly surrounded him seemed to agree.
Unaccountably disappointed, Mary started to turn away. But something made her glance back. She gasped, feeling the force of his gaze connect with hers like a lightning rod. For a moment she froze, pinned to the ground by the piercing intensity of his gaze. Her heart pounded in her chest as his head dipped in a nod. It was just like all those years ago with Atholl. And God help her, just like then she felt a silly, giddy bubble of maidenly pleasure rise inside her before reality interceded. She quickly looked away, ducking behind a man who’d stood in front of her.
It was impossible, wasn’t it? There were too many people around; he couldn’t have picked her out of a crowd. She looked around, thinking he might have been looking at someone else. But when she peeked again, her heart stopped cold.
Dear God, he was heading right for her!
Kenneth was in his element, enjoying every minute of his moment in the sun. He’d been born for this. Fighting. Competing. Winning. Aye, most of all winning.
It had taken him years of hard work, determination, and pulling himself out of the mud more times than he wanted to remember, but he was on the cusp of achieving what he’d wanted: to be the best.
One more event to go and a place in Bruce’s secret army would be his. He was going to do this; he could feel it. He exulted in the cheers of the crowd, knowing they could feel it, too. Fate and destiny had joined forces behind him, and nothing was going to stand in his way. For the first time, there would be no one in front of him. Tomorrow, after the wrestling event, he would be named champion.
He’d already achieved something no man had ever done before, winning all five weapon events. In one more sign that fate was with him, he’d won the archery contest. It had taken the shot of his life to defeat John MacGregor, but he’d done so by less than a quarter of an inch.
He wished he could have seen MacKay’s face. After tomorrow there would be no doubt that he deserved to take his place among the best warriors in Scotland in Bruce’s secret army, and his former rival wasn’t going to be able to do a damned thing to stop it.
Kenneth glanced up to the king’s pavilion, pleased to see Bruce clapping along with the rest.
That was when he saw her. His wee voyeur.
He’d found himself looking for her more than once over the past few days—four, he realized—and had begun to wonder whether he’d imagined her. But nay, there she was, sitting serenely and inauspiciously at the end of the king’s platform with Alexander MacKenzie and his wife. Was she one of Lady Margaret’s attendants, then?
Shedding some light on the mystery should have been enough to put the matter behind him. Right now he should be thinking of only one thing: tomorrow’s contest. He shouldn’t be wondering what it would be like to be the one to cut those too-tight laces of hers and release s
ome of the passion she had bottled up tightly beneath that austere facade.
Hell, he knew there were men who fantasized about debauching a nun; he just hadn’t thought he was one of them. But he couldn’t deny the fierce hum that ran through his veins when he thought about ripping off that shapeless black gown that she donned like armor to reveal the wanton he’d glimpsed hiding beneath that fade-into-the-background facade.
He wanted to make her gasp. Wanted to see her lips part and color flood to her cheeks when he touched her. He wanted to be the one to make her shatter for the first time.
To his surprise, when he caught her gaze, he found himself nodding to her. Acknowledging in some way that he hadn’t forgotten her. He’d never singled out a woman so publicly—or done anything that could be construed as romantic—and the gesture took him aback.
Although he doubted anyone else had noticed, she did. He could have seen her eyes widen from halfway across Scotland, let alone the fifty or so paces that separated them. He was more amused than surprised when she immediately ducked behind the man in front of her. But if she thought she could escape him so easily, she was mistaken.
He amended his earlier decision. Hell, he’d worked hard. He could afford to relax and enjoy a little previctory celebration. He wanted her, and waiting no longer seemed necessary.
He started toward her, but he’d barely exited the arena before he found his path blocked by the first of many well-wishers. He heard some form of “Sir Kenneth, you were magnificent” from the female contingent, and “Bloody impressive fighting, Sutherland” from the male.
After working so hard to get here, he should have been savoring every minute of this; it was what he’d always wanted. Yet instead he found himself impatiently scanning the platform and stairs where he’d last seen the lass. But the crowd was too thick and the lass too small for him to pick her out.
He finally managed to extract himself. Threading his way to the base of the stairs, he caught a glimpse of black in the sea of colorful silk moving away from him. He smiled, thinking it ironic that her plain clothing, which he suspected was meant to hide her, was what identified her.