Tournament of Hearts (6 page)

“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.

Isobel
felt electricity shoot through her body as Tristan’s hand lingered upon hers. 
Her lips parted slightly and she gazed up at him, so overtaken by her bodily
response to his touch that she was unable to move.  The full moon lit his
handsome features, and Isobel’s eyes flitted over his angular jaw.  Her eyes
traced over the days growth of stubble that lie there, and she fought the urge
to reach up and touch him, remembering how delicious it had felt to touch the
line of his jaw.  Her eyes danced up to meet his and she knew at once that he
had read her mind.

 Tristan
had seen the desire in her eyes, despite the fact that she had tried to conceal
it.

“Why
do you need the dagger, Bella?” he said softly, breaking the intense silence
that had fallen between them.

He
wanted naught but to kiss her again, but first he would know the truth.

“To
protect myself,” she said stubbornly as she sheathed the weapon beneath the folds
of her skirt.  Isobel’s mind was rattled having just heard Tristan call her
‘Bella.’  The pet name was precious, warming the space in her chest and
dizzying her mind.

“I
surmised as much,” Tristan said with a chuckle.  “From whom, may I ask?”

“From
my husband.”

Isobel’s
words shook Tristan to the core.  He knew that he had fallen hard for the lass,
had indulged his feelings for her for too long, but finding out that she was
married choked the breath in his throat.  Tristan clenched his teeth together
and felt the muscles in his body go rigid with tension.  He would kill the
bastard that raised a hand against Isobel, husband or not.

“Has
he laid a hand upon ye?” he asked angrily, voice trembling with rage.  “Because
I swear that if the bastard has…”

“No!”
Isobel yelped, shaking her head in vehement denial as her hands flew to the
solid muscular wall of Tristan’s chest.  “I’m not married,” she said refuted
adamantly as she withdrew her hands, regretting the impulse of touching
Tristan.  Such close bodily contact with him affected her greatly and she
needed all of her wits about her tonight.  “Not yet at least,” she said as she
looked down shyly to the forest floor.

Tristan
used his forefinger to edge up Isobel’s chin, forcing her blue eyes to lock
with his.

“Who
is this bastard that threatens ye?”

“I
do not know him yet,” Isobel said.  Her knees felt weak from the glaring
intensity in Tristan’s eyes.  The carefully controlled rage that she saw there
frightened her.

“You’re
not making a lick of sense, woman,” Tristan said as he leaned forward
impulsively and kissed Isobel on the forehead.  “Explain,” he coaxed as he
prepared himself to wait and wrapped his arms securely around Isobel.  He could
see that her defenses were crumbling.

Feeling
his lips against her skin was all that it took.  Isobel melted into the safety
of Tristan’s arms, fisting her hands in his clean linen shirt.  She felt his
strong arms gather her up, melding her body to the comforting security of his
expansive chest.  Isobel began to cry, her tears hot an uncontrollable as they
stained Tristan’s shirt.

Tristan
rested his chin atop her head.  He held her close, brushing his hand
reassuringly across her shoulders.  She was so small and slight of bone.  He
wanted to wrap her up and protect her from whatever plagued her.

 He
wanted to kiss her.

First
he would calm her so that she would tell him the truth.

“Shh…lass,”
he whispered into her hair.  “I’ve got ye.”

Isobel
sniffled and used a fistful of Tristan’s shirt to wipe her eyes.

“Tell
me, Bella.  I cannot help you if you will not tell me.”

Isobel
closed her eyes and mustered her courage, releasing Tristan’s shirt from the
vice grips of her fingers.  Needing something to do with her hands, she
smoothed the crumpled fabric, forcing it to lie flat against Tristan’s muscular
chest as she collected her thoughts.

She
trusted Tristan.  And she owed him an explanation.

Her
fingers continued to smooth the fabric against his chest as she calculated how
best to explain herself.  Touching Tristan so intimately was both exhilarating
and calming, a combination of emotions that caused her heart to flutter.  His
skin was warm beneath the linen shirt and his arms were still wrapped
protectively around her waist. 

Tristan
waited patiently for her to speak, not rushing her words but giving her the
time that she needed to collect herself.

Isobel’s
eyes were drawn upward to meet Tristan’s.  She could feel his gaze upon her,
warm and accepting as he awaited her response.  Her eyes locked with his and
the concern that she saw in their hazel depths eased the words from her lips.

She
wanted him to know.

“I
should have been born a boy,” Isobel whispered as she cast her eyes downward. 

Tristan’s
eyebrows scrunched together in dismay.  This he had not expected.

 Isobel
was the absolute picture of female perfection.  She had taken over his every
waking thought since their first encounter in his shop.  Dreaming of her soft,
feminine body had plagued Tristan’s sleep.  The stolen kisses that they had
shared could only be described as magical.  The simple pleasure of holding her
innocently in his arms had aroused him – and she wished to be a boy. 

Tristan
vowed that he would never understand women.

“And
why would you wish for that, Bella?” he asked, his words velvety and cautious.

“Because
then I would not be forced into this precarious situation,” she huffed, fisting
her hands and pounding softly against Tristan’s chest.  “My father would have
his heir and I wouldn’t be forced to marry and…” she broke off, leaning forward
and resting her head against Tristan’s chest.  “Perhaps I could have chosen my
husband,” she said, her voice muffled in the fabric of his shirt.

Fresh
tears welled in her eyes and she fought against them, willing them to remain
unshed.  She was muddling up her explanation and she half expected Tristan to
cast her aside at any moment. 

“Perhaps
I could have chosen you,” she blurted out, the words hanging with heavy
implications between them.

Tristan’s
breath caught in his throat.

Isobel
wanted him.

She
had just said that she would
choose
him as her husband.

Lord
above!

Tristan’s
arms increased their hold about her waist, wrapping her up tightly and
enveloping her with his bodily strength.  He used his body to bolster her
confidence, giving her strength from his own.

His
mind raced.  He wanted to find the perfect words to profess his love to Isobel,
to beg her to run away from everything, all of her duties to Clan McLaughlin,
all of her troubles and be his wife.

Tristan
knew that they would be unbearably happy.

“Shh…Bella,”
he whispered into her hair.  “It will be alright,” he coaxed as he rubbed her
back tenderly and held her.  “I can help ye…”

“I
do not see how it can be alright!  How can it ever be alright again?” she asked
angrily as she choked back a sob.  “My father is dead, Tristan!  And because I
am a woman and cannot succeed him, I must marry immediately!  My husband shall
be the new Laird of Clan McLaughlin,” she revealed.  The implication of her
words was sickening, settling like a rock in the pit of her stomach.

“Och,
lass,” he said softly as he stroked her back, knowing that his touch calmed her
raging emotions.  “I’m sorry for the loss of yer Da,” he whispered into her
hair.  He gathered Isobel into his comforting embrace.  Isobel’s confession
explained so many things, her sudden inability to meet him for dagger lessons,
the doubling of her guard.  She was vulnerable because of Laird McLaughlin’s
secret death.  Tristan had known that McLaughlin had taken ill, but never had
he guessed that the Laird had passed.