The Recruit (Highland Guard #6)(44)

He lost control, and with it, the battle. MacKay took full advantage of his anger, lulling him into a false sense of victory before snatching it back at the last minute. MacKay feigned submission, bending over and letting Kenneth pound on him until he was exhausted. Then he rose from the apparent dead and attacked, striking blows against Kenneth’s weak side until he collapsed on the ground.

He must have passed out. Either that or he was deaf to the cheers of the crowd, because he never heard the call for MacKay’s victory.

He’d lost. Lost!

He stayed on the ground, not wanting or having the strength to get up.

MacKay stood over him, looking down on him with that superior smirk of his. “Your temper, Sutherland. It will get you every time. Until you can learn to control it, you’ll never be one of the best.”

The worst part was that he was right. Kenneth had let his temper get to him. Had let her get to him.

He picked himself off the ground and struggled to his feet, as he’d done many times before. Too many times. The knowledge burned in his gut. He’d been so close …

But this wasn’t over. He wasn’t going to give up. He’d find a way into Bruce’s army, if it killed him.

And heaven help Mary of Mar if their paths ever crossed again. He would teach the wanton little siren in nun’s clothing a lesson she would never forget.

Nine

Mid-January 1310

Black Cuillin Mountains, Isle of Skye

Kenneth was going to be the last man standing if it killed him. And it seemed the others were determined to do just that. Perdition? That was putting it mildly. He’d rather spend an eternity of punishment in the fiery pits of hell than another two weeks of Tor MacLeod’s “training” in the wintry bowels of the Cuillin mountain range.

They’d been climbing up the icy, desolate mountainside for hours at a pace that might as well be called a run. He couldn’t ever remember being this cold and tired. Every muscle, every bone in his body hurt—even his teeth. Although that was probably because he’d been grinding them so hard trying to keep a rein on his temper. Sangfroid! It was so damned cold he should have ice in his veins, let alone “cold blood.”

But unfortunately, his blood was still running hot. It wasn’t just MacKay testing him now; he had ten of the fiercest, most highly prized warriors in Christendom doing everything they could to get to him. To make him quit. But no matter how unpleasant or harassing the task, how difficult the ordeal, or how many irritating names they called him, he was determined to grit his teeth and bear it. He’d been given one more chance, and nothing was going to stop him from earning a place in Bruce’s secret army.

Of the handful of potential recruits who’d started with him over three months ago, only two remained in the war of attrition that was MacLeod’s training. One had quit the first week; the other two had lasted the first few months of training, only to fall in the first few days of Perdition once training had resumed after an all-too-short break for Christmastide, the twelve days from Christmas Eve to Epiphany.

Apparently MacLeod was human after all; he’d wanted to spend the holidays with his expectant wife and young daughter. Otherwise it was sometimes hard to tell. Over the past few months of training, MacLeod had pushed Kenneth and the other recruits to the edge of their physical and emotional limits. Kenneth might have come to despise him if “Chief,” as he was known among the men (to protect their identities, the members of the secret army used war names), hadn’t done every task he’d asked of them right beside them—usually better than all of them. Even now, when most of the men appeared ready to collapse, Chief barely seemed winded. Kenneth respected the hell out of him.

MacLeod’s endurance nearly matched MacKay’s. After living side-by-side for nearly three months, MacKay, too, had Kenneth’s grudging respect. The skills that had brought each team member to Bruce’s attention had become apparent, and his brother-in-law’s (the wedding had gone on, although Helen had been nearly as furious as Bruce, which had resulted in Kenneth being given another chance) ability to navigate the Highlands, his physical endurance, and his toughness were extraordinary. It was MacKay’s place as the best all-around warrior on the team that Kenneth intended to challenge.

His efforts to perfect the recipe for black powder had not progressed much beyond unstable, inconsistent, and dangerous. He could manage to put together something that would cause damage, but he was hardly at the level Gordon had been. Unfortunately, his friend hadn’t thought to leave any notes behind.

Finally, MacLeod called a halt to the march. “We’ll stop here for the night.”

Kenneth wasn’t the only one to heave a sigh of relief. He shrugged off the heavy pack he wore strapped to his back—the terrain was too steep and rocky for goats or deer, let alone horses—and collapsed on the nearest rock. A quick glance at the other weather-beaten faces, mostly hidden by various forms of wool and fur, told him the rest of the men were doing the same.

Even Erik MacSorley, known as Hawk, was quiet—a rarity, indeed. Some of the men were still a mystery to him, but Hawk wasn’t one of them. The gregarious, quick-with-a-jest seafarer could always be counted on to lighten the mood. He was an easy man to like. Much like Gordon, he thought sadly.

Kenneth bent over, leaning his forearms on his thighs and willing his body to recover. If he’d learned anything in the past few months, it was that when he was at his weakest point—when he most needed a rest—he was sure not to get it.