The Recruit (Highland Guard #6)(12)

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 cle**age all but shouted “take me.”

He smiled. Though she was certainly pretty enough, and those soft, round br**sts 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 br**sts 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.