Hearts of Highland Fire

Chapter 5

5

James lifted his mug of ale and took a healthy swallow, letting the cool liquid slip down his throat. Normally ale was warm, but somehow their host had found a way to cool the ale and make it taste far better than normal.

Not that it mattered to many. All around him there was ribald laughter, with some of the clans banding together to share in the free-flowing ale. Since the gathering was on neutral ground, there was less fear of being gutted in one’s sleep and more worry about one’s aching head in the morning.

In fact, his father and Irvine were amongst the revelers, though there was no thought to joining the Wallace clan on the far side of the pasture. No, the two clans would come together at first light to start discussing a truce, something that James was expected to be in attendance.

He just hoped it was before the games began. He had made no mention of his pledge to the games on behalf of his clan, knowing that there was likely a warrior or two that had signed up as well. Matteau had informed him that some of the men had been discussing the very thought earlier.

There were no rules to clans entering more than one Scot in the games, as long as they were prepared to fight against their own kin. The games, according to the discussion that James had overheard, were limited to fifty Scots and no more than three per clan.

It was going to be a great surprise when the participants were announced in the morning, and James knew that he and his father was not going to be pleased that he had signed up.

Shaking his head, James placed his mug on the ground and stood, stretching his tired body. He didn’t care what his father thought or anyone else, for that matter. He had been sheltered far too much in his lifetime, all because he had been the only bairn destined for something he had no intentions of following through with. If he could win the gathering games, his father would have no choice but to consider James’s wishes.

That and the warriors would have no reason to ruin his very existence any longer.

“James?”

James turned to see Matteau standing a few feet away, a mug in his hand as well. His closest friend was wearing his warrior tartan, draped over one shoulder and clasped with the pin that marked him as part of the laird’s fiercest warriors.

“I didnae expect tae see ye this night,” James chuckled as his friend joined him.

Matteau arched a brow. “Why is that?”

James motioned to the gathering that was occurring only a few feet away, the bonfires blazing high into the night sky.

“I figured ye would be in the arms of some lass that thinks yer getup there is fierce.”

Matteau leaned his head back and barked with laughter. “Aye, that is the plan later, mah friend. Later.”

Smirking, James let his eyes drift over the numerous clan members before them, feeling a bit wistful that he couldn’t say the same.

“Did ye do it?” Matteau asked after a moment.

“Aye.”

“Yer da is going tae murder ye in yer sleep when he finds out.”

“Aye,” James answered, resigned to that very fact.

His father could do a number of things, such as order him back to the clan or appeal to Irvine to stop James. He could embarrass his own son greatly, but James didn’t feel like that was going to be the case. Irvine, no matter how loyal he was to their family, would understand why James had felt the need to do so, and he could only hope that the laird would be able to talk some sense into his oldest friend.

Matteau swore, clapping his hand on James’s shoulder. “Well, I guess wot is done is done. I just hope that ye are prepared, mah friend. It will be vastly different than ye fighting me every day.”

James’s mouth set in a line. “I know. I’m not some sort of invalid who cannae fight on his own.”

“Calm yerself,” Matteau warned in a low voice, pushing his mug in James’s direction. “I didnae say that at all. Ye know I think ye can handle yerself in those games. Dinnae put words intae mah mouth.”

“I apologize,” James said gruffly, letting some of his anger bleed out of his body. “I know. I’m just fed up with it all.”

Matteau removed his hand from James’s shoulder. “Aye, I know. Ye need tae show them that ye are more, James, if that is wot ye feel will help.”

James felt like it was the only course of action. He couldn’t fault his family for what they had done in planning his future, but it wasn’t his future. He wanted more. He craved more from his life than to spend it beside the laird, advising him on matters like a lack of grain.

He wanted to be a hero to his clan, to ride with his head held high and hear the murmurs of approval as he passed by. Even Matteau couldn’t understand what James dealt with daily. The jest on their journey was just a small piece of what he had put up with in his lifetime.

“Come with me,” Matteau was saying as James was lost in his own thoughts. “Come and drink with the rest of yer clan taenight! Taemorrow will come soon enough.”

James shook his head. “Nay, I dinnae think I will.”

He didn’t want to look into the faces of the Scots from earlier and see the pity in their eyes at what they thought was a weak Scot. He was far from weak.

That and James didn’t think that Irvine would take too kindly to him challenging his warriors—members of his own clan—during the gathering.

Matteau arched a brow. “Will ye be alright then?”

“Go on,” he told his friend, giving him a small grin. “I wish for a clear head when the sun rises.”

The warrior seemed to believe him, and after a nod, Matteau disappeared into the crowd of Scots, leaving James to watch his retreat.

After another mug of ale, James decided to wander around the camps, keeping to the shadows so he wouldn’t be noticed. There were all sizes of tents in the pasture, from the most elaborate one that had the comforts of a keep to smaller ones that held a warrior or two and nothing else. There were far more tartans flapping in the evening breeze than James could recognize, and he wondered if there were more clans than had been expected to come.

Everyone liked a reason to gather and drink, after all.

Stepping over a passed-out Scot in the path before him, James wandered over to the sparring ring that had been erected, a wry smile on his lips as he watched two Scots go at it, barely sober enough to remain on their own two feet. The crowd that was gathered was jeering at them, and it was only the fates of the gods that neither had a sword in their hands lest they accidentally kill each other.

James stood there and watched the scene before him, laughing as one took a swing at the other and fell face-first on his face. His clan members were at his side in an instant, laughing as they helped him back to his feet and thrust a mug of ale in his hands.

It wasn’t a fight at all.

James moved past the crowd, walking along the path until he saw a familiar face ahead of him.

It was the lass from earlier, the very one who had signed up to fight in the games herself.

His steps slowed, his throat suddenly dry. She wasn’t one of the lasses he had seen in the keep before but reminded him more of a lass who could handle herself. She had not backed down from his jests earlier, instead challenging him in the midst of a crowd. As she had walked away, James had found himself more than intrigued to find her again.

He had never encountered another like her.

Not only that, but she was a bonny lass, from her red curls that brushed her shoulders to the way her clothing was draped about her form, giving him a healthy view of her curves underneath. She wore no tartan like most of the others around her, and when she lifted her mug to her lips, James ceased to breathe, feeling as if a horse had kicked him square in the chest.

Bloody hell, he wanted to know her name.

His sight was suddenly obscured by a pair of drunken louts and he pushed them aside, disappointed to see that the lass had moved from her position.

No, he wasn’t going to wait until tomorrow to learn her name!

Releasing a low curse, he stalked forward, deeper into the shadows of the tents and further away from the ruckus near the bonfires. She couldn’t have gotten far unless she had dipped into one of the tents, which meant his cause would be lost for the evening. While James knew he would see her at the games in the morning, he didn’t want their next encounter to be while she held a sword in her hands.

Never before had a lass intrigued him so.

James skirted around a tent before he finally spied her up ahead, still alone with a mug in her hand. Why did he feel suddenly nervous about approaching her? She couldn’t possibly know who he was or his past, but the thought of her turning her nose up at him didn’t sit right.

Right now, she would only know him as a participant in the games. That was all she needed to know.

As he approached her, he saw three men materialize out of the shadows, carrying their own mugs as they crowded the lass.

“Wot do we have here?” one of them laughed, his eyes raking over her body and setting James’s anger alive.

“Looks like a lass!” another called out. “Look at that hair! Wot’s yer name, lass?”

“None of yer business!” she shouted back. “Leave me alone if ye wish tae keep those hands of yers.”

James withdrew the sword from its scabbard as he approached, attempting to choose which one he would strike first.

The Scots laughed, and he saw the lass reach for her own sword, holding it aloft.

“Come now, lass,” one of them drawled as James reached the final shadowed spot before he would reveal himself. “We dinnae mean any harm. We can give ye a real good time if ye come with us.”

The lass’s lip curled in disgust as she watched the Scot grab the front of his breeks.

“The only thing ye are going tae give me is the pox.”

His companions laughed, and James had to chuckle himself at the witty comeback, but the Scot’s face mottled with anger, clearly not entertaining the jest like the others.

“I’m gonna give ye a reason tae open that mouth of yers,” he sneered, pulling his own sword. “And soon ye will be begging for me, lass.”

She gave him a dark smile, beckoning him forward and causing James to step out of his position, his sword held before him.

“Come on then,” she said, not seeing James. “Try yer best.”

By the gods, the lass had a death wish! James let out a roar as he charged forward, hoping to get in front of her before the first sword was able to fall.

He couldn’t fail to protect her from these louts!