Tournament of Hearts Page 3

  Isobel mimicked his posture and swung the blade clumsily at him. She felt like an imp trying to fight the giant of a man that stood before her. Tristan easily danced out of the way of her dagger and smiled at her teasingly.

  “Is that all you’ve got, milady?” he prodded, his slight smile intent on mocking her.

  Isobel’s eyebrows knit together in concentration. She gripped the dagger firmly and lunged at the blacksmith. He moved out of her path easily and she pitched forward, stumbling as she lost her balance.

  “You must anticipate my movements,” Tristan coached. “Which way will I go? Left or perhaps right?” he teased, his eyes sparkling with challenge.

  Isobel glared into his hazel eyes. She hated to be bested at anything and the blacksmith was weaseling his way under her skin. He smiled openly at her now, challenging her to move against him.

  “If you intend to kill me, you must catch me first. Don’t forget to use the pointy end.”

  Frustration bloomed within Isobel. She charged at Tristan, aiming her blade at his chest as if she meant to impale him. He stood fearlessly in front of her, his massive legs braced apart. When her blade was mere centimeters from his chest, Tristan grabbed her wrist and spun her in his arms, trapping her securely against his chest. He squeezed her wrist and she winced in pain, reflexively dropping her dagger.

  Isobel’s heart pounded in her chest, partly from the anger at her lack of ability with the dagger, but mostly from the close proximity of her body to Tristan’s. Her back rested against his chest and her bottom was crushed most intimately against him.

  “What do you do now?” Tristan demanded, his voice harsh against Isobel’s ear.

  The scent of lavender flooded over him and he shook his head to clear the enticing smell from his senses. Holding the lass so intimately was beginning to arouse him. The sweet, somehow familiar smell of Isobel’s hair reminded Tristan of his reoccurring dream. He fought the sudden urge to spin Isobel in his arms and kiss her senseless.

  Mo sonuachar.

  Isobel felt the wall of Tristan’s chest behind her, rock hard and overwhelming. She knew that she would never overpower him. Thinking quickly, she drove the heel of her boot into the top of his foot.

  Tristan smiled against her hair and released her. Isobel was a fiery lass. She was the most beautiful, intriguing, fiery lass that Tristan had ever encountered. Her slight weight had done little to injure him, but he was pleased that she was fighting so bravely. He had intended to reward the lass for thinking quickly by letting her go, but never would he have anticipated what Isobel did next.

  She spun in his arms and drove her knee directly into his ballocks.

  Tristan dropped his dagger and doubled over with unexpected pain. His mouth formed a gaping “O” as he struggled to recover the precious oxygen that had vacated his lungs. Pain radiated up his spine and for a distinct moment, he was sure that he saw stars.

  “Tristan! Oh my Lord! I’m so sorry…please forgive me…it was an accident!” Isobel exclaimed as she reached out to touch Tristan’s shoulder and then thought better of the gesture. He would surely be cross with her. Isobel wondered if she could out run him in his temporarily weakened state.

  “Christ, lass! What was that for?” he asked, chest heaving as he struggled to regain his breath. He straightened his spine and fought to recoup his composure. His attraction to the lass had caused him to drop his guard.

  Isobel’s face flushed completely crimson.

  “I…I only meant to get out of your grasp! I was so mad because you are so much stronger than me…”

  Tristan began to chuckle, a deep rumbling resounding within his chest. “You did braw well, lass. I suppose that I deserved that for teasing you,” he admitted as he reached down and retrieved both daggers from the ground. He sheathed his dagger in his belt and extended Isobel’s weapon to her, holding the dagger by the blade so that she could take the hilt.

  “Are you quite all right? I’m so sorry,” Isobel stammered, knowing that her face was a most un-Godly shade of red. Her skin burned with embarrassment.

  “I’ll manage,” Tristan said as he raked his hand through his hair and tore out the leather throng that bound it at the nape of his neck. “But I do not believe that it was an accident as you claim,” he said, laughing softly as he rebound his unruly hair.

  “Perhaps not,” Isobel admitted with a shy smile. “A lady must use the few defenses that she has.” Her cheeks flushed as Tristan called her out. She bit her lip in a vain effort to stifle her giggle. Isobel enjoyed bantering with the blacksmith, finding that his sense of humor enlivened her own. A full blown laugh tore free from her lips as she watched Tristan.

  He took a step away from her and arched an eyebrow hinting caution.

  Tristan joined Isobel in laughter as he finished rebinding his hair. Her laugh was high and melodic and he could not fight against the powers of the petite siren that stood before him. The lass had nearly unmanned him and yet he could harbor no ill feelings towards her.

  Being with Isobel made Tristan feel more alive than he had in recent memory. He suddenly wondered when he had last laughed like this. His face hurt from the fit of genuine laughter. It felt marvelous!

  “Well done, milady,” Tristan chided as he withdrew his dagger from his belt with the intention of resuming the lesson. “Twas a surprising response, but an apt one. Ye did well, Isobel.”

  “I do apologize,” Isobel said shyly as her face flushed pink once more. “And I am most repentant for laughing at you after I…” Isobel trailed off, unable to find the correct words to describe her most grievous offense.

  “Apology accepted,” Tristan said, saving Isobel from the further embarrassment of confessing her crime. “It bode well to laugh a bit,” he said, eyes twinkling. “It has been far too long since I have laughed like that,” he confessed as he smiled lop-sidedly at Isobel.

  “Aye, it did me well too,” Isobel agreed. “Pray forgive me?” she asked hopefully with a sweet smile.

  “Forgiven,” Tristan nodded. “But I shall remember not to underestimate you, milady. You prove to be a worthy opponent,” he said with a wink as he raised his dagger.

  Isobel smiled in agreement, pleased with herself for earning Tristan’s praise. Although she regretted bringing injury to him, she thoroughly enjoyed their playful banter. Their laughter had done her well, causing her to forget her ever-present worries and lightening her mood.

  “We need to work on how you grip the dagger or you’ll never do much harm with that blade,” Tristan said as his eyes focused on the dagger that hung by Isobel’s side.

  Isobel’s eyes flashed down to the dagger that she held in her right hand. Her grip on the weapon seemed fine. How many ways could their possibly be to hold a dagger?

  “If your opponent separates you from your weapon, you’re as good as dead,” Tristan warned as he held out his dagger and demonstrated the correct grip to Isobel. “When I grabbed your wrist, you dropped the weapon too easily. Hold it as if your life depends upon it, because someday it just might.”

  Isobel’s eyebrows scrunched together. She held her dagger out and mimicked the manner in which Tristan held his weapon.

  “Correct me if I am wrong, dear blacksmith, but if my memory serves me, I was not the only one who dropped their weapon,” Isobel goaded, arching her eyebrow in provocation.

  Tristan arched his eyebrow in return. “As I stated previously, I underestimated you, Lady Isobel. Rest assured that it will not happen again,” Tristan said with a mischievous smile.

  ..oo Chapter Five oo..

  “They must not know of my weakened state,” McLaughlin warned as he gathered the quilts about himself and leaned his head back against the headboard. Despite the mountain of quilts piled on top of him, he could not find warmth. The cold had settled in his bones and nothing would dissipate it.

  Hodges nodded. It pained him to see the Laird dwindling into a shell of his former self. McLaughlin had been a great leader, strong and vali
ant in battle. His disease had reduced him to a weak old man. Hodges understood the need for secrecy. If the clan’s enemies knew of the Laird’s illness, they might take the castle by force. Finding a powerful successor was of greater urgency now more than ever.

  “Aye. I shall send riders out this morning to notify our outlying clansmen of the tournament. Do you have any further requests, milord?”

  “Bring my daughter to me,” McLaughlin said as he coughed into the quilts. The cough racked his frail body.

  “Aye, milord,” Hodges said as he stood and nodded in farewell to the Laird.

  ..ooOoo..

  “I’ve searched everywhere for you, milady! Where have you been?” Hodges scolded as he stood with his arms crossed, blocking Isobel’s escape route.

  “To state the obvious, I’ve been out riding, Hodges,” Isobel said coyly as she dismounted her horse. Her face was flushed pink from the chill in the autumn air and her hair was wild from blowing in the breeze. The solid weight of Tristan’s dagger in its sheath was a delicious secret against the skin of Isobel’s thigh.

  “You’ve been warned not to go out unaccompanied.”

  “It seems that I forgot,” Isobel said dismissively as she flipped the reins of her horse over the mare’s head, grasping them now in her right hand.

  Hodges shook his head in dismay. He knew that arguing with Isobel would get him nowhere. The lass was as strong-willed as they came.

  “Your father wishes to speak with you,” Hodges said as he trailed after Isobel.

  She handed the reins of her horse to the stable lad and turned around to face Hodges. There had been something in the tone of his voice that had alerted her to the urgency of her father’s request.

  “Is he quite alright?”

  “I will not withhold the truth from you, milady,” Hodges said sorrowfully. “He’s much worse. I do not think that your father has much more time on this Earth. Go speak with him and make the most of the time that you have left.”

  Isobel nodded, swallowing past the giant lump that had just taken up residence in her throat. She was not ready to lose her father. Isobel felt a sudden pang of guilt for not being by his side at present.

  “I appreciate your directness, Hodges. You have been a most loyal servant to my father,” she said as she brushed past Hodges and walked purposefully out of the stables and towards the keep.

  Unshed tears were stinging her eyes and she bit her lip in an effort to hold them back. Her father was dying. She would have time to cry for him later. She knew that it would break his heart to see her grieving for him now.

  Isobel ran her fingers through her hair as she walked up the staircase and towards her father’s chamber. Thinking better of leaving the unruly masses unbound, she knotted her hair upon itself at the base of her neck, hoping that the style would give her appearance a semblance of order.

  She rapped quietly upon the door of the Laird’s chamber.

  “Enter,” he boomed, then quickly followed the order with a sputtering cough.

  Isobel’s heart sank. The cough had worsened and plagued him now night and day, making sleep nearly impossible for her poor father. Forcing a smile, she opened the heavy wooden door and walked into her father’s chamber.

  “Good morning, Papa,” she said with a sweet smile as she walked over to his bedside. Isobel leaned down and placed a kiss upon her father’s cheek. His white whiskers tickled her lips.

  “Good day, sweetheart,” he said weakly.

  “Why did Hodges not open your curtains?” Isobel huffed as she turned from the bed and busied herself with letting some light into the dank chamber. She tugged open the heavy draperies and sunlight spilled forth into the room, causing McLaughlin to squint as his eyes adjusted to the sudden burst of light.

  “Hodges is not a maid, my dear,” he sputtered as he began to cough into the quilts.

  Isobel cast him a chastising look over her shoulder. She knelt to the hearth and kindled the dying fire, adding a fresh log and stirring the coals with a stick of kindling.

  “Stop fussing, sweetheart,” McLaughlin commanded as he struggled to get comfortable against the headboard. “I would have called for the maid had I wanted the curtains opened and the fire re-lit.”

  Isobel tossed the stick of kindling into the fire. She exhaled slowly and stood, walking reluctantly over towards her father’s bed. Keeping busy about the chamber was her only defense against the harsh truth.

  Her father was dying.

  Isobel sat on the edge of the bed and took her father’s hand in hers, stroking the back of his weather hardened hand with her thumb.

  “What is it Papa?” she asked as her blue eyes searched his face. Her father was literally wasting away before her eyes. He had been a strong, vibrant man only months ago and now he was but the shadow of his former self. His muscles had wasted away and his skin hung over his bones, slack and pale.

  “I have instructed Hodges to send riders out this morning, announcing the tournament for your hand in marriage, sweetheart.”

  Isobel took in a shaky breath and forced a half-smile.

  “I fear that I’ve failed you, Isobel,” McLaughlin admitted as he squeezed her hand with his own.

  Isobel shook her head vehemently from side-to-side.

  “You’ve never failed me, Papa!” she exclaimed. “You’ve been the best…”

  “I’ll hear none of it, Isobel!” he rasped in objection. “I should have seen to your marriage sooner. I should have seen to your safety by securing you a husband to protect you in my absence, but as it turns out I was selfish and could not reconcile myself to let you go.”

  “Oh, Papa!” Isobel said softly as tears began to cascade down her cheeks.

  “Wipe your tears away, lass. The time for crying is later.”

  Isobel sniffled and did as she had been told, wiping her tears on the sleeve of her gown. She straightened her posture and looked at her father.

  “I am going to die before the tournament,” McLaughlin said matter-of-factly, his blue eyes imploring Isobel to understand the full implications of his words.

  Isobel swallowed hard. She bit her lower lip in an effort to remain in control of her emotions. Her father had forbid her to cry and she would not defy him.

  “You must be strong, sweetheart. No one can know that Clan McLaughlin is without a Laird. You must oversee the tournament yourself, with the help of Hodges of course, but no one else must know. The fate of the clan and your marriage will depend upon this secret.”

  Isobel nodded. She wiped at her eyes with the heel of her hand, still struggling to hold back her tears from falling.

  “There are those that would take the Lairdship if they knew that it was vacant,” McLaughlin warned. “Look at me, Isobel,” he instructed as he studied his daughter’s face.

  Isobel brought her eyes back to her father’s, holding his gaze with blue eyes that matched his own.

  “No one must know of my death until a successor has been chosen and you have consummated your marriage. Only then will the successor be confirmed as Laird of Clan McLaughlin. Do you understand, sweetheart?”

  “I understand, Papa,” Isobel said with conviction, her voice struggling to get past the lump that had again settled in her throat.

  “Choose wisely, sweetheart,” McLaughlin said as he slumped back against the pillows. His blue eyes were filled with tears that he would not allow to fall. “And know that I love you. Know that I’ve loved you now and always, despite my shortcomings.”

  “I love you too, Papa,” Isobel whispered, holding her father’s fragile gaze.

  Rudy McLaughlin’s heart ached for what he had done to Isobel, or rather for what he had neglected to do for her.

  Failing his daughter was the greatest regret of his life.

  ..oo Chapter Six oo..

  Tristan had tried everything.

  He had spent hours at his forge, melding shards of metal into useful bits.

  It had not worked.

  He had pac
ed the floor, tearing his fingers through his hair in exasperation. He could not get the lass out of his mind. It was as if Isobel was the sunlight, her sudden appearance in his life threading through the darkness that had overtaken his world. He could think of nothing besides her beautiful face. Her high, melodic laughter floated through his mind, plaguing his thoughts with its sweet torment.

  Tristan ripped off his leather work apron and tossed it over the back of a chair. He needed fresh air to clear his mind.

  Saddling his stallion rather hastily, Tristan tossed a small loaf of bread and a wedge of cheese into the saddle bag. On a whim, he added a jug of summer ale, hoping that the spirits would quell his racing mind.

  He swung up into the saddle and kicked Justice into motion. The stallion was eager for a ride, having been neglected for the past few days. His hooves pounded the solid ground, kicking up bits of earth as they left the village and thundered towards the forest.

  Tristan lost himself in the pounding of the stallion’s hooves, steady and strong as they fell against the earth. He pushed the beast harder, willing the animal to outrun his racing thoughts. Isobel had stricken him to the very core of his being. He felt as if her blue eyes looked effortlessly into his soul, stripping him of his guise and making him consider thoughts long repressed and forgotten. Isobel had brought back the person that he used to be – the person that he had been before the tragedy.

  Tristan had never expected to desire a woman again. In his darkest moments, he had sought companionship with the odd willing lass, but he had never again expected to want a woman for more than that.

  Isobel McLaughlin was a beautiful woman. At first Tristan had believed that it was her beauty that fueled his raging attraction to her. Their meeting in the meadow had only intensified this attraction. Now Tristan knew that his attraction to the lass was fueled by something deeper. Isobel had a lightness of spirit, a raw innocence that enflamed Tristan’s protective nature. He wanted to wrap her in his arms and spirit her away from whatever troubled her. He wanted to keep her safe.