The Recruit (19 page)

And he was close, damn it. He could feel it. One mistake, that was all he needed.
One little opening and he’d have him.

“The ribs are fine,” he managed, his breath just as short as MacKay’s. “How’s your
jaw?” Kenneth feigned with his right and landed another satisfying uppercut with his
left to MacKay’s jaw. “Helen isn’t going to be too happy if it’s broken for your wedding.”

Something flashed in the other man’s eyes.

Guilt? Kenneth shook his head. “She doesn’t know about this, does she?” He laughed.
“Maybe there won’t be a wedding to worry about.”

MacKay swore and launched himself at Kenneth, pummeling and swinging with a violent
ferocity that took every ounce of his skill to defend against.

MacKay had to tire eventually. Kenneth just had to be patient awhile longer.

Finally, they broke apart, both bending over heaving great gulps of air as they fought
to breathe.

Unconsciously, Kenneth glanced toward the castle and stiffened. A handful of guardsmen
were gathered in the yard, and a small figure had just emerged from the donjon and
was making her way down the tower stairs.

He looked away quickly, but it hadn’t been quick enough. He’d made a mistake. MacKay
had caught the movement and recognized what was happening. “If you want to go after
her, I’ll wait,” he taunted.

Kenneth bit out something foul, telling him he could go do something that was physically
impossible.

“Hit a nerve, did I?” MacKay added. “Don’t tell me you actually
wanted
to marry the lass.”

Kenneth felt his blood spike but tamped it down.
Stay cool
. But his fists clenched at his sides with the urge to retaliate. It wasn’t in his
nature not to fight back—or to be patient, for that matter.

MacKay let out a low whistle. “I never thought I’d see the day. I guess the lady wasn’t
impressed?”

“Shut the hell up, MacKay.”

“Or what?”

Kenneth held himself still, refusing to be baited. But the urge to wipe that taunting
grin off the face behind the helm was nearly overpowering.

“Or maybe that was all she wanted? Is that it, Sutherland? Tell me, do you get paid
a fee like a prized steed? Aye, a stud fee.” He laughed.

That was it. The last thread Kenneth held on his temper snapped. He lunged toward
MacKay, not thinking about anything other than shutting him up.

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
 

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.

He had all of five minutes to recover before MacKay proved his point. Kenneth didn’t
need to glance up—the large, looming presence had become instantly recognizable. A
bit like the shadow of the grim reaper.

“Rest time is over, Recruit. You’re on watch tonight,” MacKay said. “Unless you’re
too tired?”

Admitting that would give the whoreson too much bloody satisfaction. Kenneth clenched
his jaw and used what little strength he had left to drag himself to his feet. “Not
to do my duty.”

Kenneth couldn’t bring himself to use MacKay’s war name of “Saint.” The appellation
couldn’t be farther from the truth. “Satan’s spawn” suited him much better. Kenneth’s
longtime nemesis might have been forced by Bruce and
Helen to let Kenneth join the men who would battle for a position on the team, but
that didn’t mean he had to like it—or that he would make Kenneth’s path an easy one.

But as much as Kenneth would like to claim otherwise, MacKay didn’t single him out
for extra torture. Nay, the torture was spread around evenly and thickly. Even when
he was a squire he hadn’t been forced to do so many menial tasks. He’d never dug so
many cesspits, fetched so much wood or peat for a fire, cleaned armor until his fingers
were raw, and even washed soiled linens. Yet ironically, the tasks that he looked
down upon as beneath him a few months ago had become his moments of peace and relative
relaxation.

“Good,” MacKay replied. “You, too, Recruit,” he addressed the only other man unfortunate
enough to still be around to answer to that name. Kenneth had come not to mind it.
It was a hell of a lot better than some of the other names they called him.

The first time Hawk had seen him taking a piss, he’d taken to calling him The Steed.
Kenneth was used to the jests about the size of his manhood, and normally he would
have shrugged it off, if Steed hadn’t transformed into Stud thanks to MacKay. Though
his brother by marriage hadn’t shared the origin of the name, the private jest was
enough to set his teeth on edge every time he heard it. It was also a constant reminder
of exactly who was to blame for his current predicament.

He was sure that was why he thought of her so often. Even more than four months later,
Lady Mary’s easy dismissal of him as a potential husband stung. His own reaction to
her, he tried not to think about. He was sure it hadn’t been nearly as incredible
as he remembered. Surely he’d had better, even if he couldn’t remember a specific
instance. He would prove it, just as soon as he finished his training. Profligate?
More like monk, of late.

But just because he chose to accept a few of the offers
thrown his way didn’t make him a profligate. He was glad she’d refused him. The last
thing he needed was a wife who didn’t understand a man’s needs. But why had it seemed
to bother her so much?

“You need to see to the evening meal,” MacKay was saying to the other recruit, “starting
with a fire. Then you can find us something to eat. I think we could all do with some
fresh meat tonight.”

Although he knew everything about him as a warrior, Kenneth knew little personal information
about his fellow recruit other than that he spoke and dressed as if he were from the
Isles. He was certainly large and fair enough to have some Viking blood in him. His
brother-in-hell was unable to stifle a groan. Kenneth didn’t blame him; finding something
to eat in these stark, frozen mountaintops was going to be a Herculean—if not Promethean—task.

Watch suddenly seemed like a pleasure jaunt by comparison. Kenneth pulled a few things
from his pack, and as he started away to take his position on the outskirt of camp,
he wondered at MacKay’s unusual generosity.

But the voice that was anything but saintlike stopped him. “Where do you think you’re
going, Recruit?” Kenneth turned around slowly, dread seeping through every inch of
his aching limbs. “You’ll watch from up there.”

Kenneth followed the direction of his hand to the peak of the mountain above them,
still a good two hundred feet up.
Straight
up. It wasn’t the distance as much as the steep, sheer facade that made dread settle
in his gut like a stone. To reach the place MacKay indicated, Kenneth was going to
have to scale the rocky peak with his hands and feet, a task that would be difficult
even were he well rested and able to feel his fingertips. Pulling his body up with
his already weary limbs was going to be next to impossible.

For the past few weeks, he’d swum until he thought his lungs would give out, been
pushed over varying terrains at a pace that would kill most men, fought with every
kind of
weapon imaginable, and had even been buried to his waist and had to defend himself
with just a shield as spears were tossed at his head by a circle of warriors. He hadn’t
balked at any of it, no matter how impossible it seemed. But this was too much.

The two men faced off in the near darkness. Though it was only a few hours past noon,
daylight was already slipping away. Kenneth could feel the scrutiny of the ten other
men as they waited in silence for his response, but none of them would intervene.
This contest was between MacKay and him alone.