Tournament of Hearts Read online

  Isobel felt the intense burn of his hazel eyes on her skin and she looked away at once. She wanted to run into Tristan’s arms and allow him to comfort her. She wanted to tell him of her father’s passing and why she had not met him as planned for her lessons with the dagger. She could tell from the look in his eyes that he had been hurt.

  “It looks as though Lady Isobel has suffered an injury,” Tristan said to Alex. “The horse can wait. I’ve plenty of time to fit her for a new shoe, but I reckon we should take care of the Lady’s needs first.”

  “Have you anything to clean it with?” Alex asked as he looked over at Isobel’s blood crusted wound.

  “Aye. Let me wash my hands and I’ll tend it for her. I’ve a mind for cleaning up such things on horses, ye ken?”

  “Alright,” Alex said as he motioned for Isobel to follow Tristan. “Call if ye need us,” he said dismissively as he walked over to join the rest of the guards who had gathered in the shade of a small tree across the street from the shop.

  Isobel’s heart raced as she followed Tristan beneath the roof of the open-air shop. She had not dared to dream that her guards would allow her to be alone with Tristan.

  Her blood rushed at the prospect.

  “Sit,” Tristan said as he motioned to a tree stump that he often used for a stool. He still did not look at her and began to scrub his hands in a clean basin of water in preparation of tending Isobel’s wound.

  Isobel followed his order and sat on the stool, smoothing her dirty skirts about her legs. She could tell by the cold manner in which Tristan regarded her that he was being extra careful. They could not allow the guards to know that they knew each other.

  Tristan dried his hands and turned towards her now. He glanced over his shoulder to ensure that the McLaughlin men were still seated at a safe distance beneath the tree. It was not that he was weary of McLaughlin’s men, it was that he was weary of what they might tell Isobel’s father should they suspect anything.

  He grabbed a small basin filled with water and a clean cloth. His fingers ached to touch Isobel. Tristan fought the urge to run his fingers over every inch of her body to ensure that she was indeed unhurt. And once he was sure that she was well he would kiss her senseless for giving him undue worry. He clenched his jaw knowing that he would not be able to touch Isobel beyond the decent boundary of tending her wounds, no matter how much he longed to kiss her again.

  “What happened? Are you well, lass?” he asked tenderly as he crouched in front of her. He cast a quick glance over his shoulder to ensure that they were still alone.

  “Apple threw me when she slipped her shoe,” Isobel said with a quivering chin. “I wish that you could hold me,” she stammered, feeling her face color as the bold request slipped from her lips.

  “You know that I cannot, milady,” Tristan whispered as he dipped the cloth in the cool water. His hazel eyes searched Isobel’s for understanding as he gently pressed the cloth against her wound. “But also know that I would like to,” Tristan admitted as he graced her with his familiar lop-sided grin.

  “They are watching us,” Isobel whispered as she smiled at her guards and gestured that she was alright.

  “Watching you is what they are paid for. They are wise to do their job well,” Tristan said as he dabbed the cloth against Isobel’s skin.

  She winced and gritted her teeth. The water caused the wound to sting fiercely.

  “Shh…lass. It will be alright,” Tristan cooed sweetly as he dipped the cloth in the cool water and gently pressed it against her skin once more.

  His words calmed her. Isobel knew that he was trying to be painstakingly gentle.

  “Why did you compare me to a horse?” she asked suddenly through her clenched teeth.

  “I did not!” Tristan huffed as he arched an eyebrow incredulously.

  “You most certainly did! You said that you had a mind for such treatments on horses.”

  “Och, well, I guess that I did say that,” Tristan relented as he flashed a devilish smile. “I just wanted to find a way to be alone with you,” he whispered. “I needed to know that you were alright.”

  Isobel’s heart raced in her chest at Tristan’s tender words.

  “Ye are alright?” he asked as he arched an eyebrow inquisitively at her.

  “Yes, I’m fine,” she said quietly. “Except for this,” she said as she looked down at her shoulder.

  Tristan bent his head as he worked diligently to clean the wound, being ever so gentle in an effort not to bring her further discomfort. He peeled back the shreds of her gown and painstakingly washed the debris from her delicate skin. His eyebrows were furrowed with concentration as he focused on his task. When he was finally satisfied with his work, he withdrew the cloth and trailed his finger lightly over the skin of Isobel’s collarbone. She closed her eyes and shuddered, but a small smile graced her lips.

  “I waited for you, ken?” he said softly as his hazel eyes looked up to meet her gaze.

  “I couldn’t get away,” Isobel whispered as she glanced over Tristan’s shoulder at her guards. She trusted Tristan, but she dared not tell him about her father. Not yet.

  “I thought that perhaps you regretted…” Tristan’s eyes were downcast as his words trailed off. “That you regretted allowing me to kiss you.”

  “No!” Isobel exclaimed. Her heart ached for Tristan. Of course he would think that she did not desire his attentions! She had not shown up for her lessons as planned. What else would the man think?

  “Kissing you was magical,” she admitted as her cheeks flushed pink. “I simply could not slip my guards. I’m sorry that you thought that I had rebuked you,” she said as her hand grazed over his.

  Tristan smiled slightly.

  “I found it to be magical too,” he agreed as his eyes boldly locked with Isobel’s.

  The desire in his hazel eyes caused Isobel’s heart to race. She wanted him to touch her again. Right now.

  “Tomorrow?” he asked, his voice deep and guarded.

  “Aye,” Isobel said with a soft smile. She knew that she would think of nothing besides Tristan until they met in the forest tomorrow. Mayhap he would kiss her again. The mere thought of his gentle touch made her heart pound with anticipation, beating a frantic rhythm in her chest.

  Tristan sat down the cloth and reached for a small pot of salve. Dipping a generous portion of the ointment onto his finger, he covered the wound lightly and then wrapped a clean strip of linen around Isobel’s shoulder.

  “All better,” he said huskily as he leaned forward and inspected the bandage. Being sure that the guards were not looking, he leaned closer and placed a kiss on Isobel’s cheek. The roughness of his whiskers sent delicious shivers down her spine.

  “Be careful,” he whispered against her neck as he fumbled with the bandage. His breath was warm and comforting against her skin.

  “Aye,” Isobel said coolly. The light touch of Tristan’s lips against her skin had made it difficult to breathe.

  She wanted nothing more than for him to fold her into his protective embrace and hold her. She wanted to fist her hands into the clean linen of his shirt and inhale his familiar masculine scent.

  But all of these things that she wanted were impossible now. The McLaughlin men watched Isobel’s every move. She knew that she must go even though she wanted nothing more than to stay in Tristan’s company. Silently, Isobel admitted to herself that she wanted more than just his company. She wanted him to kiss her again.

  Tomorrow.

  She said the word over and over again in her mind.

  I’ll see you tomorrow.

  The promise of seeing Tristan, of feeling his lips on hers again built hope in her heart.

  Until tomorrow. We can be together again tomorrow.

  Her eyes locked with his.

  Tristan saw longing in her sky blue depths. The corner of his mouth turned up into the barest hint of a smile. He was pleased to discover that Isobel was having she same scandalous thoughts as
he was. His fingers ached to touch her again and he saw a longing that mirrored his own deep within Isobel’s eyes.

  “Go to them, sweetheart,” he whispered. His voice was deep and sultry.

  “Aye,” Isobel whispered as she extended her hand.

  Tristan took her outstretched hand readily, enveloping it within the warmth of his own. He raised her knuckles to his lips and placed a kiss there, causing Isobel’s breath to come rapidly. Allowing his lips to touch her skin a moment longer than was proper, Tristan withdrew his lips reluctantly, then raised up and smiled.

  “Go now, milady. For I canna control myself much longer,” he said with a playful wink. He released Isobel’s hand and motioned for her to rejoin the McLaughlin men. “You must go now, Bella.”

  Isobel smiled and looked into Tristan’s wanting eyes. He had called her “Bella.” The sweetness of the endearment nearly melted her heart.

  His hazel eyes told Isobel everything that she needed to know. Tristan felt the same burning desire that she did. As Isobel walked, knees shaking towards her guards, she realized that she wanted Tristan Finnegan more than she had ever wanted anything in her life.

  ..oo Chapter Eight oo..

  “I’ve news for you, son,” Hector Cameron said as he clapped Rogan on the shoulder and offered his only son a mug of ale.

  “Aye?” Rogan said tiredly. He loosened the straps of his breast plate and ran his fingers through his dirt crusted hair before taking a drink. He took an enormous gulp of ale, thinking that it must have been the best that he’d ever tasted. Rogan was bone tired from the raid on the Grants. He wanted naught more than another mug of this delicious ale and the welcome sight of his bed.

  Hector leaned close to his son’s ear. His eyes darted around the great hall to ensure that no one in the bustling room was listening to their conversation.

  “The Laird is dead,” he whispered. “McLaughlin passed nigh on a fortnight ago.”

  “Christ, Da!” Rogan exclaimed as he sputtered, nearly choking on his ale. “Does the whole clan know?” he asked, his eyes wild.

  “Shh!” Hector barked. He elbowed his son harshly in the ribs. “Of course the clan doesna know! What, with no successor? Are ye daft, son?”

  Rogan took another sip of ale. He set his mug down and toyed with the handle as he processed the surprising news. Rudy McLaughlin had been a good man. Rogan was sorry to hear of his passing.

  “He’s not chosen an heir,” Hector whispered, again glancing over his shoulder. The room was a buzz with conversation. The band of warriors that Rogan had led on the raid had returned just after dark. The great hall was the hub of the clan, the very place where the McLaughlin warriors were welcomed home by their families.

  “Why would he do such a reckless thing? He’s been ill for quite some time. Seemed to me that he had ample time to choose a husband for Isobel,” Rogan whispered thoughtfully as he took another dreg of ale, this time emptying his mug.

  Hector laughed as he thought of his friend. Rudy had been unconventional at best.

  “There is somewhat of an opportunity,” Hector began. “McLaughlin devised a tournament of sorts before his death, a tournament whose victor will claim Isobel’s hand in marriage as well as the McLaughlin Lairdship.”

  “Christ!” Rogan swore under his breath. “Did the Laird go daft? A tournament?”

  “Guard your voice, son!” Hector barked. He glowered at his son, his glare silencing Rogan’s comments.

  “Tis reckless,” Rogan said as he looked down at his hands. He had known Isobel the entirety of his life and the fact that her father would leave her marriage up to the chance of a hastily planned tournament did not sit right in his mind. Isobel was a lovely lass, the pride and joy of her clan. She deserved better.

  “You could win this tournament,” Hector said as he reached over and grabbed his son’s arm. “You could win, Rogan! Think of it! Our blood mingling with the McLaughlin’s! My son and future grandsons rightfully claiming the Lairdship to this clan!”

  Rogan looked at his father. Hector Cameron was battle worn from a life of war and struggle. He had trained his son to do the only thing that he himself had ever known. He had trained his only son to be a fearsome, ruthless warrior.

  Hector Cameron was right.

  Rogan could win this tournament.

  Rogan reached over and gripped his father’s arm.

  “I will win the tournament,” he vowed. “I will win it for the both of us.”

  ..oo Chapter Nine oo..

  Isobel ran like the devil was at her heels, her blonde curls streaming out behind her in the silver glow of the moonlight. Her feet trod carefully against the earth as she raced towards to cover of the dark forest. She leapt from side-to-side, her boots dodging dry leaves and sticks that would betray her presence. Her heart fluttered with anticipation as adrenaline coursed through her body. Her father’s guards were ever watchful and it was no small feat to escape their detection.

  The keep loomed behind her, its stones glowing white in the moonlight. Isobel reached the security of the trees, the dark foreboding branches cloaking her with welcoming secrecy.

  She had made it.

  The welcome sense of relief coursed through her body, putting her at ease and slowing the rampant beating of her heart.

  Slowing her gait to a leisurely walk, Isobel walked deeper into the forest. The light of the full moon lit her path, but the branches of the trees made it difficult to progress quickly. Excitement filled her senses and she realized just how much she was looking forward to meeting Tristan.

  She wanted to see him just once more. Tonight was the eve of the blasted tournament that would decide her fate.

  Tonight was precious.

  It was the last night when she would feel truly free, truly able to enjoy the life that had been hers. She wanted to feel alive tonight, to feel the hot blood rushing through her veins. She wanted to spend this last night with Tristan and under the ruse of needing one more lesson with her dagger, she had gotten him to agree to meet her in the forest.

  She cursed herself for hoping that he might kiss her again.

  With just a look of his alluring hazel eyes, Tristan could make her have all sorts of improper thoughts.

  ..ooOoo..

  Tristan slowed his breathing and leaned his head back against the trunk of the tree. A rueful smile tugged up the corner of his full mouth.

  He could hear Isobel approaching from a mile away.

  A drunken sailor could stagger through the forest with more grace and secrecy than petite Isobel McLaughlin. Tristan smiled silently as her boot snapped yet another dry stick littering the forest path. He had to bite his lip in a mighty effort to stifle a laugh when he heard her curse out loud at her lack of ability to remain silent. Lady Isobel McLaughlin was a contradiction if he had ever seen one.

  A beautiful, intriguing contradiction that had overtaken his every waking thought.

  Mo sonuachar.

  He smiled as he thought of the lovely, unconventional lass that had completely stolen his heart.

  Perhaps tonight he would tell her. Perhaps tonight he would tell her the truth that beat in his heart.

  He was falling in love with her.

  Tristan’s muscles tensed as she came closer. His breathing was shallow and restrained as he leaned back against the trunk of the tree. Isobel was now directly behind the tree that secreted his presence. Calculating his move with remarkable precision, Tristan sprang from his hideout and clapped a hand over Isobel’s mouth.

  Isobel’s heart nearly stopped.

  A wave of complete terror zipped up her spine and sent adrenaline flooding through her body as her captor wrapped a muscled arm about her middle and pulled her towards himself.

  Fight or flight.

  Her captor was much stronger than she, which eliminated the option of flight. Isobel screamed against his hand and prepared to fight.

  She stomped her boot harshly against the top of his foot, catching her captor by surprise
. He eased his grip about her waist only slightly, but it was enough. Reacting instantly, Isobel spun in his arms and brought her knee up towards his groin.

  Anticipating her intent, the man moved to block her knee, giving Isobel a split second advantage. She shrugged from his grasp and reached beneath her skirt for her dagger. Relief surged through her body when her hand melded around the familiar metal hilt of the weapon.

  At least now she would have a chance to defend herself.

  “I’d be a fool to let you get away with kneeing me there twice,” Tristan said with a chuckle as he relaxed his stance and removed his hood to reveal himself.

  “Tristan!” Isobel scolded. Her hands went to her hips momentarily and then crossed in front of her chest. “What on Earth? You scared me half to death!”

  “As was my intention,” Tristan said gloatingly as he raked a hand through his unbound hair. “You asked me to teach you to fight,” he said as a manner of defense. He could tell that Isobel was steaming mad.

  “But I most certainly did not ask for you to accost me in the process!”

  “It comes with the territory, milady,” Tristan said teasingly as he bowed with mock formality. “Think of it as a test of your fledgling skill.”

  Isobel shook her head in exasperation. She struggled to control the racing beat of her heart.

  “Ye did braw well, lass. I’m right proud of ye,” Tristan complimented, his face lit by the moonlight and a proud smile. “Must have had a good teacher.”

  “The best,” Isobel said, smiling softly and conceding. She simply could not find it within herself to stay angry with Tristan. He had taken the task of teaching her to protect herself very seriously and had clearly meant only to test her skill.

  Pride suddenly surged within Isobel. She had done well. Her smile grew as she looked up at Tristan in the moonlight.

  “I do believe that I’ve upheld my end of the bargain, lass,” Tristan said as he looked down at Isobel. “I’ve taught you to fight and now you must tell me why you need the weapon.”

  Isobel’s alabaster skin glowed radiantly in the moonlight, lending her an ethereal glow. Tristan fought the sudden urge to reach out and touch her face, deciding instead to reach out and take Isobel’s dagger before she skewered him with it. The point of the weapon was mere inches from his chest. His fingers brushed lightly against hers and he guided the dagger away from his chest, moving both the weapon and her hand down to her side.