She didn’t stop.
Be polite.
“Forgive me, Lady Isolde,” he tried again.
This time she did stop and turn toward him. Her brows furrowed. “Sutherland, was there something you needed?”
Aye. A massive fortune and land nearby with food enough to feed his people through the winter.
“I dinna think I asked ye right the first time.” He tried to mimic Graham’s charming smile.
Her brows pinched closer together.
“I think ye’re quite bonny,” he said.
“Bonny?” She repeated the word as if she found it unfamiliar.
But then, she would be as it was a word more often used in Scotland.
He cleared his throat. “It means lovely. Ye’re verra bonny with a fine…” Panicking somewhat, he let his gaze skim down her body. It immediately rested on her firm breasts, the generous swell visible from the top of her gown. “…bosom.”
The lady’s maid gave a little squeak, and Lady Isolde’s eyes went wide.
Shite.
“I dinna mean that.” He put his hands out, as though he could physically stop the conversation. God, he wished such a thing were even possible. “I mean, I do. Ye’ve got fine breasts, but I dinna mean—” He dropped his hands in defeat. “Would ye dance with me?” He grimaced. “Please.”
She blinked up at him. “Nay, but I thank you for the offer.”
He nodded, not blaming her a bit. God’s teeth, he’d mucked that one up.
Her eyes lit up all at once. “Is this your dog?”
“Aye,” he answered quickly.
Alan’s eyes went wide with alarm, and Cormac immediately regretted his swift reply.
Lady Isolde knelt on the rushes and instructed her maid to procure some meat for the beast. She worked her fingers into the dog’s fur behind his ears and scratched until one of his hind legs began to itch at the air. She laughed and handed him a bit of meat from her maid before standing upright once more.
The elation at meeting Pip faded from her eyes. “You should care for your pet properly, Sutherland. The poor thing is thin as a skeleton and covered in dirt and fleas.”
Cormac’s skin went hot at the chastisement. He should never have claimed the dog as his own.
“Good evening, Sutherland.” This time when Lady Isolde departed with her lady’s maid, Cormac did not try to go after her.
“Pip isn’t for sale.” Alan’s jaw was clenched with determination. “I’d never sell him. Not for all the coin in England.”
“He’s yers,” Cormac confirmed. “But I’d like ye to ensure he’s bathed and fed.” He surveyed the mercenary. “Ye too.”
Alan held out his palm.
Cormac sighed and dug out his purse. This lie about the dog being his was by far one of the most foolish ones he’d told. He set a coin in Alan’s hand.
“And you’ll only pretend he’s your dog,” Alan said slowly.
Cormac nodded.
The mercenary gave a more relaxed smile, picked up Pip and carried him from the Great Hall to comply with Cormac’s request. At least that was one small task seen to. The following day, he would have to smooth over what he had so terribly ruffled today with Lady Isolde.
He hoped Graham was having a better time with Lady Clara, as Cormac didn’t hold much confidence in his own ability to woo Lady Isolde. Especially when he’d had such a terrible start.
Isolde’s stomach twisted in a series of anxious knots. The nervous energy humming through her veins left her restless, but she forced herself to remain still while Matilda dressed her in the heavy chainmail and surcoat.
It had taken her maid a fortnight of finding excuses to be around the guards to learn how to get all the straps and buckles fastened correctly. Now, she implemented that knowledge with fingers made deft through the days of practice they’d run through before leaving for the Rose Citadel.
Matilda finished securing the blue-and-white surcoat over the chainmail and regarded Isolde with a worried crinkle to her otherwise smooth brow. “Are you certain this is safe, my lady?”
Isolde shoved aside the fear trying to edge into her resolve. “It most assuredly is not safe, but I cannot marry Brodie.”
Matilda’s large gray eyes reflected her concern. “What if—?”
Isolde shook her head vehemently. “Do not say it. Don’t even think about it. We must be confident. Without a doubt.”
Matilda nodded and pressed her lips together, as though sealing away her misgivings. She lifted the bucket-shaped helm, and Isolde’s world went dark as it fit over her head. A thin band of vision showed before Isolde’s eyes but little else. It wasn’t ideal, of course, but it was necessary to hide her identity.
“I shall return posthaste,” Isolde said in a lofty tone, imitating the nasal speech of her brother.
Matilda’s worry dissolved into a grin. “You’re almost too good at that.”
“Impossible,” Isolde snipped. “Remain here and cover for my wayward sister while I defend her honor as I should have done weeks ago.”
Matilda offered an exaggerated curtsy. “As you wish, my lord.”
Isolde straightened her back and strode from the room, not only adorned in Gilbert’s armor but also his pompous arrogance. She located the practice field on the outskirts of the sea of tents without difficulty. It was easy when one followed the clangs, clatters and grunts. Locating Brodie, however, would be far more challenging around so many men.
She strode through the crowd, searching with her obstructed vision. To no avail.
“Are you looking for someone?” The lanky man who had been with Sutherland the night before put himself into her line of sight. His brown hair had been combed and gleamed cleanly in the early morning light.
“Brodie Ross,” Isolde answered in her brother’s petulant tone. “Have you seen him?”
The man shook his head. “The Chieftain of the Sutherland clan is getting ready to practice with several men. Perhaps you’d like to join them while you wait?”
He indicated a gathering of several Scotsmen in armor. Sutherland was easy to identify with his height and the breadth of his shoulders. Something bumped at Isolde’s knee. She glanced down to find a dog nudging at her for attention. Not just any dog, this was the one belonging to Sutherland, now so thoroughly washed she could see that the muddy hair was actually a shiny buttery gold.
Sutherland had taken her advice. She didn’t bother to hide her smile, knowing it couldn’t be seen under her helm. She did, however, smooth her gloved hand over the dog’s head. The beast gazed up at her with adoration, its pink tongue lolling from the side of its mouth.
“Alan, are ye inviting people to join us?” Sutherland frowned at the man, evidently displeased.
It was on the tip of Isolde’s tongue to decline the invite, but then she remembered she was pretending to be her brother. And Gilbert would never be so charitable. Besides, some light combat might help ease some of the tension roiling through her body. As it was, her blood pumped through her veins with such force that she felt ready to burst.
“I could use the practice,” she said in Gilbert’s lofty tone.
Sutherland slid her a wary glance.
“He evens out our number,” a red-haired man wearing no surcoat over his chainmail said.
Sutherland didn’t answer so much as he simply grunted, but it appeared to be acquiescence enough. Isolde joined the men as two others prepared for a mock fight against one another.
“Do ye always walk about with yer helmet on?” Sutherland kept his own head bare as he braced for combat.
“I didn’t pay a king’s fortune for this armor to not wear it,” Isolde said, plucking her brother’s words without effort.
Sutherland scoffed. “I’m sure ye dinna get the chance often to wear it in battle. At least no’ outside of tournaments and practice.”
Isolde simply raised her sword rather than deign to reply. Sutherland didn’t move toward her. No doubt, he knew her—or rather her
brother’s—arrogance and was assured she would advance first. And advance she did, with her blade aggressively swiping toward him.
He evaded the strikes, shifting this way and that, his movements smooth. When she lowered her weapon to prepare to strike once more, he took advantage and jabbed at her side, a blow she only just managed to dodge. It was then she knew she had to forego her brother’s overconfidence on the field lest she fall. In this one thing, she would rely on her own education and instinct, lest she end up dead.
“Do ye think that bonny serving wench will be at our table again tonight, Duncan?” the red-haired man asked.
His opponent, a man with cropped dark hair, grinned. “Ach, I hope so. She had a fine set of duckies on her.”
Isolde’s face burned with mortification at the man’s crude speech about the woman’s breasts. Her own were bound tightly beneath a band of linen. It was a necessary discomfort she would gladly endure for an opportunity to defeat Brodie Ross.
Sutherland shot a long-suffering look at the two men.
Duncan held up his free hand in surrender. “I canna help that I noticed she was a fine thing to gaze upon. And ye’re one to chastise when ye were talking up the bonny lass in the yellow kirtle.”
Isolde froze, uncertain if she ought to interrupt this discussion lest her own “duckies” be put on the table for discussion. After all, Cormac had made a point of noting his appreciation for them the night before.
“Blundering, more like.” Sutherland’s mouth quirked in a smile and a dimple showed in his left cheek. “Lady Isolde is too fine a lass for the likes of me.”
The men laughed.
“Lady Isolde?” she haughtily quipped. “I say, that’s my sister you’re referring to. You haven’t come to speak to me of any interest.”
Sutherland turned his glare first to Alan, who offered an apologetic smile, then to her as his eyes narrowed with skepticism. “With all due respect, if I had an interest in the lady, I’d converse with her rather than her brother.”
Heavens. What a perfect response.
“I’m in charge of what she does,” Isolde countered, testing Sutherland further. “No man can consider her without my permission. And if you want her for marriage, you better offer me a pretty fortune.”
Sutherland’s expression turned to one of barely concealed disgust. “She’s a lass. No’ cattle.” He lifted his sword. “Enough of this banter, let’s do what we came to do and warm our muscles with practice, aye?”
Isolde was glad she wore the helm, lest he see the awed expression on her face. No man had ever spoken in such a manner to her brother. Certainly, Gilbert would never have allowed it. But she was the puppeteer controlling her brother’s image, and she would do nothing to sway such glorious ideals.
She lifted her weapon and tried to put Sutherland from her thoughts so she could more readily focus.
After all, he had suddenly become quite fascinating.
4
Isolde fought several rounds with Sutherland and one with Duncan, and the other man whose name she learned was Lachlan. She beat both the men and won two of the five sets with Sutherland.
Her body hummed with energy, now properly adjusted to the weight of the chainmail, so it was more comfortable than hindering. Even her muscles seemed to glide through her movements, lubricated with the heat of practice.
She turned to face Duncan once more and stilled. There, emerging from a tent just behind her opponent, was one of the Ross brothers. Where there was one, there were often several. Her heartbeat tripled in her chest.
The force of Duncan’s body slammed into her, knocking her down. She scrambled upright and pushed him away with one hand. Her helm had been knocked askew by the impact and the world careened in the narrow slit, shoved far to the right. She put her gloved palms to the metal and adjusted it as she searched frantically through the view.
There were more people now. Too many. She searched all their faces.
“Lord Easton?” Duncan asked.
Isolde put her hand up to stop him. “I’m looking for someone.”
As she spoke in her brother’s snide tone, her gaze landed on a beast of a man with long blond hair. Brodie. Ire rose in her, molten with the power of her success in practice. She would fight him now. She would defeat him and be victorious.
She would be free.
With her stare locked on him, she strode in his direction.
Brodie wore a red-and-white surcoat belted over his chainmail, his gait confident. He grinned as she approached. “Good morrow, Lord Easton.”
Isolde didn’t bother to return the sentiment. Gilbert wouldn’t have. “I release you from your contract to wed my sister.”
“I dinna want to be released.” Brodie’s pleasant expression darkened. “We had an agreement.”
“Nay,” Isolde snapped. “You decided to lay hands on my sister and force the issue of your union.”
Brodie’s brows furrowed and he appeared…well, he appeared rather confused. Caution rattled around in her brain like a stone.
“It was yer idea,” Brodie said in a low voice, his brow puckered with disbelief. “Ye set the whole thing up.”
Disgust curdled low in her belly. It was no wonder Gilbert refused to defend her honor, when it had been his hand that shifted the pieces to ruin Isolde’s life.
“I’ve changed my mind,” Isolde said.
“Ye canna do that,” Brodie growled.
“I just did.” Isolde spun away, but even as she did so, she knew he would not accept Gilbert’s change of heart so readily.
“Lord Easton,” he barked.
Isolde turned back to him, and a knot drew tight and hard in her chest.
“We had an arrangement,” Brodie said. “And I’ll no’ let ye back out of what we’d agreed to. I will wed yer sister.”
What had been arranged? She hated not knowing what her brother had received in return for her freedom. She hated even more that she couldn’t ask without completely giving herself away.
“You will not wed her,” Isolde countered.
“Now ye try to renege?” Brodie spat on the ground before Isolde’s feet, and for the first time, she found herself glad for her limited visibility, which prevented her from having to see the offending foam in the trampled grass in front of her.
“Ye got what ye wanted,” Brodie said in a low snarl. “And I’ll have what I’m owed.”
Helpless frustration bunched at the muscles along the back of her neck. What had Gilbert already received from Brodie?
She ripped the gauntlet off her hand and glared up at Brodie through her helm. Without another word, she threw it hard at his feet. The impact rattled metal where finger and wrist joints met each other in a clatter.
Brodie lifted a bushy brow.
“I challenge you, Brodie Ross,” Isolde said in a loud, clear voice. “In defense of my sister’s honor.”
As she spoke, she tried to keep her hand curled into a fist at her side. While she might be of similar height and stature to her brother and possess the ability to alter her voice like his, she could do nothing about the femininity of her long, slender fingers.
“I accept yer challenge.” Brodie sneered down at her. “For ye have no honor, ye lying English whoreson.”
Anticipation jolted through Isolde. She jerked her sword free, ready to battle where they stood.
Brodie chortled. “No’ now. I’ll be jousting by and by and need practice.” He shook his head as though she was of little concern. “On the morrow, aye?”
Disappointment rained down on her. “Very well,” she conceded. “On the morrow.”
“Enjoy yer last day of living.” He smirked.
Isolde bit back a retort. Brodie stalked away without glancing back. She waited until the crowd swallowed him before she lifted her gauntlet from where it laid in the dirt and slid it back over her hand.
The blow of not being able to take Brodie on at that moment was a difficult one to stomach. She uttered a vulgar curse sh
e’d heard men use before. Surprisingly, the coarse language aided somewhat in ebbing her frustration.
And her impatience need not nip at her long. On the morrow, she would have her vengeance and her freedom. Several couriers walked by wearing their finery, a reminder she too was expected to be present at the parade and the jousting later on that day.
She buried her frustration and shifted her direction to return to the castle so Matilda could prepare her for the parade. Sutherland stood several paces away, his attention fixed fully on her, having witnessed the entire exchange. Far too interested.
She recalled his request for a dance. Twice.
Discontent added a new level of sourness to her already churning gut. For it was apparent that gaining her freedom from one man might place her back in the focus of another.
Aye, she would do well to avoid Sutherland.
Later that morning, on his way to the parade, Cormac glanced at the attendees for Lady Isolde. Hoping no one noticed, he tugged at the stiff tunic he wore over a scratchy pair of hose. Both were new and viciously uncomfortable. He loathed having to wear such finery, but one couldn’t capture the attention of an earl’s sister with the simple tunics and hose he usually wore, ones that had been softened by age. And faded by it as well, unfortunately.
He paused mid-stride and tried pulling at the fabric at his thighs to dislodge his braies from where they were firmly wedged between his buttocks. Except his hands slid off the slick fabric of the tunic and the hose pinched in his grasp for just long enough to ride higher, bringing the braies another inch with it.
Shite.
“With all due respect,” Alan said in a low tone. “You’re walking like you’ve got something shoved up your arse.”
Cormac glared at him. “I’ve got half my braies up there if ye must know.”
Alan grimaced.
Cormac tried to set his unease from his mind and scanned the moving crowd before him once more. People of all ages and classes blended together into the mix of wealthy and poor, the former donned in resplendent finery while the latter was freshly scrubbed and in their best clothes. All moved together in their haste to witness the parade.
The Highlander's Lady Knight Page 3
