by Alyssa Stark
Rogan smiled a crooked smile.
“When the field has been narrowed to two men, the fight must cease,” Hodges commanded. “Laird McLaughlin has ordered that his daughter, Isobel, have free choice of her husband from the remaining two contenders.” Hodges studied the men standing before him with narrowed blue eyes. His eyes stopped on Rogan Cameron. He did not expect a fair fight from Rogan.
Rogan held Hodges’ eye contact.
“Will the Laird be watching this final stage of the competition?” Rogan asked boldly.
The crowd fell silent. Many had speculated as to Laird McLaughlin’s conspicuous absence throughout the tournament, but none had dared to ask Rogan’s bold question.
“The Laird is indisposed,” Hodges answered coolly, his voice wavering only slightly. “He has entrusted myself and my joint Masters of Tournament to see that this final event is carried out with honor.”
Isobel gripped the arms of her chair until her knuckles turned white.
Perhaps Rogan knew of her father’s death.
Perhaps he planned to fight dishonorably and steal the Lairdship!
“To the field!” Hodges bellowed as he struck his fist into the air. The crowd roared with excitement and Hodges was relieved to have avoided further questions.
Tristan unsheathed his claymore and turned the blade in his hand. He had crafted the lethal weapon himself and he knew how to wield it as if it were an extension of his arm. He cast a quick glance at Isobel. She smiled at him slightly.
He could tell that she was nervous.
Tristan nodded in response, his mouth turning up into the barest hint of a smile.
Believe in me, love.
..ooOoo..
The men drew sticks again to determine their opponent.
Tristan drew Ramsay Innes.
He had hoped to draw Fergus McLaughlin, as he knew that they young lad would offer little in the way of competition.
Tristan hoped that Rogan did not kill Fergus, for the lad was quite amiable. Tristan believed that Rogan would grow into a passable swordsman if given but some instruction and a few more years.
The men followed Hodges to the makeshift arena that had been fashioned at the edge of the courtyard.
“Ye shall fight at the same time. Keep clear of the other men and fight honorably,” Hodges said once more. His eyes were trained on Rogan Cameron as he spoke of honor. “May the best man win,” he added, motioning for the men to begin the sword fight.
Tristan eyed his opponent.
Ramsay Innes was an unknown, and therefore, Tristan regarded him as dangerous.
Ramsay began to circle Tristan. He bid his time, waiting for Tristan to make the first strike.
Tristan heard metal clashing against metal.
Fergus and Rogan had already begun.
He stalked around Ramsay warily, his eyes narrowed as he baited his opponent.
Ramsay swung his sword over his head and charged towards Tristan.
Tristan blocked the blow easily, but the strength of Ramsay’s attack reverberated up the length of his arms. Ramsay Innes was a powerful man and an able swordsman. Tristan had learned as much from the first contact of their swords.
Sword fighting was second nature to Tristan. He blocked Ramsay’s second blow stealthily and then quickly took the upper hand. He hammered Ramsay with blow after blow, channeling his controlled rage into his sword arm. Tristan fought tirelessly, reigning down his fury upon Ramsay, who tired quickly.
With one flip of his sword, Tristan captured Ramsay’s sword and removed it from his grip.
Ramsay stood, breathing raggedly, his eyes trained on Tristan.
He was helpless without his weapon.
Tristan stalked forward with his sword extended, his hazel eyes never leaving Ramsay’s. If Innes made a sudden more, the price that he would pay would be his life.
Tristan brought his sword to rest against the exposed flesh of Ramsay’s neck.
He heard swords clanging behind him, indicating that Fergus and Rogan were still engaged in battle.
Ramsay clenched his jaw. His eyes were locked with Tristan’s.
“Yield,” Tristan gritted as he pressed the cold metal of his sword against Ramsay’s neck.
Ramsay said nothing.
“Yield!” Tristan screamed, his voice commanding.
Tristan did not want to kill Ramsay Innes.
Ramsay broke eye contact with Tristan.
He moved slowly, dropping to one knee in front of Tristan.
“I yield,” he said under his breath.
“Louder!” Tristan shouted with his sword still at Ramsay’s neck.
“I yield!” Ramsay Innes said louder as shame washed over him.
Tristan stepped back. He took his sword away from Ramsay’s neck, glad that he had not yet been forced to spill blood. He watched as Ramsay collected his sword and left the battle field.
The crowd cheered as the field was narrowed to three.
Tristan turned his attention to Rogan and Fergus. Fergus was outplayed with each stroke of Rogan’s sword, but he refused to yield. The young McLaughlin fought valiantly, defending his position as best he could under the storm of Rogan’s blade. Sweat poured off of both men.
Rogan was tired of games.
He landed a fierce blow to Fergus’ sword, which the lad barely blocked. The young clansman’s strength was waning.
Rogan had just begun.
He took joy in toying with his much younger, much more inexperienced opponent.
Rogan landed a crashing blow to Fergus’ right. When Fergus attempted to block his opponent, Rogan overpowered him and pinned his sword to the ground.
Rogan eyed Fergus with anticipation.
One stroke of his lethal sword would end this.
Fergus was at his mercy now.
“I yield!” Fergus bellowed.
Rogan did not move. He kept his sword strong against Fergus’ and smiled deviously.
“I yield!” Fergus cried, his voice shaking. He dropped his sword and began to move away from Rogan.
Fear settled within Fergus as Rogan stalked towards him.
“I’ve told ye! I yield!” Fergus yelled. His eyes darted towards Hodges, who was already moving towards them. “Do not kill me!” he begged in desperation as Rogan stalked him.
Rogan raised his sword.
One stroke of his blade would end this.
“No!” Fergus screamed as the blade swung down upon him.
Tristan dove through the air, striking his blade against Rogan’s at the last possible moment to block his strike against Fergus. Tristan fell to the ground and rolled, springing back to his feet in front of Rogan.
“I’ll end this now, Finnegan!” Rogan seethed as he circled his true opponent.
He had known from the beginning of the tournament that Tristan Finnegan would be his only true challenger. And now he planned to seize the opportunity and end the tournament once and for all.
For Rogan knew in his heart that if given a choice between himself and Tristan Finnegan, Isobel would choose Tristan. Rogan had not fought this hard, he had not come this far to be cast aside.
Rogan had seen it in her eyes.
Isobel loved Tristan already.
“Stop!” Hodges bellowed as he took the field.
“I’ll warn ye tae stay back,” Rogan said as he pointed his sword at Hodges.
“Lady Isobel is tae choose!” Hodges argued helplessly.
“I know how she will choose!” Rogan answered as he circled Tristan. “Which is why I am making the choice for her,” he bellowed, his eyes never leaving Tristan’s.
With that, Rogan charged Tristan. His first strike was so powerful that it knocked Tristan off balance, causing him to stumble slightly before regaining his footing.
The crowd went wild.
Tristan dropped back into an athletic crouch. His muscles were tense and they rippled beneath his sodden shirt as he made his counter attack against Rogan. Adrenaline flooded
his veins. Tristan swung his sword with commanding precision, slicing the blade through the air and bringing it crashing against Rogan’s blade. He swung again and again, using the strength of his entire body to press Rogan back towards the crowd.
Rogan blocked the fury of Tristan’s sword desperately.
And then he panicked.
Never in his life had Rogan Cameron been bested with a sword.
Tristan landed a blinding blow. His sword ricocheted off of Rogan’s blade and sliced through flesh of Rogan’s upper arm.
Rogan screamed and charged at Tristan.
He would not be killed so easily.
Tristan blocked Rogan’s blows and pressed his opponent back further. Rogan spun and landed his elbow against Tristan’s face. Pain shot through Tristan’s nerves, momentarily clouding his vision.
His nose was surely broken. Blood flowed freely down his shirt, staining the dirt crusted linen a bright red.
Using every last ounce of his strength, Tristan brought his sword crashing down on Rogan. Rogan blocked him feebly, falling to his knees in the process. Tristan swung his blade again and then kicked Rogan in the chest as he moved to block his sword.
Rogan fell backwards and lost the grip on his weapon.
He lay helpless in the dirt, heaving from the exertion of fighting Tristan.
The crowd was frenzied from the excitement. Their screams made it difficult for Tristan to think. He walked forward slowly and bent to collect Rogan’s sword.
He stood above his opponent.
Tristan placed his boot on Rogan’s chest. He scowled down at his opponent and brought his sword to the base of Rogan’s throat. Tristan could see Rogan’s heart hammering. The artery at the base of his neck thudded. Tristan could end Rogan’s life with the flick of the tip of his sword.
“Yield,” Tristan thundered against the roar of the crowd.
Rogan closed his eyes.
“Yield!” Tristan screamed as he pressed the tip of his sword into Rogan’s skin. A trickled of bright red blood ran from the wound and stained the ground.
“I yield to you, my Laird,” Rogan said in defeat. He closed his eyes and felt the distinct burning of shame wash over him.
Tristan cast the swords aside and fell to his knees in the dirt beside Rogan.
He had won.
..oo Chapter Sixteen oo..
Tristan watched as Isobel strode towards him like an angel. He lay crumpled and exhausted in the mud, completely unaware of the group of soldiers that had taken the field to separate him from Rogan. Hodges had expected them to kill each other and the truth was that they had come damned close to doing so.
A slight smile turned up the corner of Tristan’s mouth as he watched Isobel approach. She walked regally towards him, a look of concern clouding her beautiful features. Tristan could see tears welling in her eyes and he longed to brush them away.
It was clear to the crowd that Lady Isobel McLaughlin had chosen her preferred husband.
Tristan’s jaw was bruised and his nose was most likely broken, confounded by a rapidly swelling cut on his cheek. Despite his own injuries, he arrogantly knew that Rogan Campbell had received the worst end of the bargain.
Isobel stopped abruptly in front of Tristan, her silken slippers sinking into the mud of the battlefield. Her blue eyes watched him intently, searching his face. She longed for him to reach out to her, to take her into his arms and assure her that everything was alright. Her heart beat an erratic rhythm in her chest and she drew in a ragged breath. Why was it suddenly so hard to breathe?
Tristan repositioned himself so that he knelt before Isobel in the mud, his hazel eyes never leaving hers. He raked a hand through his unbound hair and swallowed hard, taken aback by the beauty of the woman that now stood directly before him.
Mo Sonuachar.
He reached up slowly and took her hand, wincing as pain shot up his arm and reverberated through the wound in his shoulder. He had been so intent of fighting Rogan that he had not even felt the tip of Rogan’s blade slice through his skin. He gritted his teeth and pushed through the pain, focusing all of his energy on Isobel.
Lord, how he loved her.
His thumb brushed reassuringly over the back of her hand and she smiled slightly. Then without saying a word, without breaking eye contact with her, Tristan lifted Isobel’s hand gently towards his lips and placed a soft kiss atop her knuckles. The corner of his mouth curled into a knowing smile as he watched Isobel’s resolve crumble.
A tear cascaded down her cheek and she smiled fully at him now, gracing him with the full gift of her love.
They had won.
“Will you marry me, Isobel McLaughlin?” Tristan whispered, his breath warm against the back of her hand.
“Yes!” Isobel exclaimed as she dropped to her knees in the mud, eliciting a collective gasp from the crowd.
There was only Tristan in her world now. She did not even notice the hundreds of eyes upon them. She did not care that she had ruined her very expensive gown. The only thing that she cared about was Tristan.
Tristan leaned forward and drew her closer.
Mo sonuachar.
His lips found hers and he kissed her slowly and reverently as he savored the fact that he could now kiss Isobel openly. Kissing her felt so perfectly right and he was no longer surprised that it was happening.
He had earned the right to kiss Isobel like this.
His kiss was slow and achingly deliberate, giving the crowd of onlookers plenty of time to watch as he staked his claim to Lady Isobel McLaughlin in a very public manner. The corner of Tristan’s mouth turned up into the hint of a smile as he heard a few disapproving gasps emanate from the crowd. He hoped that they were enjoying the spectacle and he deepened their kiss, eliciting a soft moan of pleasure from Isobel.
She belonged to him now and he wanted the world to know.
Isobel ended the kiss and pulled away from Tristan. The smile faded from her lips as she took his face gently between her hands. Her eyes scanned the myriad of cuts and bruises that marred his face.
“How badly are you hurt?”
“I’m fine, sweetheart,” he said in an attempt to thwart her worry. His shoulder pained him greatly and he was looking forward to the solace of some medicinal whiskey.
“Do not lie to me, blacksmith,” she scolded, her blue eyes riddled with concern. “I was so worried,” she confessed as she traced her fingers lovingly over his collarbone, stopping just shy of the bloody wound on his shoulder.
“It pains me more than I’m letting on,” he admitted stubbornly. “But I’ll forget all about it if you kiss me again,” he said suggestively.
Obliging him, Isobel gave him a kiss of aching sweetness. Her hands still clasped his face and Tristan smiled against her lips as her blonde curls fell around them, shielding them like a protective curtain. The smell of lavender overwhelmed his senses and he felt himself becoming aroused despite the hushed murmurs of their on looking clansmen.
Kissing Isobel like this and feeling her blonde tendrils surround him was like his dream coming true. Tristan’s mind flashed back to the many nights of fitful sleep when he had dreamt of Isobel.
The wise woman’s words echoed through his mind.
The girl in your dreams is the very lifeblood of your heart.
Never had the words resounded with deeper impact. For Isobel was the lifeblood of Tristan’s heart. She had breathed new life into his soul and awakened his heart from the brink of death.
Isobel broke the kiss and moved just beyond Tristan’s lips. She could feel his heated breath warming her lips as she began to speak.
“Shall we my Laird? I hear that there is a wedding this evening,” she said playfully as she hoisted him to his feet and listened as the crowd erupted in a sea of cheers.
Tristan had won the hearts and the trust of the McLaughlin clan by fighting honorably in the tournament. They would be proud to see him succeed Rudy McLaughlin and take his rightful place beside Isobel as the new
Laird of Clan McLaughlin.
As Tristan and Isobel walked off the battlefield hand-in-hand, they watched in awe as the crowd of on-lookers began to drop to their knees one by one. The cheers fell silent as the clansmen bowed their heads earnestly to their new Laird for the first time.
Isobel’s heart swelled with love and pride and she observed the reaction of her people. Tristan would be an excellent Laird, serving the clan as diligently and honorably as her father had.
She had chosen wisely.
..oo Chapter Seventeen oo..
Tristan rapped twice on the heavy wooden door of Isobel’s chamber. His knock was answered by a flurry of excited female voices.
“Who is calling?” one of Isobel’s maids asked from within.
“Tristan,” he said in answer. He suspected that they knew full well who was calling.
“Just one moment, milord,” the maid answered.
Tristan thought that he could hear the hint of a smile in her voice.
There was the sound of muffled giggles and scurrying within the chamber before the door cracked open.
The maid peered out into the corridor.
“Milady is being fitted for her wedding gown. ‘Twould not be proper for you to see her now. ‘Tis bad luck for the groom to see the bride in her gown before the wedding, ken?”
Tristan’s mouth turned up into a soft smile at the maid’s superstition. Nevertheless, he was not one to tarry with notions such as luck.
“Will you please ask milady to change out of her gown then?” he asked. “I’d like to speak to her.”
“Yes, milord,” the maid said before closing the door promptly in his face.
Tristan heard the women resume their giggling behind the closed door. It did his heart good to hear Isobel so happy.
Quite some time later, the heavy wooden door opened again and Isobel stepped into the corridor. Her cheeks flushed pink and she smiled up at Tristan shyly.