The Recruit (10 page)

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
some 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.

He would have gone after her, but Lady Moira caught him first. “Congratulations, my
lord, on yet another victory. Were you by chance looking for someone?” She batted
her eyelashes so aggressively he was tempted to ask whether she had something in her
eye. Normally, such coquetry amused him, but right now he found it annoying.

His mouth tightened impatiently as he saw his prey slipping away.

Moira stood with Lady Elizabeth Lindsay, who seemed amused by her companion’s efforts.
Lady Elizabeth was reputedly devoted to her husband and nothing Kenneth had seen suggested
the contrary. She was friendly and polite, but nothing more. Which suited him just
fine. Although she was a beautiful woman, she was shrewd, stubborn, and opinionated.
He didn’t envy Lindsay the headache. Challenges were for the battlefield, not the
bedchamber.

“We are all trying to figure it out,” Lady Elizabeth said.

“Figure what out?” he asked, glancing over her shoulder, trying to keep his eye on
his prey.

“Who the nod was for,” Lady Elizabeth said.

He looked at her, barely hiding his surprise. “Nod?”

“Aye, it created quite a stir. The ladies seated around me were all quite sure you
were nodding to them,” Lady Elizabeth said with a smile.

Ah hell, he guessed it had been more noticeable than he realized. Kenneth hid his
reaction behind a wicked smile.

“I was,” he said.

Lady Moira nearly yelped with pleasure, clapping her hands together. “I knew it. To
whom?”

“I’ll leave that to you to figure out,” he said with a playful wink. “Now, if you’ll
excuse me. I see my sister, and I need to have her patch me up so I’ll be ready for
tomorrow’s competition.”

It was only partially a lie. The blow he’d taken across the ribs was starting to throb
beneath his habergeon. The shirt of mail offered scant protection against the impact
of steel on bone, and he suspected he had a fairly nasty bruise brewing. He would
see Helen to get it fixed up, but
after
he caught up with his little nun, who was weaving her way through the crowd at nearly
a run in her effort to avoid him.

She was only running from the inevitable. Almost as certain as he was that he would
win tomorrow, Kenneth was certain that before the night was out, he would have her
under him. Or perhaps on top of him.

He felt a pleasant tightening in his groin just thinking about it.

She’d just passed through the gate into the castle when he saw her stop and turn.

“Mary, wait!” he heard someone—a woman—say. He turned, recognizing the speaker as
Lady Margaret MacKenzie. “Where are you going in such a rush?”

Mary. He should have guessed. A common, unremarkable name that would draw no attention—just
like the rest of her. He was only a few feet away, but she hadn’t seen him yet. “I
think the sun—”

She stopped suddenly, her eyes widening and mouth caught in an O of surprise as she
saw him. On such a severe countenance, it shouldn’t be so sensual. But it was the
same expression that had thrown him over the edge in the barn.

In the sunlight, without the glasses hiding half her face, he got his first really
good look at her. Her hair was still
hidden beneath an ugly black veil and wimple, her gown was still boxy and shapeless,
her skin was still pale, her features were still too sharp—especially her cheekbones,
which stuck out prominently over sunken cheeks—and there was still an overall gray,
ghostlike quality to her, but on closer scrutiny he knew his instincts had been right.
The hint of prettiness and intentional obscuring of beauty was even more obvious in
the stark light of day.

There was no hiding her eyes, and they were spectacular. Round and overlarge in her
hollow-cheeked face, they were a remarkable greenish-blue, and framed by thick, long
lashes that seemed incongruously soft on such an otherwise brittle exterior. Her mouth,
too, was soft and full, with a sensual dip that made him think of a bow on a package
he wanted to unwrap. Preferably with his tongue.

As soon as their eyes met, she instinctively dropped her gaze as if hiding her eyes
from his view.

Hiding. That was exactly what she was doing. The question was why, and from what.

“Lady Mary, Lady Margaret,” he said, approaching the two women with a bow.

Lady Margaret turned to him with a gasp. She gaped at him, and then at Mary. “You’ve
met?”

He grinned, seeing the blush rise to Mary’s cheeks.

“Briefly,” she said tightly.

The lass really needed to relax. She was pulled as tight as a bowstring.

“Not
too
briefly,” he corrected, unable to stop himself from teasing her. He liked seeing
the color in her cheeks. “I’m looking forward to furthering our acquaintance. I hope
you are not bored with the Games already? Perhaps they are not
exciting
enough for you?”

He knew he was being horrible, but he couldn’t help teasing her.

She wasn’t shy, though. Her eyes met his full force, flashing at him in outrage.

“Oh, it was exciting, wasn’t it, Mary?” Lady Margaret interposed.