Kate Robbins - The Highland Chiefs Series 03 (24 page)

Now, inside their chamber with the morning light spilling in through the windows, Ronan slipped her mantle from her shoulders, causing her to shiver as cool air hit her skin. When he brushed his lips across the sensitive skin of her neck, she shivered again, though this time from desire.

“So, what you are telling me, wife, is that you were protecting me.” Ronan then nipped her earlobe with his teeth.

Freya gasped. “Aye, my lord. Someone needs to protect you.”

“Do they now? And who will protect me from you?”

She took the opportunity to flip him onto his back and straddle his thighs. She pushed his shoulders until he lay flat beneath her.

“No one can protect you from me, my lord. You are mine to do with as I see fit. And right now, I believe you need to be punished.”

“I believe I shall humbly submit to your judgment, Lady Sutherland. Do your worst,” he said and spread his arms wide in full submission.

Freya untied his belt and slipped it out from underneath him. She then tugged at his tunic until it was discarded along with the belt and her night shift. The cool air was a welcome contrast to the fire burning within her at the glorious man between her thighs.

The look of longing in his eyes gave her the final piece of clarity she would ever need to know in her heart once and for all, he would never hurt her.

She gasped, sliding down upon his shaft. He grabbed her hips and thrust upward until he was fully sheathed.

“I forgive you, Ronan,” she said. “I trust you—now and forever.”

Ronan stopped moving and gazed hard into her eyes. “Do you mean it?”

“Aye, I mean it.”

To her delight, he flipped her onto her back and crushed his lips upon hers as he drove into her again and again. All she could do was to hold fast to his shoulders as he pummeled her, as if he was a man dying of thirst and she the only thing in the world that could quench him.

Chapter Twenty Five

The late afternoon sun burned down on the riders. For two days, the king’s guards had challenged the Highland warriors, and while it was clear to anyone with eyes who was the stronger and better trained, Freya suspected her husband and his allies toyed with the king. The margins of victory were not as great as they should be in her estimation. As of now they were close to being equal.

She had finally gotten Ronan to confess his full plot to her. If they could convince the king the stakes were equal, then he would continue to engage and find his defeat at the melee in the morning. The current jousting match was between young Rorie MacKenzie and the king’s captain and queen consort’s brother, Lord Beaufort.

The current score sat in favour of the king’s guards, however Freya was certain of the outcome of this match. If the king lost, he would be baited to continue onto the battle where they intended to recreate Bannockburn.

She drew her handkerchief to her mouth to mask the cloying stench of sweat and horse dung. As the castle sat between the tournament field and the sea, the air was stifling and unmoving. What she would not give for a fresh breeze.

Beside her, Ronan sat up straight as the jousters slid their helmets into place and positioned their lances. The flag was raised and then dropped. A heartbeat later, two large destriers thundered toward one another, their riders intent on unseating the other—or worse. She had only known Rorie for a short time, but had gleaned honour in him. She felt he would not seek to intentionally maim his opponent. The king’s captain on the other hand had a suspicious sneer plastered on his face at all times. She would not put anything past him.

She held her breath as the riders approached one another, and like something out of a dream, time seemed to slow as their lances crumbled into the other, splinters exploding from the impact and flying all about them, looking like a basket of sticks tossed into the air.

Rorie’s head snapped back when Beaufort’s lance hit his chin and he toppled backwards grasping for the horse’s reins. Rorie swerved his body to the side in the last moment and managed to stay seated, despite a hard shove from the smaller framed Beaufort.

Freya glanced at Ronan who appeared to be hiding a smile behind curled fingers. The king’s demeanour was not so playful. Without trying to stare, she noted his pinched lips. He was not pleased at the outcome, but perhaps he was also displeased with the dishonour his man had displayed.

The match ended with neither man being unseated which meant they would need a tie breaking match, so that today’s tournament could boast a victor.

“My lord, Sutherland,” the king said. “I believe we must break this deadlock somehow, else we shall never know who goes into tomorrow’s battle at advantage.”

Freya had forgotten that part. Whoever had earned the most points had the advantage of choosing from which side of the field to advance.

“Aye. What do you suggest?”

Dread crept its way into Freya’s belly. Somehow, she knew what would happen next.

The king turned to Ronan with a grin. “You and I shall joust, my lord Sutherland.”

Freya’s belly dropped. The king had become more engrossed and competitive as the tournament progressed. She was certain he meant not only to unseat Ronan, but put him in his place as well. She looked at Ronan, whose jaw was set hard and clenching.

“Then joust we shall.”

Without looking back at her, he left the canopied seating area where Fergus, MacIntosh, and MacKenzie also sat. Freya moved closer to her brother, hoping his strength would seep into her bones by proximity.

Once both men were fully dressed in their armour, they approached the stage. Freya knew in that moment what she had to do.

“Would you bestow a favour upon your husband, Lady Sutherland? So that he may safely return to you?” her husband asked.

Freya smiled and drew the scarf from her neck, tying it around his lance with three knots, the last of which, she emphasized. Ronan grinned.

“Sire,” she said to the king but kept her eyes on Ronan, “you have pledged loyalty to me before those present. I would ask that you return my husband to me unscathed.”

When he did not speak, she turned her head and met his gaze. He scowled. She had him by the testicles and he knew it. There was no way he could deny her request without risking dishonour.

Very slowly, the king nodded to her. His eyes glinted in the sunlight. He was vexed. The last thing she needed was to rile him just before attempting to trample Ronan.

Freya pulled a small handkerchief from her sleeve and then moved to tie it to the king’s staff. “So that you return unscathed as well, sire.”

His eyes widened and a smile then spread across his face. Were he not so dangerous, she could see how he could be considered handsome.

“My lady. You have done me a great honour. I am your servant.”

Freya returned to her seat and watched the two men get into position. Though her outward actions were bold, on the inside she quaked. Fergus took her hand in his as the joust was about to start.

“You are a brave one, Freya,” he said low so that only she could hear.

“Am I brave, or daft?”

“Perhaps a little of both.”

Freya elbowed him in the ribs causing him to laugh.

“The king would not harm his host on purpose, love. He wants to win the battle on the morrow.”

“Aye, but there is no harm in reminding him of his pledge to me on the night he arrived, is there?”

“None. In fact, I believe he found it rather entertaining.”

“Is that good?”

“We shall have to wait and see.”

Freya did not like waiting. She wanted to know the outcome of the battle in this moment. She feared she would not get one wink of sleep this night.

* * *

Ronan tried to still his destrier. Between the cheers of the crowd, the activity of the past two days, and the heat, he felt for the animal. There would be plenty of time to rest once this match was over. And he intended to see it go in his favour. He had watched the king like a hawk and gleaned the man was insatiable in his need for competition. Ronan had ensured the matches between his warriors and the king’s guard stay relatively even in order to maintain the Stewart’s interest. It had worked.

Freya’s antic with the scarf and her request had been the perfect enticement for the man. Ronan smirked as he got into position on the right hand side of the fencing, the king to his left and on the opposite side.

Thus far, his plan played out as he had hoped. He now just needed to win this match and draw an ounce more ire from the man to ensure he would have him in the right frame of mind for the battle on the morrow.

Ronan rolled his neck and blocked out the many cheers from those gathered. His horse clawed at the ground, anxious to begin. He reached up with his left hand and slammed the protective eye-piece of his helmet into place, a signal he was ready to begin. The king followed suit.

All sound passed out of his attentions save for his horse’s grunts, and his own deep and steady breaths. His muscles bunched as he waited for the flag to rise and drop. In the last moment, he wrapped the reins around his left hand and pulled back slowly.

The flag floated downward as Ronan thrust his body forward as the horse bolted. He gripped the lance tight, pointing it inward toward the fence and his approaching opponent.

He focused hard on the king’s position and mostly on the way he sat slightly to the right in his saddle. Did he offer an opportunity?

Ronan had not noticed it before. No matter now. The time had come to make a decision as to unseat the man or toss the match.

He smiled to himself as he dipped the lance toward the lower part of the king’s breast plate, a perfect position to topple the man.

His lance crushed and splintered as it made contact with the king. Ronan’s arm became hot, causing him to break his hold on the reins and his body to sway. In an effort to remain seated, he tossed his weapon aside and grabbed the reins with his other hand while squeezing the horse’s body with his thighs. Several paces past the impact point, he turned to see what he had managed to do.

The king was bent over the horse, unmoving. Ronan galloped around the fence to determine the man’s state and was relieved when he found the king winded, but otherwise unharmed.

“You play to win, my lord Sutherland.”

“Aye.”

“It appears we are still at an impasse as you did not unseat me. Nor I you.”

Christ.

“It would appear so.”

“The sun is too hot for my liking. I suggest we retire to feast. Tomorrow’s battle shall determine the victor of these games.”

Ronan had to stifle the smile. Those were the exact words he had wanted to hear. Sliding down from his horse, he tossed the reins to the stable hand.

“Be sure he receives extra attention.” Then to the king, he said, “Shall we retire to the great hall then? I feel like filling my gullet with ale.”

The king too slid from his horse and clasped Ronan on the shoulders. They walked toward the stage and collected those gathered there before proceeding to the great hall.

Freya came up beside him and took his hand in hers, squeezing hard. He glanced down into her eyes and noted the worry there. They were not through this playful battle yet, but they had weathered it well. She had impressed him time and again with her graciousness, and most importantly, her courage. Surely, there was never a woman born to the Highlands so brave.

Once they settled in to drink and feast, Ronan watched the nobles and chiefs around the table. All of them had a vested interest in the king’s intentions, that was the obvious part. But did the mere fact that they had come together to oppose him, prove something?

“You are very pensive, my lord Sutherland.”

“Aye, sire. I observe the leaders around this table and consider their plight and their worth.”

“Sounds very troubling.”

“It could be,” Ronan said. “ The challenges we have this far north are no doubt varied from those in Mid-Lothian.”

“And so now we finally get to it.”

He was right. They had danced around the subject enough. Perhaps a more direct approach would prove fruitful.

“Indeed, we do. I wonder, sire, what your intentions are?”

“For you?”

“Not me specifically. Rather, all of us. Up here and so far away from the very different challenges of Court.”

Without missing a beat, the king said, “I intend for you to pledge your fealty to me, my lord Sutherland.”

“You already have our fealty, sire. What is it, in addition to the words, you seek?”

“Your vassals, your presence, and your unwavering commitment to my various causes.”

“And in the event men cannot be spared?”

The king slammed his hand hard on the table. “Men can always be spared. And spare them you will.”

By now all heads had turned toward their conversation. If anything, getting the king’s blood up before battle would distract him from focusing on how to best them. Not that he had a chance, but Ronan would use whatever he could to his advantage.

“Surely, you do not intend for your campaigns to take precedence over the welfare of individual men’s livelihood.”

“I believe what the king is saying,” MacIntosh said, “is that there may come a time when the country’s affairs will be everyone’s priority.”

“Aye,” MacKenzie said, “but on whose determination?”

“On mine, as I am your king.”

Ronan could have cut the building tension with his dirk. The Stewart was bent on having his way, and thus far after three days of games, they were no closer to a resolution.

“And what about concessions?” Fergus asked. “Surely, you do not expect us to march to do your bidding if it means putting our homes and families at risk?”

“I expect full and complete loyalty from each and every one of you.”

His demeanour was cool and aloof, but Ronan could sense the anger rising in him. Whether or not they won the battle on the morrow probably would not make a difference at this point.

“And what of our wager?” Ronan asked after a time.

The king’s head whipped around and his gaze locked on Freya.

“Our wager? You said winner takes all. You meant your precious concessions did you not?”

“Aye, I did, sire.”

“Well, you see then we shall have to place a new wager, shall we not? And let us be clear this time, Sutherland. I will not be played by my own nobles, and you should know better than to attempt it.”

“Name your terms then.”

The king looked back to Freya and smirked. Ronan’s fists clenched and his guts knotted. There was not a chance in Hell he would ever let the man lay one finger on his wife.

“If I win, I will claim full authority over all that lies within Scotland’s borders. I will call each and any one of you to my side as I see fit, and I will have you do so without hesitation. Further to this, I will claim any of your ladies to become ladies-in-waiting to my queen, as is her desire. Are we very clear on what I shall have from you when I win the battle?”