The Highlander's Lady Knight

by Madeline Martin

  7

  Isolde’s trepidation about her upcoming battle with Brodie did not diminish through the night. In fact, it increased from a tumble of thoughts to a tumultuous storm of worry.

  She was awake long before the gentle creaks and murmurs of the servants moving about began. Her stomach roiled with unease, and her head ached with the discomfort of a sleepless night.

  Matilda drew open the bed curtain and peeked in at her. “My lady, ’tis time.”

  Isolde removed herself from the bed and allowed Matilda to gently wash her face and comb her hair before preparing her for the fight. It did not escape Isolde’s notice that Matilda’s brows were drawn together as though she were in physical pain.

  “Are you certain you must do this, my lady?” Tears shone in the maid’s eyes.

  Isolde notched her chin upward with determination. “I am certain I have no other choice and that I have been well-trained for this moment.” Mayhap her bravado in front of Matilda might pass off onto her own awareness.

  Isolde could use all the confidence she could muster.

  Matilda did not protest Isolde’s decision again as she dressed her mistress in Gilbert’s armor. Though the padding beneath the chainmail had been set in cedarwood to help remove the rank of stale sweat, the mustiness still rose over the metallic odor of chainmail. And beneath it all was the coppery tinge of her own fear.

  She settled the helm into place and gave herself a moment to adjust to the limited visibility while Matilda belted the sword to her side.

  At last, Isolde was prepared for battle.

  Upon arrival to the practice field, any concerns she might have harbored over being unable to locate Brodie dissolved. He had arrived before her and waited impatiently for her to show. He was not the only one. A small band of men gathered around the area in anticipation. Among them were Sutherland and the slender mercenary who had come to their aid after the joust the prior day.

  Pip caught sight of her and ran at her with such speed that it pulled his pink tongue from the corner of his mouth. His broad front paws hefted into the air and landed on her thighs, practically knocking her to the ground with the impact. Wouldn’t that look fine? To be felled by a mid-sized dog before Brodie could even land a single blow.

  She scratched the spot behind his ears and whispered a command for him to return to Alan, one she’d heard Cormac say often. The hound did as he was bade, but with great hesitation and apparent regret.

  Sutherland caught sight of her and met her halfway. “Let me fight in yer stead, my lord.”

  “Nay, Sutherland,” Isolde said brusquely in Gilbert’s petulant tone. “This is my man to take down and so help me God, I shall do it with my own blade.”

  “He’s far stronger than ye.” Sutherland’s voice took on a warning tone that slithered a trail of ice down Isolde’s spine.

  “He’s nothing I cannot handle,” she replied. “What concern is it of yours?”

  “I’ve come to know yer sister,” Sutherland said in a low voice. “She’s a good woman who has been taken advantage of. A fact that doesna sit well with me.”

  “Nor I,” Isolde replied. “And so, I shall address this now, as the man I am.”

  Sutherland put his hand to Isolde’s chest to stop her. It was all she could do to keep from drawing back as though she’d been struck. Her breasts were strapped down, aye, but would he feel the swells of her bound bosom through the layers of batting and chain and linen? Tingles raced over the area he’d touched, intimate despite her inability to feel anything more than the slight pressure of his hand.

  “Ye’re far more dexterous than Brodie,” Sutherland said, oblivious to the reaction coursing through her like fire. “He’ll be moving slow given his size. Use that to yer advantage.”

  Isolde nodded her thanks and brushed past him to the center of a small circle of men where Brodie awaited her. The Highlander snarled at her in greeting and did not even wait for her to prepare before plunking his helm upon his head and charging. She dodged the first blow of his sword, but was not so lucky with the punch that followed.

  His metal fist slammed into her side with the force of a hammer. The breath gusted from her lungs, and she nearly collapsed. The only thing keeping her upright after such a strike was the very real possibility she might never get up if she fell.

  She swung her sword, but it glanced off his shoulder. No doubt, the scant power behind her own weapon was not nearly as impactful as his. He roared his irritation at the blow. The back of his hand crashed into her helm, knocking it sideways and sending her whole world plunging into darkness, with a shrill ringing in her ears.

  Her breath panted in great heaving gasps.

  Your helm.

  She calmed her frenzied thoughts and righted her helmet. Once more, Brodie came into view. He lumbered toward her and drove his sword down with two hands. She managed to evade the blow. The grass where she’d been split against the sharp weight of his blade, revealing a wound in the dark soil beneath.

  While he was still hefting his weapon to reclaim it from the earth, Isolde fell back on the advice Sutherland had so generously imparted. She was dexterous. Faster than most men. She rushed behind Brodie, curled a leg around his feet, and shoved with all her strength. He pitched backward like a falling tree, arms flailing.

  Isolde wasted no time—she climbed atop him and shoved off his helm. Before she could settle her blade to his throat, he withdrew a rod from the belt at his waist and whipped it at her wrist.

  Pain exploded into a thousand white-hot stars before her eyes. This time, she did freeze, made immobile by the brilliance of the agony. Brodie grabbed her and flipped her onto her back. Her helm rocked back against the ground, rattling in her ears.

  The slit of her vision faced up to a cloudy gray sky, rendering her blind to her opponent. His weight pushed down on her like a crushing millstone. She gasped, but her chest struggled to fill with air against the press of his body. Her right hand buzzed with pain and clenched around nothing.

  She had lost her sword.

  The helm tilted as though being pried from her face.

  She would be found out.

  A rush of energy surged through her, exploding with a power of which she had not thought herself capable. Nearly blind from her limited visibility, she arched her hips up, throwing him off her. In a single move, she leapt atop him, whipped out her dagger with her left hand and held it to his throat.

  “Concede,” she gasped in whatever imitation of Gilbert’s voice she could muster from her rasping throat.

  “Aye,” Brodie snarled. “I concede.”

  She pushed off of him and strumbled backward. Only then did she adjust her helm to bring the narrow line of her vision correctly over her eyes. Brodie lumbered to his feet, his face dark with rage.

  She had won.

  The realization dawned on her like a beam of sunshine.

  She had won.

  Her freedom.

  Her honor.

  She—a woman, valued as little more than chattel to those who would trade her like property—had defeated a Scottish warrior. When no man would stand up for her, she had defended her own honor.

  And she had won.

  Brodie stalked toward her, his breath coming out in growling huffs. “Ye dinna win that easily, my lord.” He said the last two words with a sneer of condemnation.

  He ripped the gauntlet off one hairy hand and threw it at her feet. She bent over to see it through her helm. There it lay, glittering metal in the muted sunlight against the battered grass. A counterchallenge.

  A ball of frustration tightened in her throat.

  Tears welled in her eyes beneath the protective barrier of her helm.

  Nay. It was too unfair. She had won. She had won.

  She swallowed, incapable of summoning any kind of reply.

  “This time, I’m challenging yer honor and yer inability to comply with our arrangement,” Brodie said in a low, menacing tone. “But I willna fight ye myself. Prepa
re to battle my da’s best champion.”

  Isolde didn’t know who his champion was, but she knew well that tone. She’d heard it before when he’d pinned her against the wall and pushed up her skirts. She’d heard it again outside the stands at the start of the joust. And now it sent a shiver of panic skittering down her spine.

  “Yer sister will be mine, ye shite.” Brodie shoved past her, leaving his gauntlet behind, lying lifeless in the grass like an omen.

  Her body was battered from the battle, but it hadn’t mattered. None of it did.

  Brodie would find a way to win. And once more, she was a helpless victim to the ways of men.

  No one in the surrounding band of people moved after Brodie’s departure. The battle had been brutal. At one point, Cormac was certain the Earl of Easton had lost.

  Judging by the sag of the smaller man’s shoulders, he still considered his victory a loss regardless. And indeed, it was.

  Pip shifted from one paw to the other, where he stood anxiously between Alan and Cormac.

  “What’s wrong with yer dog?” Cormac demanded.

  Alan frowned down at his pet. “I’ve never seen him like this.”

  Lord Easton turned from the practice field toward the castle, his back straight despite cradling his arm.

  Pip whimpered and strode forward several steps.

  “Pip, stay,” Alan demanded.

  The dog didn’t listen. He broke into a run toward Lord Easton and nudged the earl’s leg with his nose. His sharp whines carried on the breeze back toward them.

  Alan cast a confused glance at Cormac. “I don’t understand…”

  But Cormac did. The only time Pip reacted with such excitement to anyone other than Alan was with Lady Isolde. Regarding the fair lady herself, it had not escaped Cormac’s notice that she had not been in attendance for Lord Easton’s fight.

  If one’s brother would stand against a great foe in defense of his sister’s honor, it was a great disservice for her not to have even shown to display her support.

  “Did ye ever notice Lady Isolde and the Earl of Easton are never in the same location at the same time?” Cormac muttered to Alan.

  The mercenary’s forehead puckered, and his jaw unhinged with shock. “You’re right.” He shook his head. “But it can’t be. Either Lord Easton is a lovely man with a pair of very convincing duckies.” He turned his gaze to where Lord Easton slowly strode away with Pip following at his side. “Or Lady Isolde—” He shook his head harder with obvious disbelief. “It can’t be, sir. Ladies don’t fight. Especially not like that. I thought Lord Easton was going to tear Brodie’s head from his body.”

  Cormac ran his hands over the edge of his jaw, scrubbing the prickling whiskers. Alan was correct. It was highly unlikely. And yet…

  He strode off after the earl. “Ye fought well, my lord.”

  “Not well enough.” There was a tremble to the arrogant tone.

  Was the voice feminine beneath the air of pretension?

  “I can fight for ye.” It was foolish of Cormac to offer, but he couldn’t help himself. Especially if Lord Easton truly was Lady Isolde.

  Everyone knew Brodie’s champion, Edmund the Braw, was a beast of a man. Cormac could very well die.

  Lord Easton most assuredly would.

  A sniffle came from inside Lord Easton’s helm. Cormac found it strange that the man wore it even out of combat. Come to think of it, Cormac had never seen the earl’s face, and his suspicions re-emerged with force.

  Lord Easton slowed. “’Tis a generous offer, Sutherland, but I fear this is a battle I must fight. I would gladly accept your council, however, should you be kind enough to offer it.”

  “Aye, I’ll do anything I can to help.” Cormac considered the smaller man and wondered again if it was Lady Isolde’s slender body encased in chainmail and padding. If so, had she bound her breasts beneath?

  He recalled how they’d been full and firm in her gown at the feast.

  He also realized he was staring at the earl’s chest in an attempt to make out any swells of feminine flesh. His cheeks heated, and he snapped his fingers at the dog. “Pip, leave the earl be.”

  Pip’s tail dipped between his legs, and he issued another soft whine before trotting off to return to Alan.

  “If you’ll excuse me,” the earl muttered.

  “Of course.” Cormac stopped abruptly to give the earl his space and watched as the Englishman slowly walked away with a decidedly unfeminine gait.

  As the day went on, Cormac searched for Lady Isolde as well as Lord Easton. Despite his efforts and those of his men, neither were to be found.

  That evening at the feast, Cormac half-expected Lady Isolde to have taken her meal in her rooms and was surprised to find her sitting in her usual spot at the high table. This time, she wore a silk kirtle as pale blue as her eyes with her auburn hair coiled into a silver caul. Candlelight cast golden shadows over her creamy skin and teased at the hollows of her collarbones and throat.

  However, Lady Isolde was not the only person to catch his notice.

  Brodie wove through the stream of people, his focus set on her. Cormac was closer and quickened his pace to ensure he arrived before his rival. In the end, it was Pip who beat them all and immediately fell to his place at her feet.

  “May I join ye, Lady Isolde?” Cormac asked.

  She glanced up at him and nodded, “Aye.”

  “I hope yer brother fares well after the fight this morn,” Cormac offered.

  Lady Isolde nodded but did not say anything. A pained expression touched her eyes, and she swallowed hard.

  “And how do ye fare?” He asked.

  She cast her eyes demurely to her lap. “I am quite well. Thank you.”

  “My lady,” Cormac lowered his voice to speak privately to her. “Please know you can speak to me with honesty.”

  She lifted her head, meeting his gaze, and sighed heavily. “If I’m being entirely honest, I’m vexed.”

  “I imagine most would be in yer position.” Cormac cut a slice of meat from the shank of venison laid before them and placed it on Isolde’s pewter plate.

  She pressed her lips together.

  He’d said the wrong thing again. Irritation for his own blundering tightened along his back.

  “I have to wonder if you are where you want to be.” She lifted her head and gave him a brazen stare.

  “Do ye think I’m no’?” he asked.

  “I saw you earlier before the feast began.” Color blossomed in her cheeks and she slid her gaze from his, but not before he caught the brilliance of hurt in the pale blue depths.

  “I only just arrived,” he replied.

  She nodded, evidently not believing him, and nudged the venison on her plate with her eating dagger.

  Her behavior was…odd.

  “I wasn’t aware you were acquainted with Lady Clara,” she said abruptly.

  Lady Clara? Cormac searched his mind for the name when understanding dawned on him. “I think I understand now.”

  She sank the point of her eating dagger into the meat, so it stood upright and looked at him.

  “My brother, Graham,” Cormac explained. “My twin brother, Graham. He holds an affinity for the lass.”

  “Your twin?” she repeated slowly.

  He nodded. “I’m older, which is why I’m chieftain. But we look the same. We drove our mum nearly mad when we were boys as we were always switching our names to confuse her.” He chuckled at the memory.

  All at once, the tension relaxed somewhat from her shoulders, and a tight smile touched her lips. “Forgive me, I…” She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter.”

  Cormac’s own stress eased somewhat. If she’d seen Graham and Lady Clara and had assumed Graham was Cormac, did her reaction mean she was jealous?

  He practically grinned at the thought. “I apologize if ye mixed us up,” Cormac replied. “It wouldna be the first time. I thought ye were upset over the counter-challenge.”

 
Her expression hardened, and she took a sip of wine from a goblet that appeared nearly empty. “Have you heard of Brodie’s champion?”

  Cormac filled his own plate and reached for a roll. It had long since gone cold and would probably be hard as a stone by now. Tournaments often had such problems with their food. Too many people to serve, and too much food left out to cool while waiting to be delivered to the proper table. At least the meat was hot.

  He put a bite in his mouth and chewed the tender morsel slowly as he considered how to answer Isolde’s question. Edmund the Braw was a man whose head rose over all others and whose arms were thick as tree trunks. Defeating him would be difficult for any warrior, even Cormac. But especially for the Earl of Easton.

  Especially for a lady if Lady Isolde was indeed masquerading as a man. Cormac regarded her, and his chest drew tight.

  “He is powerful,” Cormac said eventually.

  “I see.” Lady Isolde’s lips pinched into a narrow line. She reached for some bread, and the draped blue silk sleeve of her gown caught at the table’s edge and drew back over her wrist to reveal her forearm. A vivid, purple-black bruise showed like ink on her fair skin.

  She quickly covered it, and Cormac pretended to have been too fixed on his meal to have noticed.

  But he had seen it.

  And now he knew with certainty.

  The Earl of Easton had not defeated Brodie that morn. The victor had been Lady Isolde. Which meant it was she who would go up against Edmund the Braw. And she who would die.

  Unless Cormac could convince her to let him fight in her stead.

  8

  Isolde should not have attended the feast. Her body ached with every breath, and her chest throbbed with every blazing beat of her heart.

  However, she needed to maintain appearances. It would not do to have her miss a feast simply because Gilbert had been counter-challenged after his win. Or at least, that was what she told herself.

  She knew the truth. And judging by the little smile Matilda had given as she brushed Isolde’s hair to a brilliant shine, she knew it too.