Tournament of Hearts Read online

  “Shh. Listen!” Tristan whispered. His body thrummed with adrenaline.

  Isobel’s heart thundered wildly in her chest. The words lingered unspoken on the tip of her tongue.

  “Do you hear that?” Tristan asked, his eyes scanning the dense forest that surrounded them.

  “No, I hear nothing,” Isobel said, panic overtaking her as she watched Tristan put up his guard and abruptly change into the fierce warrior that she knew him to be. He had assumed the role of her protector.

  She held her breath, trying to listen, but heard nothing save for the racing beat of her own heart.

  At last, she heard the sound.

  It was nearly imperceptible at first, coming from far in the distance. It was coming from the direction of the keep. The sound of horse hooves reverberated against the ground, growing slightly louder as they approached. Her heart sank when she heard the men calling her name, almost inaudible at first and then slightly louder as they drew closer to the forest.

  “You must go, sweetheart,” Tristan said hurriedly, his voice riddled with concern. “Tell your guards that you went for a walk and became lost in the forest. Let them find you,” he ordered.

  Isobel nodded her head sharply, indicating that she understood his instructions.

  “I will wait to see that they collect you safely. It will be alright, sweetheart,” he said softly as he clasped both sides of her face gently in his palms and slid his fingers back to bury them in her hair. He pressed his lips to hers once more, kissing her urgently.

  Isobel felt panic overtake her. Its sickening tendrils gripping her stomach and made her feel nauseous. There were so many things that she needed to tell Tristan. There were so many words that were yet unspoken.

  “Tristan!” she cried out, her mind churning to find the right words to tell him the brutal truth that was caught in her throat.

  Her eyes were wild as she glanced at the edge of the forest and then back to his face.

  “Go to them!” Tristan ordered, his eyes stormy as the hoof beats came closer. “And know that I will fight for you, Bella. Now that I’ve had you I cannot let you go! I will enter your father’s tournament.”

  “But you cannot!” Isobel exclaimed. She glanced over her shoulder as the hoof beats came even closer. “You must have noble blood to…” she trailed off, fighting the sudden urge to be sick.

  Her heart was breaking.

  Tristan clearly did not understand.

  “I can and I will. I will fight for you, Bella,” he proclaimed with pressing urgency ringing in his tone. “Go!” he ordered as he kissed her roughly and pushed her gently towards the edge of the forest before slipping into the darkness.

  Isobel glanced over her shoulder, looking to the place where Tristan had kissed her only moments before. She saw only darkness now. Her mind was reeling with the implication of his words.

  He did not understand.

  Isobel’s heart was breaking as she forced herself to put one foot in front of the other and walk towards the clearing at the edge of the trees. She could hear her father’s guards clearly now, screaming her name into the blackness of the night. She walked towards them, her mind numb and her lips tingling from Tristan’s hurried kiss.

  Tristan’s words ran through her mind.

  His words plagued her.

  The McLaughlin guards sighted Isobel immediately once she cleared the safety of the trees. Her sky blue silk gown glistened like a beacon in the moonlight. As the men raced towards her, she heard Tristan’s voice resounding in the depths of her soul.

  “I can and I will. I will fight for you Bella.”

  ..ooOoo..

  Tristan watched from the cover of the trees as Isobel was collected by her father’s guards. She was hoisted into the waiting arms of a McLaughlin warrior and Tristan gritted his teeth as he watched the man wrap her in his plaid.

  Tristan knew in the deepest corner of his heart that he was choosing to do the unthinkable. Isobel McLaughlin was worth fighting for. She was everything that he had ever wanted, everything that had been denied to him. She was his only chance at redemption. She was his only chance at happiness.

  Isobel was his sonuachar. His soulmate.

  Tristan vowed silently to cast aside everything that he was running from and fight.

  He would hide from his birthright no longer. Only his feelings for Isobel would propel him to reclaim the position he’d been meant for since birth. He was an excellent warrior and a strong leader, traits that had been cultured in him from his first breath of life.

  Tristan knew that he had the ability to win McLaughlin’s tournament.

  The chance to love was worth fighting for. Without even being aware of her power as a woman, Isobel McLaughlin had claimed Tristan’s heart. He would give his dying breath to claim her as his own.

  He stood alone, helpless in the dark moonlit night, surrounded by the looming branches of the trees. His hands felt empty without touching her, his lips ached to kiss her again. But his heart was affected the most. It pounded within his chest, beating out the mortifying rhythm of truth.

  Despite his best intentions, he had fallen in love with Isobel McLaughlin.

  ..oo Chapter Ten oo..

  Isobel closed her eyes and leaned her forehead against the cold stone wall. Bolstering her reserve, she willed herself not to cry. The chill from the stone quelled the throbbing of her head. She garnered what strength she could from the ancient walls of her ancestral home.

  “Give me strength, Papa,” she whispered, her voice barely audible in the silence of the corridor.

  Swallowing hard, she pushed away from the wall and opened her eyes. Her fingers flitted nervously to the folds in her gown and she brushed at them impatiently, wishing to look as good as she might given that she felt lousy.

  Today would be the day when she would meet her husband. Her thoughts went to Tristan, turning over the last words that he had said to her that night in the forest.

  I can and I will. I will fight for you, Bella.

  What had he meant? Her father’s decree had been painfully clear. Only men of noble birth could enter the tournament.

  And Tristan Finnegan was but a blacksmith.

  Isobel made her way down the flagstone steps, clinging tightly to the banister to steady her shaky legs, which threatened to rebel at any moment and carry her back upstairs to the safety of her chamber. She glanced at her hand, noticing how white her knuckles appeared in contrast to the dark wooden beam of the banister.

  Hodges awaited her arrival at the bottom of the staircase. He said nothing, but nodded pertly and cleared his throat as he reached for Isobel’s hand. She smiled nervously as he tucked her hand into the crook of her arm and patted the back of her hand reassuringly.

  “It will be all right, milady,” Hodges said softly as he led her towards the grand front doors of the keep.

  “I’m frightened,” Isobel admitted, swallowing hard in an effort to dislodge the knot that had built in her throat. Her hand trembled involuntarily and she grasped Hodges arm, seeking the familiar comfort that his close proximity brought.

  “As am I, dear. This is not how your father and I had planned to see you wed, but I vow to you that I shall honor your father’s memory and see that a good match is made. That was his dying wish, ye ken?”

  “Thank you, Hodges,” Isobel said softly as she felt tears welling in her eyes. Forcing them away, she straightened her spine and squeezed Hodges’ arm. “I know that my father trusted you,” she said softly as she stopped walking and looked up at the man before her. She had known Hodges her whole life. “Please help me choose wisely. Our clan depends upon my choice,” she whispered, suddenly feeling the full weight of her burden bear down upon her.

  “Aye, lass. We shall do this together,” he said as he leaned down and placed a chaste kiss upon Isobel’s forehead. “I loved your father as a brother and I shall see to it that a good match for you is made. And if by chance we choose wrong, or if the wrong man claims victory in
the tournament, I’ll use my dying breath tae insure that no harm comes tae ye, lass,” Hodges vowed, his eyebrows arched in a somewhat sinister manner. “I’ll kill the bastard if he does ye wrong. Just as yer father would have done were he here.”

  Isobel’s heart beat faster as she understood the implications of Hodges vow.

  “Shall we?” she asked hollowly as she straightened her spine and looked towards the massive oak doors that led to the courtyard before McLaughlin keep.

  “Aye lass. We shall go, they will be waiting for us now. Never forget that I am by your side. Show no weakness and give no indication about your father’s death. Our secret is vital.”

  Isobel nodded and stepped forward to meet her fate.

  Hodges opened the giant doors, ushering Isobel into the bright sunlit courtyard. She was blinded for an instant as her eyes adjusted to the afternoon sunlight. Her blue eyes squinted as the men standing before her came into focus.

  There were nine of them. Her eyes scanned the warriors as her heart raced wildly in her chest. She recognized the first man at once. When her eyes focused on Rogan Cameron she felt dread settle in her stomach. Tearing her eyes away from the massive warrior, she glanced at the other men. Their faces were unknown to her, save for the man standing next to Rogan Cameron.

  Isobel’s heart flip-flopped in her chest.

  His hazel eyes were warm and comforting as they locked with hers.

  Tristan Finnegan, the blacksmith, stood before her. He wore a crimson kilt and a fine hammered breastplate, which glimmered radiantly in the afternoon sunlight.

  Isobel inhaled sharply when Tristan had the audacity to wink at her. She struggled to hide the relief that flooded through her body at seeing Tristan amongst her suitors. Her hand trembled and she fisted her fingers into her gown. Isobel tore her eyes away from the blacksmith, hoping that her true emotions had not played openly across her face.

  Her father’s men could never know that she held Tristan in such high regard. She knew that she loved him already. Isobel worried that her heart would betray her. She hoped that her face would mask her true emotions, the emotions that were becoming stronger with each glance that passed between them.

  Isobel dared to hope that they might have a chance, albeit a slim one, of living their lives together and relishing that love. She knew not what stroke of luck had allowed Tristan to stand before her in the line of suitors, but her heart was bursting with gratefulness.

  When she caught Tristan watching her it made her heart go wild in her chest. She knew that he could do no more than offer her a knowing smile, but there was an intimacy in his hazel eyes that drew her in and made her forget that she needed to pretend as if they were mere strangers. Tristan’s eyes enchanted her, made her feel vibrantly alive. They reflected his hidden desires as well as a deep sense of longing. She wanted to do naught but stare into his familiar eyes, but she knew that her own longing would betray her if she indulged this fantasy.

  Pray that he will win!

  Tristan’s muscles tensed when Isobel’s eyes flitted back to meet his for a mere second. He saw the unmistakable burning of desire in her blue eyes and he forced himself to look away from her. How Isobel could affect him with but a simple, heated glance! He made an intentional effort to calm his breathing and slow his racing heartbeat.

  Assume command. Remain calm. Ye must appear wholly detached. They cannot see what she means to ye. Tristan chanted the words over and over in his mind. He could never let them know what she meant to him, never let his emotions show. For if his competitors discovered what was between them, the budding love that he and Isobel shared, it would be his undoing.

  They would use her against him.

  Tristan squared his shoulders and prepared for the battle of his life. The battle which would also be for Isobel’s life and very well-being.

  He would not fail her.

  Maintaining his rigid posture, Tristan’s eyes slanted to the left. Their slight movement was the only indication of acknowledgement that he gave to the men that would be his competitors. His gaze shifted towards the right, where he could just make out the Cameron warrior’s profile. He could feel the burn of his opponent’s dark eyes boring holes into the side of his head. Turning ever so slightly to show the Cameron that he would not be intimidated, Tristan’s bold gaze challenged his opponent.

  Rogan Cameron’s face possessed a steadfast, hungry look of determination. His brown eyes glinted wildly and the small muscle in his jaw twitched as he noticed that Tristan was looking at him.

  Tristan stood erect with his muscles tense, his tightly clenched jaw the only indication that he had heard the muttered insult from the man standing next to him. He did not lower himself to responding to Rogan Cameron’s comment. Tristan knew that weak men uttered insults under their breath, especially when they were intimidated by an opponent. He hoped to Hell that this was the situation with Cameron. The Cameron was the son of Clan McLaughlin’s war chief and was known across the Highlands as a fearsome warrior.

  The other men, highborn sons of neighboring Lairds and Nobles posed no threat to Tristan. He wondered how many of their swords had been crafted by his own hand. Tristan was confident of his superior swordsmanship, having been trained for battle his whole life.

  Yes, Cameron would be the only one of the men that would pose a challenge. Rogan Cameron did not fight honorably or fairly. He fought to win.

  Tristan felt the burn of his opponent’s dark eyes once again. Tristan allowed the corner of his mouth to turn up into an arrogant smile and he turned to acknowledge Cameron only briefly before returning his attention to Hodges. Tristan had long ago tuned out the steady stream of rules for engagement that Hodges spewed from a lengthy list. Much care had been taken to ensure that the tournament was governed appropriately and that more importantly, the results of the tournament would be most official.

  “The field shall be narrowed to two men, men whose strength, cunning and victories have outshone all other contestants. From these two men, Lady Isobel shall choose her preferred husband,” Hodges announced, his voice ringing loudly above the crowd.

  Tristan allowed his eyes to glance at where Isobel stood next to Hodges. She stood regally, spine erect and chin held high as she looked over the crowd that had gathered for the spectacle. He could tell that she was terrified, but she was strong and hid her emotions well.

  Tristan slid his fingers beneath the metal of his breastplate, pulling the heated metal out slightly from his chest and shrugging his shoulders. The oppressive heat of the unnecessary garment was a burden than he had borne solely for the purpose of formality. He had suspected that the other contenders would come dressed in their finery and given his current station as a blacksmith, Tristan had worn the breastplate to claim his rightful place as their equal. He had never grown accustomed to wearing the silly garment, had never found use for the meager protection that the scrap of polished metal provided. He much preferred to fight with his arms and chest free of restraint so that he might exercise his full range of motion. He tugged at the hot metal again and silently vowed that this would be the only time that he wore the damned thing.

  Shifting his eyes to focus on Isobel made him forget all about the bloody breastplate. The same afternoon sun that had made him unpleasantly hot blurred the lines of the great McLaughlin keep, sending waves of heat upward around Isobel, cloaking her as if she was a fallen angel. She stood as still and picturesque as a statue. She was the epitome of grace and virtue.

  Tristan knew at once that the men beside him were not here only to claim the Lairdship as Isobel believed. There was no man alive that could resist Isobel’s beauty. The men beside him wanted Isobel as well as the Lairdship to which she held the key.

  They wanted what was his.

  Damn the bloody Lairdship. Isobel McLaughlin belonged to him. Tristan fought the urge to climb the stone steps and sweep Isobel into his arms. He wanted to kiss her soft lips and stake claim to her in front of his competitors. He wanted to da
re them to try to take her away.

  Isobel was his. And he was hers.

  You can never let them know.

  He repeated the words again and again, cautioning himself to govern his actions carefully. To show any indication of his love for Isobel would betray them both.

  They can never know. They can never know of what lies between us.

  He cast his eyes back towards the ground and began to tug anxiously at his breastplate once more. If Cameron and the others discovered what had transpired between him and Isobel, they would surely use such knowledge against him. His love for Isobel McLaughlin was now a weakness, vulnerability. Although the very same love bolstered his confidence and gave him a reason to fight, it might also be his downfall.

  They can never know.

  ..oo Chapter Eleven oo..

  “The first challenge shall be one of archery,” Hodges bellowed from where he stood on the small podium that had been constructed for the occasion of the tournament. His words were formal as he addressed the contenders and the crowd of clansmen that had gathered to watch the spectacle.

  Archery! Isobel’s heart leapt. Tristan had a good chance of winning this challenge! Her blood raced through her veins and she said a quick prayer of gratitude for the unexpected stroke of good fortune.

  Isobel worked hard to repress the smile that threatened to reveal itself at her lips. Her fingers toyed with the fabric of the silk gown that she wore. She suddenly felt too hot, too confined by the copious folds of the heavy silk. Thinking it best not to look at Tristan, she turned her head slightly sideways towards Hodges and made every attempt to focus her attention upon his words.

  Hodges was a quiet man, not given to speaking in public. Isobel was seated in a high-backed chair next to where Hodges stood. She knew that his role as Master of the Tournament was not one that suited him comfortably. His face was ruddy and his hands were clasped together in front of him to minimize fidgeting. Hodges was doing his absolute best to run the tournament in a manner befitting of her father’s memory. Rudy McLaughlin would have been proud of his soft spoken friend.