The Recruit (6 page)

His sister Helen was seated at the opposite end of the table and rolled her eyes at
his “throng of worshipers,” as she called them. He responded with a helpless shrug
that didn’t fool her one bit. If women wanted to throw themselves at him, he sure
as hell wasn’t going to stop them.

He supposed there were much less pleasant ways of biding his time than being seated
between two beautiful young women with a goblet of wine in his hand. But for once,
big blue eyes, soft red lips, enticingly low bodices, and platitudes didn’t hold his
attention. His gaze kept slipping to the solar door.

“Will you be competing in all the events, my lord?”

Kenneth turned to the woman on his left, aware of the gentle pressure of her leg against
his. Lady Alice Barclay had been sending him less-than-subtle signals all evening,
and it was impossible to miss the invitation in her eyes as she fluttered her lashes
up at him. If there was any doubt—which there wasn’t—the way she leaned forward to
give him a fine view of some rather remarkable cleavage all but shouted “take me.”

He smiled. Though she was certainly pretty enough, and those soft, round breasts were
generous enough to tempt a monk, this was one invitation he didn’t plan on accepting.
Lady Alice was the young wife of one of Bruce’s most trusted commanders, Sir David
Barclay, and therefore forbidden fruit. Kenneth wasn’t going to do anything to draw
the king’s ire. He’d worked hard to prove himself and wasn’t about to throw it all
away on a woman, no matter how tempting.

But Lady Alice wasn’t making it easy. She leaned forward a little more, resting her
hand on his thigh under the table and letting one of those plump breasts graze his
arm. He felt the hard bead of her nipple through the wool of his tunic, and his body
reacted.

A slow smile curved his mouth. At least forbidden fruit until Bruce gave him an answer,
and then he might have to reconsider.

“Most of the events, Lady Alice, although I fear I’m not much of a dancer. I will
leave the sword dance for those with more nimble feet.”

“I think you are being modest. I’ve heard you are quite nimble, my lord. Especially
with your sword.” Her hand inched closer to the growing bulge between his legs just
in case he’d missed the suggestiveness of her words.

Though he was tempted to see how far she would take it—he’d been a squire the last
time a lass had stroked him under the tablecloth in the middle of a feast—he wasn’t
going to take any chances. With a sigh of regret, he covered her hand with his and
eased it off his lap. He smiled, hoping to ease the sting of his rejection. “In the
practice yard, perhaps. Alas, that is all I can focus on right now.”

Thankfully, the woman on his right decided his attention had been on Lady Alice long
enough. “The ladies are already making wagers, my lord. I believe you are favored
to win many of the weapon competitions.”

He lifted a brow in mock disappointment. “Only the weapons?”

Lady Eleanor, the daughter of Sir William Wiseman, another of Bruce’s closest cohorts,
blushed, not realizing he was teasing her. “Perhaps the wrestling event as well. But
Robbie Boyd still has not said whether he will enter.”

As Kenneth was fairly sure Robbie Boyd was a member of Bruce’s secret army, he doubted
the king was going to let him anywhere near the competition field. Magnus MacKay,
Tor MacLeod, Erik MacSorley, and Gregor
MacGregor as well. All past champions of the Games, and all, he suspected, members
of Bruce’s famed phantom band of warriors. “Famed” because of their almost mythical
deeds, and “phantom” because they seemed to slip in and out of the darkness like wraiths,
identities unknown. The king wouldn’t want to draw attention to their skills, not
when the names of the members of his secret army were so sought after.

Rumors of an elite group of warriors—a secret army—had been floating around for years.
But it wasn’t until Kenneth and his Sutherland clansmen had come over to Bruce’s side
late last year that Kenneth had figured out that not only was it real, his foster
brother had been a part of it. Until he’d been killed in battle, that is. Kenneth
intended to take his friend’s place among the best warriors in Scotland. If the Highland
Games were the recruiting ground for the secret army, he wasn’t going to leave any
doubt as to his skills.

No matter who he faced.

“I would welcome the challenge,” he said truthfully. Wrestling was a bit of a misnomer.
Hand-to-hand combat was more accurate. It was an all-out brawl—a melee of two. It
was the ultimate contest of strength and fighting ability, matching two opponents
with nothing but their fists.

Though Robbie Boyd had never lost in the wrestling event and was considered the strongest
man in Scotland, Kenneth never shied from a fight—which admittedly sometimes got him
in trouble.

“Are you so sure, Sutherland?” Kenneth stiffened at the familiar voice coming from
behind him. “As I recall, last time you did not fare so well.”

His shoulders stiffened reflexively, but when Kenneth turned to look at the man who’d
taken a seat beside his sister while his attention had been fixed on the solar door,
there was no sign he’d heard the taunt.

He didn’t
usually
shy from a fight, he amended his earlier thought. Until now.
Sangfroid
, he told himself. Kenneth was going to be on his best behavior, even if it bloody
well killed him. And not just with the women. He was determined to keep his temper
in check and not let his bastard of a soon-to-be brother-in-law get to him, even if
MacKay seemed to be making it his personal mission in life to rile his temper and
prove him unworthy for Bruce’s secret army.

He wasn’t rash—or a hothead—damn it!

Magnus MacKay had been his enemy, nemesis, and all-around thorn in his arse since
Kenneth had been old enough to hold a sword. MacKay had bested him on the field when
they were youths more times than he wanted to remember. But he did remember, every
one of them. No more. Kenneth was done coming in second. He’d spent the better part
of the past three years honing his skills in battle, becoming one of the best warriors
in the Highlands. He was determined to prove it by winning a place in Bruce’s army.
If MacKay didn’t stand in his way, that is.

He smiled at the man his sister planned to marry at the conclusion of the Games. “As
I recall, neither did you.” Magnus’s face darkened. He didn’t like losing any better
than Kenneth did, and they’d both lost at the hands of Robbie Boyd that year. “But
that was four years ago. Perhaps we’ve both improved?” And because he never could
resist taunting the bastard back, he added to the women around him, “Although I’m
afraid you won’t get to see MacKay fight. He is still nursing an arm injury.”

The women immediately expressed their disappointment and well-wishes for his swift
recovery, while Kenneth grinned at the glowering Highlander. He knew full well that
MacKay’s arm was fine, but Bruce had prohibited him from entering the competition.
He also knew just how much the warrior who prided himself on toughness
would bristle at the idea of “nursing” anything. He would feel the same.

“I’m not—” MacKay stopped so suddenly and with such an “oof” of air that Kenneth suspected
his sister’s elbow had just connected rather firmly with his ribs. After looking down
at Helen, who smiled angelically back up at him, MacKay’s anger fizzled. “Fortunately,
I have a very talented healer to nurse me back to health.”

It was Kenneth’s turn to glower. Although no one else at the table had picked up on
the sensual innuendo of MacKay’s words, he sure as hell had. The idea of MacKay marrying
his little sister was bad enough, but the bastard had better damn well keep his hands
off her until
after
the wedding. Noticing the heat rising to his sister’s cheeks, however, Kenneth suspected
it was too late.

He was reconsidering his vow not to fight with MacKay, when the door to the solar
opened and men began to emerge from the room. Intent on reaching the king before he
left, he quickly excused himself and crossed the twenty or so feet to the solar. The
guardsman standing at the door would have refused him entry if the king hadn’t glanced
over and waved him in.

“Just the man I wanted to see. Come in, Sutherland, come in,” Bruce said.

As the king had seemed to be avoiding him, Kenneth was surprised by his words. “You
wished to see me, Sire?”

Bruce motioned him forward toward a seat opposite him at the council table. Only a
few men remained in the room. Kenneth recognized the famed swordsman and trainer Tor
MacLeod on his left, Sir Neil Campbell on his right, and to his surprise, William
Lamberton, the Bishop of St. Andrews, next to him. He’d heard the bishop was part
of Edward’s truce delegation, but why was he here now?

After greetings were exchanged, Bruce said, “Have you given any more thought to our
last discussion?”

It took Kenneth a moment to realize to what he was referring.

Then he remembered. The last conversation he’d had with the king was after Kenneth’s
brother William, Earl of Sutherland, had announced his plans to marry their clan’s
healer, Muriel, rather than the king’s sister Christina when she was released from
English captivity. The king wanted an alliance with the Sutherlands, and now that
duty would fall to him, as William had named him his heir. Kenneth didn’t know the
details, but Muriel apparently was barren. At some point—he hoped many years from
now—the earldom would fall to Kenneth or his son.

But finding a wife hadn’t been foremost on his mind. It wasn’t that he didn’t want
one; it simply didn’t matter to him who he wed. As long as she was noble with the
right connections and could bear him a few sons, one woman was as good as another.
He supposed he’d prefer if the lass was attractive, as it would make the begetting
of those heirs easier, but he had enough experience to call on memories if he needed
a little help.

It wasn’t as if a wife would have any effect on his day-to-day life. He’d go on as
he had before. His sister and brother might feel differently, but Kenneth was not
moved by emotion. For men like him, marriage was a duty. He’d loved lots of women;
he didn’t need to love his wife.

“Aye,” he lied. “I have. Did you have someone in mind?”

Kenneth was expecting the king to put forth his sister Christina, as he had to his
brother Will. The former Countess of Mar was still being held in England, as was her
young son, the current Earl of Mar. Kenneth knew how important it was to Bruce to
unite all the Scottish earls under his banner, and the countess’s next husband might
help influence that decision.

But it was a different widowed countess that Bruce spoke of—Atholl. “I’m not sure
whether you are aware, but my former sister-in-law, Mary, is a part of Edward’s delegation.”
Suddenly, the bishop’s presence made a little more sense. He vaguely recalled seeing
Atholl’s wife once
years ago when he was still a squire with the Earl of Ross. She’d been quite pretty,
he thought, and much younger than her husband. He also knew she’d been kept a virtual
prisoner these past few years in England after her husband’s execution.

He nodded, and Bruce continued, “The lass is dear to me, she was still a child when
I married her sister, and I thought if she could be persuaded to remarry one of my
men …”

He didn’t need to say the rest. As with Christina Bruce, Mary of Mar had a young son
and earl in England. The right husband might be able to persuade her and her son to
join Bruce. Of course, there was one major obstacle. “I doubt Edward would approve
of the match.”

Bruce smiled wryly. “You’re right, with the way things stand now. But there are ways
we might be able to get around that. There is, however, a bigger problem.”

“What’s that?”

It was the bishop who answered. “The lass has no interest in remarrying.” He paused.
“She’s had a difficult time of it the past few years.”

Understandable, given the circumstances. He resisted the urge to rub his neck, thinking
of the traitor’s death that had befallen Atholl.

“Where does her allegiance lie?”

The king and the bishop exchanged looks, but it was Bruce who spoke. “To her son,
but beyond that I am not sure. She holds no love for the English king, but whether
she would convince her son to rebel against him and join us, I don’t know.” He smiled.
“My former sister-in-law is far more obstinate than I remembered—and far more politic
in her answers. I doubt anything will come of it. All I ask is that you meet her,
and see if you would suit. If not, I have other women for you to consider.”

They spent some time discussing a few of the other possibilities, but it was hard
for Kenneth to feign enthusiasm
when he had something else far more important on his mind. He finally had his opportunity
when the meeting dissolved.

“Sire, there is something I should like to discuss with you if you can spare a few
more minutes.”

The king nodded. Kenneth suspected he knew what it was about when Bruce dismissed
Campbell and the bishop but had MacLeod remain.

He could feel the fierce Island chief’s scrutiny, but addressed his words to Bruce.
“I want in. I want to be a part of your secret army.” He considered it a good sign
when neither man protested with a “what secret army?” He continued, “I think I’ve
proved my loyalty to you these past few months.”

Kenneth had been part of the king’s retinue on his royal progress across the Highlands.
He’d helped save the king’s life a couple of weeks ago when his brother’s henchman
and a secret killing team of Saracen-style “assassins” had made attempts on it.

“You have,” the king agreed.

He shouldn’t have to prove himself, damn it. “If you doubt my battle skills, I will
cross swords with any man—”

MacLeod arched his brow in challenge, but it was the king who interrupted. “Your skills
are not at issue.”

“I am not as adept as Gordon was with the black powder, but I have some knowledge.”