Tournament of Hearts (4 page)

The smile fell
from Tristan’s face as he watched Isobel.  Her hair spilled onto the grass
behind her, stark in contrast with the green grass.  The sun warmed her lightly
freckled face and Tristan knew that he had never beheld a lovelier sight than
Isobel McLaughlin.

“Are you an
archer, Tristan?” Isobel asked as her eyes flew open.  She had seen the long
bow and quiver tethered to his horse when she had arrived. 

“I’d not call
myself an archer, but as a means of sport, aye.  I can hold my own with a bow
and on a good day, I can take some game.”

“Best two out of
three?” Isobel challenged as she arched her eyebrow suggestively in the
direction of the bow.

Tristan took
another sip of ale and passed the jug to Isobel, smiling slightly at her
competitive nature.

“Or are you afraid
to be bested by a woman?” she added with a provocative smile.

Tristan narrowed
his eyes as means of accepting her challenge.  He nodded once at Isobel, who
smiled sweetly as she lifted the earthenware jug of ale to her lips.  Standing
abruptly, Tristan strode over to Justice and untied the bow.  He slung the
quiver over his shoulder and walked back towards Isobel.

Her face was
flushed from the ale, casting a lovely pink glow about her cheeks.  Tristan
offered her his hand and she took it readily, giggling softly as he lifted her
to her feet. 

Isobel felt the
warmth of the ale spread through her body, casting a lightness of spirit that
made her momentarily forget her troubles.  As Tristan pulled her to her feet,
she giggled for no reason in particular and lost her balance only slightly,
using her palm against Tristan’s chest to steady herself. 

Still laughing
softly from the unfamiliar sensation of the ale, Isobel looked up into
Tristan’s hazel eyes as she braced herself against his expansive chest.  His
smile was genuine and she noticed that it was slightly lop-sided, lending him
an endearing, boyish quality.  Her eyes locked with his for a split second,
increasing the cadence of her heart beat.  Isobel righted herself quickly,
regaining her balance and taking a step away from the blacksmith.

“I think you’re
drunk, milady,” Tristan said with a chuckle.  His voice was soft and teasing.

Isobel stifled a
giggle and brought her hand to her lips in an effort to hide her broad smile. 
It felt delicious to cast her cares aside and indulge in these new feelings. 
It felt delicious to be alone with Tristan again.

“Do ye think it
wise to challenge me to a competition when ye can hardly stand straight
upright?” Tristan chided playfully.

Isobel shook her
head, admitting the silliness of her challenge.

“And when I win,
what shall be my prize?” he asked with a mischievous grin.

“I am a very good
shot, blacksmith,” Isobel said with confidence as she straightened her spine
and tried to repress the warm, heady affect of the ale.  “I’ll know my prize
first,” she said as she crossed her arms and glowered at Tristan.

“So sure of
yerself,” Tristan goaded as he clicked his tongue and shook his head from
side-to-side.  “We’ll see about that,” he said as he removed an arrow from the
quiver and threaded it into the string of the bow.  “As far as yer prize,
understand lass that it is quite unlikely that you shall win, but should a
miracle occur you may keep the dagger without paying me for it.”

“Hmm,” Isobel said
as she smiled ruefully.  “That sounds reasonable enough, blacksmith.”

“And what shall be
my prize when I win?”

“I’ve not decided
yet,” Isobel said as she bit her lower lip.  “I had not considered the fact
that you might win.”

Tristan laughed
earnestly, a deep rumbling sound that resounded through the trees.  Isobel
McLaughlin was a woman unlike any he had met before. 

“I’ll consider it
and advise you when I decide,” she said, scrunching her eyebrows together.

“Alright then. 
Ladies first,” he said as he strode towards Isobel and handed her the bow. 
“Where is our target?”

“Just over there. 
Do you see the slight hollow place in that tree?” she asked, holding the bow
and arrow in one hand while pointing with the other.

“Aye.  I see it. 
Can ye shoot that far, lass?”

“Watch me,” Isobel
said with an air of challenge and she fitted the hilt of the arrow between her
fingers and gripped the bow sternly with her opposite hand.  Her eyebrows were
furrowed together in concentration and her teeth clenched tightly as she drew
back the string expertly and let the arrow fly.

It whizzed through
the air and struck just left of the target.

Isobel nodded in
approval and lowered the bow.  She smiled arrogantly and handed the weapon to
Tristan.

Without speaking,
he drew out another arrow and fitted it to the bow.  He took aim and loosed the
arrow, sending it whistling through the air.  It struck the tree just left of
the target, slightly farther away than Isobel’s first effort.

His hazel eyes
found hers.  She said nothing and yet he could tell that she was gloating on
the inside.  She was just too well-bred to let her happiness at his poor shot
show noticeably on the outside.

“Your shot, milady,”
he said as he bowed slightly and offered her the bow and a fresh arrow.

Isobel strung the
arrow and took her mark, closing one eye to focus in on the distant target. 
She pulled the bow string taut and let the arrow fly.  She held her breath as
the arrow zipped through the air and found its mark, still slightly left of the
target but closer than her first attempt.  Isobel bit her lip in an effort not
to smile.  A Lady did not gloat.

“Blacksmith,” she
said, stone faced as she handed Tristan his bow.

He took the weapon
and deftly fit another arrow against the string.  Exhaling slowly, he raised
the bow and with painstaking precision he drew back the string.  Aiming further
to the right, he loosed the arrow.  It struck the tree with a resounding thud
as it embedded into the trunk, just to the right of the target.

“Last shot, milady. 
It looks as though you may win,” Tristan said as he repressed the urge to
smile.  Isobel was struggling to contain her excitement at the prospect.  Her
blonde curls fell loosely about her shoulders, complimenting the lovely pink
hue of her cheeks.

She took the bow
and extended her hand expectantly for an arrow.  Tristan obliged and watched in
awe of her feminine grace as she deftly fitted the hilt of the arrow into the
bow string and drew it back.  Isobel released the arrow and failed to hide her
excitement when it struck even closer to the center of the target.

She hopped up in
the air with enthusiasm and then bit her lip in an effort to quell her
exuberance.

“One more chance
at redemption, blacksmith,” she said sweetly after composing herself and
handing him the bow.

Tristan took the
bow and reached behind his shoulder, drawing out the final arrow.  He
skillfully fitted the arrow to the bow and spun on his heel, loosing the arrow
expertly as he turned.  It shot through the air and struck the target dead
center.

Tristan turned
non-chelauntly to Isobel and winked playfully.  Her mouth hung open slightly
and she made a conscious effort to close it.

“Have you decided
upon a prize yet?” he teased as he plucked at the string of his bow.  He
suddenly felt guilty for misleading the lass.  He was more than just a casual
hunter.  Tristan Finnegan was known far and wide in the Highlands as an expert
marksman.  The lass hadn’t stood a chance and yet she too was a remarkably good
shot.

“I have,” Isobel
said, still reeling to recover from the thrill of her defeat.  She had been
sure that she was going to best the blacksmith.  “Close your eyes,” she said
sharply.  “I want it to be a true surprise,” she added.

Tristan obliged
her and closed his eyes.  The corner of his mouth turned up slightly into the
faintest hint of a smile.

Isobel watched him
now, enjoying the fact that she could appraise him openly now that his eyes
were closed.  Tristan Finnegan was a handsome man.  A few threads of his sandy
blonde hair had escaped their leather binding, lending him a rugged, wild
look.  His face was angular and his nose straight except for the tell-tale spot
where it had been broken.  There was a faint dusting of stubble along his jaw
line and Isobel suddenly wondered what it would feel like to touch him there.

The warmth of the
summer ale emboldened her and she took two steps towards the blacksmith.  She
stood so close to him now that she could feel the heat of his breath against
the skin of her face.  Their close proximity caused Isobel’s heart to race. 

She reached up
hesitantly at first, her fingers hovering just above the warm skin of Tristan’s
jaw.  Her breath came raggedly as she contemplated her next action. 

She wanted to
touch Tristan.

“Keep your eyes
closed,” she whispered.

“I wouldna dare
peek,” Tristan said as his smile tugged up at the corner of his mouth.

Isobel’s fingers
trembled as they brushed lightly against his skin, trailing over the prickly
stubble that studded his jaw line.  Her touch grew bolder as her fingers moved
over his cheek.

 Isobel watched
Tristan’s reaction intently. 

His eyes clenched
shut momentarily and then relaxed.  Her touch had obviously affected him
greatly.  His mouth was set firm, his lips full but expressionless now.  What
she did not notice was how his hands curled into fists at his side.  Tristan
Finnegan was fighting his response to her with every thread of his being.

Not alright. 
She was too close. 

Tristan fought his
bodily reaction to the beautiful lass, fought the instinctual desire to gather
her in his arms and kiss her senseless.  Isobel McLaughlin had dropped into his
life and turned it upside down.  She had single handedly made him yearn for
dreams that he had long forgotten.  The undeniable attraction that he felt for
her was overwhelming, especially now that she stood only a breath away from
him.

Isobel ignored the
small voice inside her head that screamed for her to exercise caution.  Her
pulse trilled in her veins and suddenly there was no space separating her from
Tristan.  Her palms were now flat against his chest and she could feel the
warmth radiating from beneath his linen shirt.

Standing on her
tip toes, Isobel tilted her head up and pressed her lips softly against Tristan’s. 
She felt him intake a swift breath of surprise.

 His hazel eyes
flew open in shock and then closed again as he reached up to cup her cheek.  He
pulled her closer and pressed his lips gently back against hers. 

Isobel felt
lightning zip down her spine as Tristan kissed her softly.  His lips moved
gently against hers and he growled softly within his throat, a deeply masculine
sound.  His breath was warm against her mouth and his lips tasted of the ale
that they had shared.  Isobel suddenly wondered if she was going to be able to
support herself.  The new, thrilling sensation of Tristan’s lips against her
own coupled with the heady buzz of the ale was pure dizzying bliss.

Tristan indulged
in the act of kissing her, knowing full well that he should draw away from her
but unable to force himself to do so.  She was all consuming, invading his
senses and striking all reasonable thoughts from his brain.

 There was only
Isobel.

 He kissed her
soft, wet lips and allowed a temporary rush of madness to govern his actions. 
The kind of madness where the needs of the body ruled over the good sense of
his mind.

Tristan kissed her
once more and then slowly withdrew, resting his forehead lightly against hers.

“That was a better
prize than I deserved,” he whispered.

Isobel smiled
shyly, suddenly self-conscious of her bold gesture.  Her heart raced when she
realized that her hand had found its way up behind Tristan’s neck.  His hands
had settled in the small of her back.  She had no memory of either of their
hands moving.  She was slightly ashamed of her boldness, but still could not
find it within herself to regret kissing Tristan.

Isobel’s innocent
kiss had seduced Tristan completely.  He had been fanaticizing about what it
would feel like to kiss her and now that he knew how sweet she tasted, he
yearned for more.  He yearned for more even though he knew that indulging his
desires with the lass was dangerous.

Tristan’s rational
mind screamed for him to tread cautiously, but his body had other ideas. 

He pulled her in
for another gentle kiss.

Tristan growled as
he claimed her mouth tenderly.  His tongue flicked at her lips and she opened
instinctually for him. 

When his tongue
brushed lightly against hers, Isobel lost all rational thought from the shear
pleasure of kissing Tristan.  She had never imagined that kissing a man could
feel so heavenly!  A sound escaped her lips and she was shocked to realize that
it was a needful moan.

Tristan growled in
response and stroked his tongue inside her mouth again, causing Isobel’s knees
to go weak.  She sagged against his chest and he wrapped his arms supportively
around her, pulling her even closer.  His mouth arched over hers, teaching and
coaxing her with his gentle kiss.

Isobel had never
felt anything so exquisite in her life.  Her hands were wrapped around
Tristan’s muscular shoulders and she held him close, relishing the sweet,
tingling sensations that his possessive kiss yielded.  She craved more of him.

Tristan regained
his control and broke the kiss, pulling his lips away from Isobel so that they
hovered just beyond her sweet mouth.

“Milady,” he
whispered softly as he rested his forehead against hers and struggled to slow
his ragged breathing. “Forgive me for taking such liberties.”