The truth had everything to do with the man sitting at Isolde’s side. Sutherland.
That truth had been confirmed in the stab of jealousy she’d experienced when she’d thought she’d seen him with Lady Clara. In hindsight, she realized it couldn’t have been Sutherland. Not when the other man had such a cocky smile, and his gait had been more relaxed as he walked alongside Lady Clara.
Sutherland was far too rigid. Stoic.
She tugged down the sleeve of her dress, ensuring it covered her bruise. A quick glance confirmed he had not seen it on her arm. Thanks be to God. The last thing she needed in this complicated mess of events was for him to know she was playing the part of her brother as well as herself.
The serving girl refilled Isolde’s goblet with more wine. Already the numbing effects of the beverage heated through Isolde’s blood and eased the throb from the worst of her injuries.
She lifted the full chalice to her lips and drank deeply before addressing Sutherland. “How do you think my brother will fare against a man like Edmund the Braw?” She kept her attention fixed on Sutherland to gauge his reaction.
His jaw tensed, and his gaze flicked briefly away. Not a good sign. He shifted in his seat. “I must be honest with ye, my lady. Edmund the Braw is one of the largest men in Scotland. He’s verra powerful and skilled.”
The muscles along her back knotted at his wary tone. She gave a terse nod for him to continue.
“I believe if yer brother were to fight Edmund, he wouldna fare well.” Sutherland watched her carefully as he spoke.
She looked into his green eyes, drawing strength from the impenetrable man before her. It was one of the reasons she’d longed to see him. His confidence and the power he carried with such ease. She had need of it, of him.
She was struck once more with the desire to ease against his hard body, to lay her head to his chest and let his arms curl around her in an embrace. Had she ever had such protective comfort?
Not from her brother, nor their father. From her mother, aye. But her mother’s arms, though tender, had been frail and delicate. And there had been love, so much love that it caused an ache to form at the back of her throat.
Isolde wanted love of a different form now, and comfort. But she also wanted someone whose strength she could share. A man like Sutherland.
“I dinna mean to make ye cry.” He reached a hand toward her face as though he meant to brush away a tear and stopped abruptly.
The way he caught himself reminded her where they were: in the middle of a feast, surrounded by courtiers, with Brodie hovering somewhere in the near distance. Such stark realizations made her want to cry more. The entire effort of her ruse, the fight she had endured, the risk she had taken—all of it had been futile.
She hastily swiped the tear from her cheek.
“I know ye’re close with yer brother,” Sutherland said gently.
Isolde almost gave a sardonic bark of laughter. He had no idea exactly how close she and Gilbert had become at the tournament.
“Do ye think Lord Easton will change his mind and allow me to fight Edmund the Braw in his stead?” Sutherland asked.
She recalled Sutherland’s offer—one she’d declined out of bravado. Now though, she took his suggestion with more consideration.
She had barely survived her victory with Brodie and hadn’t emerged unscathed. Sutherland was not a man for dramatic statements. He had sparred with her, and if he deemed her skills against Edmund the Braw would be inadequate, she knew he spoke in earnest.
If there was a possibility of her mayhap being killed, then there was a possibility that Cormac could die as well. He was the chieftain of a clan who relied on him, and she was simply a woman who had little foothold in the world, save noble birth and wealth.
She could not allow him to die in her stead. Not when it was her honor, and her decisions, which took them down this path.
She shook her head, her mind made up. “He would not allow you to fight in his stead.” She folded her hands in her lap and stared hard at her interlaced fingers.
Coming to the feast had been a mistake. Seeing Sutherland again had been a mistake. It had all been indulgent and foolish.
“I canna allow Lord Easton to go into a fight that he canna survive,” Sutherland said.
The serving girl approached with a flagon of wine and tipped more of the dark-red liquid into Isolde’s goblet. Isolde waited for the woman to leave before replying, “You have people depending on you, Sutherland.”
“Does yer brother no’ have people relying on him as well?”
He had a point. Isolde lifted the goblet with her left hand to avoid the bruise on her right arm from showing again. She let the rich wine wash down her throat in a burning swallow that roiled in her stomach. After this goblet, she decided, she would have another and mayhap another.
Anything to slow the churn of her mind and warm the creeping chill of fear in her veins.
“Lady Isolde.” Sutherland’s voice was gentle with his Scottish burr, the tone low and intimate. “I want to help ye.”
She finished off her goblet and nudged it toward the edge of the table so the serving wench might see it more readily. She returned her attention to Sutherland, and the protest died on her lips.
His mouth was fuller than she’d noticed before, appearing soft and pink compared to the bristle of his hard, whiskered jaw. She had the sudden urge to kiss him. Her palms tingled, longing for the rasp of that short, wiry hair against them, her lips eager to discover if his mouth truly was as supple as it looked.
A splash sounded as her goblet was filled once more. Bile burned up the back of Isolde’s throat, and the room rocked about in a dizzying spin.
“I should go,” she murmured.
“The feast is no’ yet over.” His eyes narrowed with apparent concern. “Are ye well?”
Isolde got to her feet, which only set the world twirling faster. She tipped to the side, but Sutherland caught her. Pain exploded at her injured arm, and she cried out, drawing it protectively to her chest.
“Forgive me, I dinna mean to hurt ye. I merely tried to keep ye upright.”
“Is she well?” A woman asked in a snide tone.
“Too much excitement,” Sutherland said.
He didn’t leave her side. Instead, he put a supportive arm over her shoulders to aid in keeping her upright. She leaned into him, not because she needed to, but because she wanted to. Aye—with every aching beat of her hollow heart, she wanted to. He was solid under her touch, his body heat radiating through his fine tunic. She longed to close her eyes and revel at his strength until she was lulled into sleep in the cradle of his arms.
His essence was all around her, the hint of sandalwood and wonderful masculinity. She inhaled, savoring his scent. Her exhale came out in a contented hum.
“You have no idea how much I’ve longed for this,” she whispered.
Or did she whisper it? Mayhap it had merely been a thought.
It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered because she might soon die. Or be forced to wed Brodie Ross. Either future was dismal.
“What ails her?” Matilda’s voice pitched with concern.
“Wine,” Sutherland replied quietly.
“I’ll see to her,” Matilda said.
“I can help her to her rooms,” Sutherland said.
Matilda hesitated. “Aye, very well. I don’t think I’d be strong enough to get her above stairs.”
Velvety darkness winked in and out of Isolde’s world. She felt herself lifted as if she were floating and carried through a cold hallway before being delivered into a warm chamber and pillowy bed that seemed to embrace her whole body.
The click of a door startled Isolde from her dreamless slumber.
“My lady.” Matilda settled beside the bed and filled Isolde’s vision. “I’ve never seen you in such a state. What ails you?”
“Oh, Matilda,” Isolde said miserably. Tears ran hot from her eyes and soaked into the pillow as her pent-up
emotions finally were free to wash over her. “I think I’m going to die.”
Cormac scanned the surrounding field of men. Some donned their finest surcoats over their chainmail in preparation for the joust. He wore an old tunic over his chainmail, eager more for practice rather than the daily jousts.
“I signed you up for the melee.” Alan smiled so wide that all his teeth showed.
Cormac lifted a brow. “Why would ye do that?”
The sky rumbled overhead as flecks of rain began to spit at them.
Alan framed his hand over his face like a visor. “Now you have an excuse to remain here through the end of the tournament.” He lifted his brows up and down as if they were in on a secret plot together.
“I said I was part of the melee to appease Lady Isolde,” Cormac replied. “I dinna have actually to join it.”
Alan opened his mouth, paused, then closed it and dropped his head. Guilt tightened in Cormac’s chest. He put a hand to the mercenary’s shoulder and gave him a reassuring squeeze. At that very moment, Pip’s ears perked up, his attention pinpointing on a lone man in armor who wore his helm, even in the rain.
Lord Easton.
Or, most likely, Lady Isolde.
The dog panted excitedly, leapt to his feet and dashed over to Lord Easton.
For now, Cormac did not question his suspicion. Especially not after he had accidentally grabbed her injured arm in his attempt to keep her from falling the prior eve.
He could still recall how her body had rested so easily against his, the sweet scent of roses tempting him to tilt her head upwards to have better access to her mouth. He hadn’t, of course. But it didn’t mean he hadn’t been tempted.
Especially when she’d inhaled deeply, as though smelling him and breathed out those words that had haunted him through the night.
“You have no idea how much I’ve longed for this.”
Had she truly longed for him the way he’d longed for her? Most likely, the wine had put such words in her mouth. She had consumed a hearty amount. But he could not quell his hopeful thoughts.
The rain came down in earnest as she approached in her brother’s armor.
Cormac clasped her forearm as he would do with any other warrior. “Good morrow, Lord Easton. I see ye’ve joined us on this bonny summer day.”
“I couldn’t let you Scots enjoy all the fun,” Isolde said.
She did a fine job of masking her voice to sound like a whiny earl. Now that he knew her secret, however, he could detect the underlying femininity. How had he missed it before?
“I spoke with yer sister last night,” Cormac said. “I trust she is well?”
Isolde scoffed. “Foolish chit doesn’t know her own limitation when it comes to wine.”
Cormac had to fight to keep from chuckling at her own self-rebuke. “Did she tell ye what I said to her?”
“She did not rouse as I was breaking my fast this morn. I dare say we will not be seeing her for the remainder of the day.”
Lightning streaked overhead, and a roll of thunder snarled. Fat drops of rain hammered down at them.
Cormac widened his stance. “I’d like ye to reconsider my offer to stand in yer stead with Edmund the Braw.”
“My reply is still nay.” Though Cormac couldn’t see inside the helm, he was certain Isolde was shaking her head within.
“He’s a powerful warrior,” Cormac cautioned. “The best Scotland has ever known.”
Isolde was quiet, and the pinging of raindrops pelting her helm filled the silence. “As I said before, help me by training me to beat him.”
Cormac clenched his teeth. Instruction would still not be enough to save Isolde. However, if he could train with her and show her where she lacked strength, mayhap she might change her mind and allow him to fight Edmund the Braw.
“Aye.” Cormac led Isolde to an awning-covered overhang to provide some reprieve from the worst of the rain. “I’ll help ye, but I’d like a favor in return.”
Pip huddled against Isolde’s leg, eyeing the storm as though it meant him harm. “Of course you do,” Isolde replied in a haughty tone, unlike her usual appealing demeanor.
Again, Cormac bit back a chuckle. For all her sweetness and consideration, she played the part of an entitled noble well.
“I’d like to get advice from ye on how to speak to Lady Isolde.” Somehow, he managed to proffer his request with a straight face.
Another grumble of thunder came from the blackened clouds.
“Why ever would you care for advice on how to speak to her?” Isolde asked sharply.
“Because I’ve no’ ever been good at speaking with women.” Cormac shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant. “I’ve no’ ever been interested in trying to appeal to a lass, before her. Which only makes me say foolish things even more when I’m around her. I wondered if ye might offer some suggestions. Assuming ye know what she likes to speak about.”
The shush of the falling rain filled the silence. “Aye,” she replied finally. “She wants respect and to be seen as more than a prize to wed. For someone to appreciate the person that she is beneath her beauty and wealth.”
The patter of rain began to slow to a steady drizzle.
Cormac nodded. He could do that.
“I’ll give you more than that later, after I’ve thought on it some,” Isolde replied. “The rain is slowing, and we haven’t a second to waste.”
He followed onto the muddy grass. Pip, however, remained under the awning and was joined by Alan.
“When ye go to strike, draw the blade up with the strength in yer belly rather than yer arms.” Cormac clasped his weapon’s hilt in his hands and swung it toward a wooden post with just the strength of his arms. He repeated the action again, this time drawing the strength from his stomach. The pole split in half.
Isolde approached and did as he had done. On her second strike, the top of the pole went flying and splashed into a puddle several paces away.
“Did ye feel the difference?” He asked.
“Aye,” she replied. “Show me more.”
And he did. They spent the better of the morning going over various battle techniques. The lightened rain did not hold and eventually became a downpour that drenched them, weighing down the gambeson beneath their chainmail as well as their surcoats. Other men practiced alongside them, paying them little mind.
Cormac showed Isolde how to throw a man over her back despite her size and bade her try it herself. Unfortunately, when she grabbed him suddenly and slung him over her shoulder, her helm slipped from her head and plopped into the sodden ground alongside where Cormac lay face-up in a puddle of mud.
She froze where she stood, exposed to anyone who could see her face. Granted, the padded hood of her armor covered her long auburn hair, but her features were decidedly feminine.
Far too much to pass for a man.
Her mouth fell open, and her wide blue gaze darted about. Quick as the lightning still forking through the sky above them, Cormac grabbed her helm, settled it on her head and dragged her from the practice field. He didn’t know where he intended to take her until they were already in his tent with the flap drawn firmly closed.
Rain pattered over the thick, waxed linen of the tent, but other than those sounds, the tent was heavy with palpable silence.
“Lady Isolde?” he asked softly.
She pulled in a breath and lifted the helm from her head, revealing her beautiful face with bits of her fiery hair slicked against her skin beneath her padded hood. “Aye,” she replied. “’Tis me.”
9
Isolde stood before Sutherland, shamefaced and exposed. He knew her secret.
She waited for his scorn. Mayhap his disgust.
Instead, he stared at her with incredulity. “Who taught ye how to fight?”
“Hugh,” she answered readily in her surprise at his response. “Our Master of the Guard.”
“Are ye all right?” He asked the question with such tenderness that it edged into the most f
ragile part of her heart and made an ache of emotion tighten at the back of her throat.
“Aye, I’m fine,” she answered tentatively.
“I mean from the beating ye took yesterday.” He glanced down at her body, worry bright in his eyes. “I’ve seen warriors who struggle with hits like ye took. I’ve no’ ever imagined a well-born lady might withstand them. Are ye badly hurt?”
“I’ve had worse.” She grinned. It was true. She had.
At the beginning of those early training days with Hugh, there had been cracked ribs and bruises and scrapes. All had been hidden with jewelry and veils and gritted teeth.
Sutherland laughed good-naturedly at her comment. It was the first time she’d heard him laugh. The sound was warm and pleasant, one she realized she’d like to hear more of. His green eyes crinkled at the corners, and his smile eased the severity of his face, giving him an almost boyish handsomeness.
She looked around the narrow tent. There were two cots within. Mayhap one for his brother who looked just like him. She recalled seeing him before, the man who looked identical to Sutherland, and the flicker of jealousy she’d felt when she’d seen him with Lady Clara.
Aside from the men’s cots, there were two bags set on a wax-lined sheet to keep them dry and several surcoats and tunics hanging from a line at the back. No doubt to keep them from wrinkling thoroughly in the bags.
“Ye’re serious.” His mirth faded into a sincere expression. “I hope ye’ve no’ had many more injuries than what I saw ye endure with Brodie.”
“Is it possible to become a warrior without learning to take a hit?” she asked.
A muscle worked in Sutherland’s jaw. “Why did ye do it?”
She returned her attention to him. His dark hair hung damp around his face. Even wet and cold, he looked inviting. “Why did I learn to fight?” she clarified.
He opened his hands in a helpless gesture. “Aye. And why did ye fight Brodie?”
Isolde didn’t know where to start. There was too much to tell. So many years that had built up to where she was now that she had shared with no one but Matilda. Sutherland seemed to sense her uncertainty and stepped closer, lowering his voice to something gentler and more tender.
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