The Recruit Read online

  Long sword, Lady Moira had said. Now she understood. Apparently, it hadn’t been her glasses.

  Margaret gave an unrepentant shrug. “Ladies talk. It’s hardly a secret, although I admit it isn’t one for polite conversation. But after a long feast and a few goblets of wine, some of the ladies can be every bit as ribald as the men.”

  Mary had been more sheltered than she realized. It seemed there was an entire world she was missing.

  “He’s the perfect man, you know, for a night of sin. Were you ever to contemplate it.”

  For once Mary did not ask herself what her sister would do. She feared the answer. “But that’s the problem, isn’t it? A night isn’t an option for women like us. And I could never marry such a man. He only sought me out because he doesn’t know who I am. Seducing a widowed attendant is quite different from a countess the king wishes him to marry.” She smiled. “I admit, I’m looking forward to his surprise when he finds out his mistake.”

  Margaret returned her smile. “I am, too. Sir Kenneth is a charming scoundrel, but his behavior has been outrageous. Perhaps it will teach him a lesson.” She paused. “But you could always tell him after. Why shouldn’t you not have a night, if you wish it, Mary? If anyone deserves a bit of sin, you do, after all you have been through. You’re a widow, not beholden to any man. Surely you know it is not uncommon?”

  Hardly. Atholl had taught her that. “It doesn’t make it any less wrong,” she said softly.

  Margaret smiled and patted her hand. “Of course, you are right. Now who is the wicked one?” She laughed and gave her a mischievous wink. “But don’t forget, if you change your mind, you can always repent for your sins later. I should think he would be worth at least a few dozen Hail Marys.”

  More like a few hundred. Mary fought back the smile, but in the end laughed along with her former sister-in-law. Who knew it could be so much fun to be a little wicked?

  The torches had already been lit for the coming night when Kenneth finally dragged himself from the soothing hot waters of the bath his sister had arranged for him. Helen didn’t think any of his ribs were broken, but you wouldn’t know it from the ghastly-looking mass of purple, black, and red that covered a large portion of his left side. And you sure as hell wouldn’t know it from the pain. It hurt like the bloody devil.

  He’d made a mistake. Become too aggressive. Assured of his victory, he’d tried to end it too soon and in the process had given MacKinnon an opening. The other warrior had taken full advantage of it with a blow that could have put a swift end to all Kenneth’s plans. He knew better, damn it. He sure as hell wasn’t going to let it happen again.

  There was nothing his sister could do for it beyond providing a tight binding tomorrow, having him soak in a hot bath tonight, and giving him a draught of nasty-tasting brew for the pain. It relaxed him. Perhaps a little too much. He could have fallen asleep in the warm water and been happy to skip the feast entirely.

  He’d avoided most of the long meals and celebrations during the week, preferring a Spartan routine while he competed. But the king had specifically requested his presence tonight to meet Atholl’s widow, who was leaving soon, and MacKay had told him in no uncertain terms, when he’d come to collect Helen earlier, that he’d better be there. With the result tomorrow all but assured—as Kenneth had anticipated, Robbie Boyd had not entered—he could afford to relax his guard for a few hours.

  Besides, he had other plans he didn’t want to miss.

  He was surprised just how eager he was to see Lady Mary again. He didn’t let her prior refusal deter him. He was confident in his persuasive abilities. She’d been shocked and outraged, but she’d also been tempted. He’d seen it in those brilliant eyes of hers before they’d started flashing at him.

  He didn’t know what it was about the lass that provoked him to such wickedness. But there was something about the way she looked at him that made him feel as if she were still wearing those glasses of hers—as if she were seeing him too clearly and judging him too harshly—and he couldn’t resist.

  He frowned. There was more to her than the laced-too-tightly repressed wanton in a nun’s habit than he’d anticipated. He’d expected a shy, passive lass who would be flattered by his attention.

  She wasn’t either.

  His frown deepened. He didn’t know why he was bothering with the lass at all. She wasn’t like his usual bed-mates. She was older, plainer, and far from the “throng of worshipers” his sister teased him about.

  He wasn’t usually forced to make such an effort. Women came to him. Hell, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d had to go to this much trouble for a lass.

  He supposed it was the novelty that was drawing him. But he was surprisingly eager for the second part of his night to begin. He couldn’t wait to see whether the glimpse of raw sensuality was as hot as it appeared.

  He’d blocked out the simpering and giggling of the maidservant who’d been given the task of bathing him, but heard it now as she began to help him into his braies. He didn’t encourage her obvious interest, however, and quickly donned his breeches, tunic, and plaid, wincing when he had to lift his hands over his shoulders. He allowed her to help him pull on his boots to avoid bending over, but buckled the dirk that he was never without around his waist himself.

  His hair was still damp as he made his way across the courtyard from the makeshift bathhouse in a small corner of the kitchens, where the fire had not only kept him warm but had proved efficient at heating the water as well.

  There weren’t many people milling about as the feast had already gotten underway, but he greeted a few of the guardsmen who were posted around the barmkin. Even before he climbed the stairs and entered the East Range of the castle, he could hear the raucous sounds of celebrating coming from the open windows of the Great Hall. He was glad to see that he wasn’t the last to arrive, as the corridor to his left was still filled with people making their way into the celebration. Before he could follow them, MacKay blocked his path.

  “You’re late,” he snapped.

  Kenneth’s jaw locked in what had become almost a reflex when it came to his interactions with his future brother-in-law. “You have the fine makings of a nursemaid if you ever get tired of warfare. I didn’t realize my comings and goings were so important to you.”

  MacKay returned his glare. “They aren’t. The king sent me to see what was taking you so long.”

  “I had something to attend to.”

  MacKay smiled. “Helen told me you were injured. I hope it isn’t serious.” He shook his head in mock disappointment. “It would be a shame if you lost tomorrow.”

  “Helen exaggerates. I’ll be fine to fight tomorrow, and just like all the other events, I’ll win. I hope you are ready for a new partner.”

  MacKay’s eyes flared. “If you win tomorrow, you’ll deserve to be my partner. But I wouldn’t count my victories too soon; it’s not over yet.”

  Kenneth wasn’t listening; he barely registered MacKay’s half-smile before turning away. Out of the corner of his eye, something had caught his attention. Or should he say someone had caught his attention?

  “You’re fortunate Lady Mary hasn’t arrived yet,” MacKay said.

  Another Mary. Kenneth had forgotten Atholl’s widow’s given name was Mary. His mind was on the Mary at the other end of the corridor, near the donjon. At least he thought it was her. He couldn’t see her face, but the clothes were dark and plain enough to stand out.

  Except this woman seemed to be laughing. She was looking up at the man opposite her—

  Kenneth stopped. Bloody hell.

  Without realizing it, his fists clenched at his sides and his mouth fell in a hard line.

  Why was she talking to Gregor MacGregor?

  He started toward them.

  “Where in Hades are you going?” MacKay called after him. “The king is waiting for you.”

  But Kenneth was too angry to heed him. “I’ll just be a few minutes.”