The Recruit Read online

  “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.

  And he was close, damn it. He could feel it. One mistake, that was all he needed. One little opening and he’d have him.

  “The ribs are fine,” he managed, his breath just as short as MacKay’s. “How’s your jaw?” Kenneth feigned with his right and landed another satisfying uppercut with his left to MacKay’s jaw. “Helen isn’t going to be too happy if it’s broken for your wedding.”

  Something flashed in the other man’s eyes.

  Guilt? Kenneth shook his head. “She doesn’t know about this, does she?” He laughed. “Maybe there won’t be a wedding to worry about.”

  MacKay swore and launched himself at Kenneth, pummeling and swinging with a violent ferocity that took every ounce of his skill to defend against.

  MacKay had to tire eventually. Kenneth just had to be patient awhile longer.

  Finally, they broke apart, both bending over heaving great gulps of air as they fought to breathe.

  Unconsciously, Kenneth glanced toward the castle and stiffened. A handful of guardsmen were gathered in the yard, and a small figure had just emerged from the donjon and was making her way down the tower stairs.

  He looked away quickly, but it hadn’t been quick enough. He’d made a mistake. MacKay had caught the movement and recognized what was happening. “If you want to go after her, I’ll wait,” he taunted.

  Kenneth bit out something foul, telling him he could go do something that was physically impossible.

  “Hit a nerve, did I?” MacKay added. “Don’t tell me you actually wanted to marry the lass.”

  Kenneth felt his blood spike but tamped it down. Stay cool. But his fists clenched at his sides with the urge to retaliate. It wasn’t in his nature not to fight back—or to be patient, for that matter.

  MacKay let out a low whistle. “I never thought I’d see the day. I guess the lady wasn’t impressed?”

  “Shut the hell up, MacKay.”

  “Or what?”

  Kenneth held himself still, refusing to be baited. But the urge to wipe that taunting grin off the face behind the helm was nearly overpowering.

  “Or maybe that was all she wanted? Is that it, Sutherland? Tell me, do you get paid a fee like a prized steed? Aye, a stud fee.” He laughed.

  That was it. The last thread Kenneth held on his temper snapped. He lunged toward MacKay, not thinking about anything other than shutting him up.

  He lost control, and with it, the battle. MacKay took full advantage of his anger, lulling him into a false sense of victory before snatching it back at the last minute. MacKay feigned submission, bending over and letting Kenneth pound on him until he was exhausted. Then he rose from the apparent dead and attacked, striking blows against Kenneth’s weak side until he collapsed on the ground.

  He must have passed out. Either that or he was deaf to the cheers of the crowd, because he never heard the call for MacKay’s victory.

  He’d lost. Lost!

  He stayed on the ground, not wanting or having the strength to get up.

  MacKay stood over him, looking down on him with that superior smirk of his. “Your temper, Sutherland. It will get you every time. Until you can learn to control it, you’ll never be one of the best.”

  The worst part was that he was right. Kenneth had let his temper get to him. Had let her get to him.

  He picked himself off the ground and struggled to his feet, as he’d done many times before. Too many times. The knowledge burned in his gut. He’d been so close …

  But this wasn’t over. He wasn’t going to give up. He’d find a way into Bruce’s army, if it killed him.

  And heaven help Mary of Mar if their paths ever crossed again. He would teach the wanton little siren in nun’s clothing a lesson she would never forget.

  Nine

  Mid-January 1310

  Black Cuillin Mountains, Isle of Skye

  Kenneth was going to be the last man standing if it killed him. And it seemed the others were determined to do just that. Perdition? That was putting it mildly. He’d rather spend an eternity of punishment in the fiery pits of hell than another two weeks of Tor MacLeod’s “training” in the wintry bowels of the Cuillin mountain range.

  They’d been climbing up the icy, desolate mountainside for hours at a pace that might as well be called a run. He couldn’t ever remember being this cold and tired. Every muscle, every bone in his body hurt—even his teeth. Although that was probably because he’d been grinding them so hard trying to keep a rein on his temper. Sangfroid! It was so damned cold he should have ice in his veins, let alone “cold blood.”

  But unfortunately, his blood was still running hot. It wasn’t just MacKay testing him now; he had ten of the fiercest, most highly prized warriors in Christendom doing everything they could to get to him. To make him quit. But no matter how unpleasant or harassing the task, how difficult the ordeal, or how many irritating names they called him, he was determined to grit his teeth and bear it. He’d been given one more chance, and nothing was going to stop him from earning a place in Bruce’s secret army.

  Of the handful of potential recruits who’d started with him over three months ago, only two remained in the war of attrition that was MacLeod’s training. One had quit the first week; the other two had lasted the first few months of training, only to fall in the first few days of Perdition once training had resumed after an all-too-short break for Christmastide, the twelve days from Christmas Eve to Epiphany.

  Apparently MacLeod was human after all; he’d wanted to spend the holidays with his expectant wife and young daughter. Otherwise it was sometimes