The Recruit (Highland Guard #6)(42)

The sun beat down on him as he jerked the helm off his head and stormed out of the arena, barely acknowledging the cheers of the crowd. For a man one win away from being declared champion and fulfilling his bargain with MacKay, thereby earning a place in Bruce’s secret army, he sure as hell wasn’t enjoying himself. All he could think about was the earlier exchange he’d had with Lady Mary. Mary of Mar, damn it to hell.

His blood still surged and his pulse still spiked just thinking about it. In fact, he was spending more time thinking about her than he was about his opponents. He knew he’d been lucky so far. None of the men he’d faced had given him much of a battle. But he needed to get himself under control for the final challenge.

He’d retired to the barracks between rounds to rest and have Helen rewrap his ribs, but his squire, Willy, had told him a new contestant had entered the ring and was creating quite a stir. It was probably just the mystery. The man had refused to give his identity. Nothing like a mystery to rile the crowd’s excitement. Hell, had he thought of it, Kenneth might have done it himself.

But Willy said the warrior was a skilled competitor, and nearly as strong as Robbie Boyd. Kenneth knew it had to be an exaggeration—he would have heard of such a man before.

He wasn’t worried, but he thought he’d see for himself.

He sat on a bench just on the other side of the gate reserved for the competitors and allowed Willy to wipe the blood and sweat from his brow and fetch him some ale thinned with water as he waited for the next competitors to take the field.

If anything stung more than his pride right now, it was the throbbing in his side. But his ribs were holding up well enough, and the pain wasn’t anything he couldn’t manage. He’d protected his side without being obvious, not wanting to give his opponents a target. Fortunately, the thin shirt and cotun the contestants wore as armor hid the bindings. Often the wrestling event was conducted naked to the chest, but Bruce followed the more modern, “civilized” approach of light armor. Usually, Kenneth found it an impediment, but right now he was grateful for it.

His eyes kept straying to the king’s platform, although he knew she wouldn’t be there. Had she gone already, he wondered? It was embarrassing how tempted he was to go after her and stop her. Though why and how, he didn’t know. She’d already made her feelings clear. Damned clear.

She’d refused him. He still couldn’t believe it.

His mouth tightened and his temper boiled anew. She’d used him. If it weren’t so bloody humiliating, it would be almost humorous. He conveniently ignored the fact that he was the one that had given her the opportunity, and had started this whole mess, by taunting her in the stable.

What was important was that she’d tricked him. Used him, even though she’d known full well that the king wished for an alliance between them. She’d suspected that he wouldn’t have taken her to his bed if he knew her identity and had purposefully kept the truth from him to take her pleasure.

Why was it bothering him so much? It wasn’t anything that hadn’t happened before. He knew there were other women who’d wanted no more from him than she did—a good tumble—but damn it, hearing it from her had been different.

Because it wasn’t what he wanted from her. That was the problem. He was angry at himself because he’d felt something, and she hadn’t.

He didn’t know why, but for the first time in his life he’d felt what could only be described as tenderness for a woman, and his tentative attempts to show it had been rebuffed. He’d told himself the little things he’d noticed when they were making love had been his imagination. The turning from his gaze. The request for him to take off his shirt. Wanting him to go faster.

But it hadn’t been his imagination, damn it.

He took another swig of ale and tried to calm the pounding in his blood. The sense of restless energy. The urge to slam his fist over and over again into a wall.

He needed to calm down, to get himself under control and forget about it. Hell, he should be thanking her. He had enough strife in his life; he didn’t need it from a woman.

He glanced over to the castle, but the yard was still deserted. Had he missed her, then?

Suddenly, a hush fell over the crowd.

“There he is, my lord,” Willy whispered.

Kenneth’s eyes narrowed on the man entering the arena. He wore a steel helm that covered his face, but even on first glance, Kenneth could see that Willy was right. He was nearly as big and strong-looking as—

Bloody hell.

The blood slid from his face for one frozen moment in time before surging hotter and harder than before. His mouth fell in a flat line and his fists clenched into balls of steel at his side.

Kenneth recognized the man even if the crowd didn’t. Magnus MacKay, the bloody bastard! Apparently, there was nothing he wouldn’t do to see that Kenneth didn’t win. Even take to the field against what Kenneth suspected were the direct orders of the king.

Kenneth watched in icy fury as MacKay played to the crowd, whipping them into a frenzy. MacKay could have defeated the last opponent between him and the final round in a matter of minutes, but drew out the battle with the skill of a born showman. Yet it was more than that, and Kenneth knew it. MacKay was good. One of the best he’d ever seen. But Kenneth was better. And he was going to do what he’d been doing since the day he was born: prove it.