by Alyssa Stark
Isobel felt electricity shoot through her body as Tristan’s hand lingered upon hers. Her lips parted slightly and she gazed up at him, so overtaken by her bodily response to his touch that she was unable to move. The full moon lit his handsome features, and Isobel’s eyes flitted over his angular jaw. Her eyes traced over the days growth of stubble that lie there, and she fought the urge to reach up and touch him, remembering how delicious it had felt to touch the line of his jaw. Her eyes danced up to meet his and she knew at once that he had read her mind.
Tristan had seen the desire in her eyes, despite the fact that she had tried to conceal it.
“Why do you need the dagger, Bella?” he said softly, breaking the intense silence that had fallen between them.
He wanted naught but to kiss her again, but first he would know the truth.
“To protect myself,” she said stubbornly as she sheathed the weapon beneath the folds of her skirt. Isobel’s mind was rattled having just heard Tristan call her ‘Bella.’ The pet name was precious, warming the space in her chest and dizzying her mind.
“I surmised as much,” Tristan said with a chuckle. “From whom, may I ask?”
“From my husband.”
Isobel’s words shook Tristan to the core. He knew that he had fallen hard for the lass, had indulged his feelings for her for too long, but finding out that she was married choked the breath in his throat. Tristan clenched his teeth together and felt the muscles in his body go rigid with tension. He would kill the bastard that raised a hand against Isobel, husband or not.
“Has he laid a hand upon ye?” he asked angrily, voice trembling with rage. “Because I swear that if the bastard has…”
“No!” Isobel yelped, shaking her head in vehement denial as her hands flew to the solid muscular wall of Tristan’s chest. “I’m not married,” she said refuted adamantly as she withdrew her hands, regretting the impulse of touching Tristan. Such close bodily contact with him affected her greatly and she needed all of her wits about her tonight. “Not yet at least,” she said as she looked down shyly to the forest floor.
Tristan used his forefinger to edge up Isobel’s chin, forcing her blue eyes to lock with his.
“Who is this bastard that threatens ye?”
“I do not know him yet,” Isobel said. Her knees felt weak from the glaring intensity in Tristan’s eyes. The carefully controlled rage that she saw there frightened her.
“You’re not making a lick of sense, woman,” Tristan said as he leaned forward impulsively and kissed Isobel on the forehead. “Explain,” he coaxed as he prepared himself to wait and wrapped his arms securely around Isobel. He could see that her defenses were crumbling.
Feeling his lips against her skin was all that it took. Isobel melted into the safety of Tristan’s arms, fisting her hands in his clean linen shirt. She felt his strong arms gather her up, melding her body to the comforting security of his expansive chest. Isobel began to cry, her tears hot an uncontrollable as they stained Tristan’s shirt.
Tristan rested his chin atop her head. He held her close, brushing his hand reassuringly across her shoulders. She was so small and slight of bone. He wanted to wrap her up and protect her from whatever plagued her.
He wanted to kiss her.
First he would calm her so that she would tell him the truth.
“Shh…lass,” he whispered into her hair. “I’ve got ye.”
Isobel sniffled and used a fistful of Tristan’s shirt to wipe her eyes.
“Tell me, Bella. I cannot help you if you will not tell me.”
Isobel closed her eyes and mustered her courage, releasing Tristan’s shirt from the vice grips of her fingers. Needing something to do with her hands, she smoothed the crumpled fabric, forcing it to lie flat against Tristan’s muscular chest as she collected her thoughts.
She trusted Tristan. And she owed him an explanation.
Her fingers continued to smooth the fabric against his chest as she calculated how best to explain herself. Touching Tristan so intimately was both exhilarating and calming, a combination of emotions that caused her heart to flutter. His skin was warm beneath the linen shirt and his arms were still wrapped protectively around her waist.
Tristan waited patiently for her to speak, not rushing her words but giving her the time that she needed to collect herself.
Isobel’s eyes were drawn upward to meet Tristan’s. She could feel his gaze upon her, warm and accepting as he awaited her response. Her eyes locked with his and the concern that she saw in their hazel depths eased the words from her lips.
She wanted him to know.
“I should have been born a boy,” Isobel whispered as she cast her eyes downward.
Tristan’s eyebrows scrunched together in dismay. This he had not expected.
Isobel was the absolute picture of female perfection. She had taken over his every waking thought since their first encounter in his shop. Dreaming of her soft, feminine body had plagued Tristan’s sleep. The stolen kisses that they had shared could only be described as magical. The simple pleasure of holding her innocently in his arms had aroused him – and she wished to be a boy.
Tristan vowed that he would never understand women.
“And why would you wish for that, Bella?” he asked, his words velvety and cautious.
“Because then I would not be forced into this precarious situation,” she huffed, fisting her hands and pounding softly against Tristan’s chest. “My father would have his heir and I wouldn’t be forced to marry and…” she broke off, leaning forward and resting her head against Tristan’s chest. “Perhaps I could have chosen my husband,” she said, her voice muffled in the fabric of his shirt.
Fresh tears welled in her eyes and she fought against them, willing them to remain unshed. She was muddling up her explanation and she half expected Tristan to cast her aside at any moment.
“Perhaps I could have chosen you,” she blurted out, the words hanging with heavy implications between them.
Tristan’s breath caught in his throat.
Isobel wanted him.
She had just said that she would choose him as her husband.
Lord above!
Tristan’s arms increased their hold about her waist, wrapping her up tightly and enveloping her with his bodily strength. He used his body to bolster her confidence, giving her strength from his own.
His mind raced. He wanted to find the perfect words to profess his love to Isobel, to beg her to run away from everything, all of her duties to Clan McLaughlin, all of her troubles and be his wife.
Tristan knew that they would be unbearably happy.
“Shh…Bella,” he whispered into her hair. “It will be alright,” he coaxed as he rubbed her back tenderly and held her. “I can help ye…”
“I do not see how it can be alright! How can it ever be alright again?” she asked angrily as she choked back a sob. “My father is dead, Tristan! And because I am a woman and cannot succeed him, I must marry immediately! My husband shall be the new Laird of Clan McLaughlin,” she revealed. The implication of her words was sickening, settling like a rock in the pit of her stomach.
“Och, lass,” he said softly as he stroked her back, knowing that his touch calmed her raging emotions. “I’m sorry for the loss of yer Da,” he whispered into her hair. He gathered Isobel into his comforting embrace. Isobel’s confession explained so many things, her sudden inability to meet him for dagger lessons, the doubling of her guard. She was vulnerable because of Laird McLaughlin’s secret death. Tristan had known that McLaughlin had taken ill, but never had he guessed that the Laird had passed.
His heart ached for Isobel because he knew that she loved her father dearly.
Isobel sniffled loudly and melted into Tristan’s arms. She had not properly grieved the loss of her father. Tristan’s gentle words caused the dam holding back her emotions to break. She sobbed against his chest and he held her, bolstering her strength with his own.
“I loved him,” she sobbed
against his chest. “And I am alone now without him.”
“Nay, lass,” Tristan refuted as he reached down and captured Isobel’s chin between his thumb and forefinger. He gently forced her face to look up. “Ye are not alone. I am here for ye, now and always,” he whispered reverently.
“Oh, Tristan,” Isobel cried as she buried her face against his chest once more. Her arms clung to him as she gathered strength from his comforting presence.
Understanding overtook Tristan, rushing over his senses like a surge of chilly water. The cadence of his already pounding heart increased. Holding Isobel in his arms unnerved him. His body would no longer allow him to deny how much he wanted her.
And she was going to wed another.
Tristan felt a surge of panic over take him and his mind reeled, searching for a solution.
“Has your father chosen the man that you are to wed?” Tristan asked through clenched teeth. He closed his eyes, awaiting the horror of Isobel’s answer.
“No, it is far worse than just that,” Isobel said softly. “He’s ordered a tournament to win my hand. Men of suitable birth will compete in tests of skill and strength, proving themselves as worthy leaders. The winner shall be my husband and the new Laird.”
“And thus ye found need for a weapon,” Tristan sighed as complete understanding took hold. “Should your new husband prove to be unkind?”
“Aye,” Isobel nodded. She raised a shaking hand to dry the tears from her eyes. “My experience with men is that they hunger for power. The men competing for my hand do not want me. They want my father’s Lairdship.”
“If any of them hurt you – if any man raises a hand against you, I swear that I’ll…”
“There is nothing that you can do, Tristan!” Isobel exclaimed as she placed her palm flat against Tristan’s chest in an effort to calm him. He had gone from tender protector to raging warrior in a scant instant. “A husband can choose to treat his wife as he wishes, especially when he is Laird. When I am married there is nothing that anyone, including you will be able to do to protect me! And that is why I came to you to learn to protect myself,” she said softly, smiling half-heartedly.
“And I am thankful that you did, milady,” Tristan said sincerely as he reached up and stroked the side of Isobel’s face. “But I fear that you are most incorrect about your assumptions regarding men and women. It would not have served you well to have been born a boy.”
“Oh?” Isobel said curiously as she looked up into Tristan’s handsome face. The corner of his mouth had turned up into that playful, boyish smile that caused her heart to race. This was the Tristan that she loved the best. This was the man who was rapidly stealing her heart, her heart that was not free to be stolen.
The light, playful touch of Tristan’s finger as it trailed down her jaw line sent butterflies alight in Isobel’s stomach. She closed her eyes briefly and struggled to contain her feelings. This was how it should feel between a man and a woman.
“You are correct in the fact that men can succeed Lairdships and rule people. But you are most incorrect about the role of women.”
“And just how is that, blacksmith? I am a woman,” Isobel teased, emboldened by the heated blood that now coursed through her veins. She suddenly found it difficult to concentrate on anything besides the delicious feeling of Tristan’s fingers against her skin.
“I shall enlighten you, milady,” Tristan said playfully as he arched an eyebrow. He suddenly believed that all was not lost and desired to lighten Isobel’s mood. “Tis true that women cannot rule as Lairds and that they do not lead battles or have the same physical strength as their male counterparts. But, I do believe that your power as a woman is far greater than all of those things combined,” Tristan said as his fingers slowly captured Isobel’s chin and nudged it up so that her eyes locked with his. “A woman can rule a man’s heart with the strength of her love, empowering him or breaking him with a single whim. With a subtle look, she can rally the support of an entire army – willing each man to give his life for the sake of her cause. She can bring new life into this world, which is no small feat if you ask me,” he said smiling softly. “And she can capture a man’s heart with one soft kiss.”
Isobel’s mouth fell open and she searched for words but found none.
Tristan shook his head, silently insinuating that he was not done speaking. He placed a finger over Isobel’s lips, urging her to remain silent and let him finish.
“You are completely wrong about women, lass. The power of a woman in far greater than you think.”
Tristan’s words caused gooseflesh to break out across Isobel’s skin. Her breath came raggedly now.
“You have stolen my heart, Isobel,” Tristan whispered quietly as he looked into the depths of Isobel’s eyes. “And I love ye for it,” he smiled softly.
Isobel closed her eyes. Tristan traced his fingers lightly over her collarbone. His touch was magic against her skin.
He loved her.
“I love you, too,” Isobel whispered reverently as she stood on her tip toes and placed a kiss on Tristan’s cheek. His stubble tickled her lips and sent marvelous shivers racing down her spine. “And I thank the Lord that I found you because at the very least, I know what it is to feel loved,” she said wholeheartedly. “Pray that it is enough to last me for the rest of my life. I had only wished to keep you for awhile longer,” she sighed, her heart breaking.
Tristan held Isobel against his chest. He suddenly realized that he possessed the power claim her as his own. Having worked so diligently to repress all memories, all duties and rights from his life before, Tristan now realized what he must do.
“Wishes do come true,” he whispered as he looked down at her. His heart overflowed with love for the lass that he held in his arms. Her skin glowed radiantly in the moonlight. Tristan wished that time could stop. That he could hold Isobel like this for eternity, cloaking her in the safety of his embrace and shielding her against the outside world.
“If we are speaking of wishes, what else do you wish for, Tristan?” Isobel said softly. She wanted to know everything about this man, his darkest thoughts and his deepest desires.
Her words startled Tristan and returned his thoughts to the conversation.
“I shouldn’t tell you just yet,” he whispered as he kissed the top of her head. “Because I’m just now starting to understand what it is that I wish for.”
“Tell me,” Isobel prodded gently. Her curiosity was now piqued.
“I’m hoping that you will approve,” he teased as he hugged Isobel closer.
“What is it that you wish for, Tristan?” she asked as she drew her face away from his chest and looked up into his eyes.
A moment passed in silence as Tristan reconciled his thoughts and chose his words carefully. He placed his hand gently on her shoulder and then ran his fingers up and threaded them through her unbound hair. Using his hand at the base of her skull, he guided her face nearer still, so close that his breath warmed her skin.
“Isobel,” he whispered softly against her forehead and then placed a light kiss there. “You are what I wish for.” Slowly he kissed her forehead, then her temple and then her cheek. “This is what I wish for.”
Isobel closed her eyes and leaned into Tristan’s gentle, maddening touch.
“You are all that I wish for,” she whispered. Tristan’s kisses trailed down her neck, sending waves of electricity that spread like wildfire through her body.
The corner of his mouth turned up into the hint of a smile.
She wanted him in return.
Her admittance was all the approval that his heart had been seeking. Tristan’s heart sung with happiness. Isobel McLaughlin had single-handedly brought his beaten and bloodied heart back from the brink of death. In truth, Tristan had believed that his heart was dead. Isobel had breathed life back into his battered heart causing it to beat with renewed fervor.
He poured that happiness into his caresses, his soft kisses against Isobel’s hea
ted skin. He wanted her to know, he wanted her to feel how much he desired her. Ever so lightly, he brushed his warm lips over hers as he trailed his thumb down the curve of her jaw line. When her lips parted slightly, Tristan deepened the kiss, nibbling at Isobel’s lip and coaxing her to open her mouth.
Isobel heeded Tristan’s invitation and parted her lips slightly. When his tongue claimed hers she felt her knees weaken. Never before had she felt such a lovely sensation. Tristan possessed her mouth fully, kissing her with the full weight of his need. She fitted her arms about his neck and clung to him, allowing his strong arms to support her as she sagged against his chest. The rough whiskers on his face scratched against her delicate skin, the new feeling sending shivers of pleasure zipping down her spine.
“Mmm, Bella,” Tristan sighed heavily as he arched his sultry mouth possessively over Isobel’s. “This is my only wish. You are my only wish. And if the only way to have you is to become Laird McLaughlin, then so be it.”
Tristan’s words snapped Isobel back to the harshness of reality. For she knew that no matter how much she wanted to grant Tristan his wish, she could not. She was destined to marry another. Tristan was not of noble blood, nor was he a Laird or even the son of a Laird.
They would never be allowed to marry. Isobel loved Tristan to the depths of her soul, but in her heart of hearts, she knew that loving him was not enough.
A blacksmith could not enter her father’s tournament.
Noble blood.
Her father had been very specific in his decree.
Tristan tore his mouth away from hers. Isobel felt his muscles tense beneath her fingertips.
She opened her mouth to tell him the harsh truth.
Tristan was not eligible for the tournament.