The Recruit (Highland Guard #6)(22)

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.