by Alyssa Stark
Tournament of Hearts
By: Alyssa Stark
Then love knew it was called love.
And when I lifted my eyes to your name,
Suddenly your heart showed me my way.
~Pablo Neruda
..oo Chapter One oo..
Loch Fyne, Scotland, 1721
“I would rather die!” Isobel said as she glowered at her father and squared her shoulders for battle.
“You need a husband, Isobel. And I can think of no other way,” Laird McLaughlin snapped at his only daughter as he rubbed his throbbing temple. His knuckles were gnarled by time. They moved in small circles against his skull. He would have given anything to quell the incessant aching.
“Have you spoken with Hodges? Is there still no manner by which I could manage our holdings with a legal guardian?” Isobel asked in desperation.
“It cannot be, sweetheart,” Laird McLaughlin sighed. “The decree is quite specific on the path of succession. In the event that there is no heir apparent, I am free to choose my heir. But, it is clearly written that the chosen heir must be male.”
Isobel sighed heavily and knitted her tawny eyebrows together in frustration. This was not the first time in her life that she had cursed being born a female.
“Have we no distant cousin, no far-off relation that I could rule jointly with? A marriage of convenience perhaps?”
McLaughlin chuckled. Isobel had never been one to give up easily. He watched her now, with her wild blonde hair cascading down over her arms which were crossed over her chest in a silent act of defiance. The lass was as stubborn as a rock, but she had grown up well. Isobel would serve her clan as she was bid. She would do her duty however distasteful.
McLaughlin was proud of his daughter.
“I have looked, my dear. I have searched tirelessly for a proper match for ye and to no avail. Ye are my only daughter and in mine eyes, there is no man worthy of ye!” McLaughlin exclaimed as he closed his eyes and rubbed at his forehead. “Perhaps that is the reason why I have forsaken the task of finding a suitable husband for ye,” he admitted as his eyes locked with his daughter’s.
Isobel smiled half-heartedly. She knew that her father loved her more than life itself.
McLaughlin leaned forward and punched at the pillow between his back and the massive wooden headboard. The disease was progressing quickly and as a result McLaughlin spent most of his time abed now. He was consumed with chronic pain and could never seem to find comfort. He settled himself back against the bolster and prepared to voice his fears aloud to Isobel.
He had been dreading this very moment, but time was short.
McLaughlin knew that he would soon be dead.
“We must face the fact that I am the last of our line and I too shall soon be gone. It pains me that I was not given a son, a son that would carry on the McLaughlin name,” he said as his eyes fell down to the feather duvet that covered his legs. “Now we are forced to look outside the immediate clan to find a suitable match for you,” he said, his shame preventing his eyes from looking up to meet his daughter’s. “A man to carry on my legacy not through name, but through blood. Through your blood, our McLaughlin blood mingling in the veins of the children that he will give you.”
Isobel fought the urge to run. The thought of the marriage bed terrified her, but she knew that her duty to the clan must be upheld. She was the last of the true McLaughlin line and in so being, she held the responsibility of bearing the future Laird of Clan McLaughlin, a fact that iced the blood in her veins.
Bearing a future Laird was a weighty responsibility.
Isobel was fearful of the intimate relations that took place between a man and a woman. Her mother had died when she was very young and Isobel’s only knowledge of the intimate subject had come from the hushed conversations of her maids.
Conversations that Isobel’s tender ears had not been meant to hear.
“It will ease my passing to know that you will be taken care of,” McLaughlin said softly as he looked upon his only living child. There had been four others, three girls and a stillborn boy, none of which had survived past the age of five years.
“Have you chosen an heir, father?” Isobel asked suddenly, a knot of dread building in her throat as she awaited her fate.
“Not as of yet, sweetheart,” McLaughlin admitted. He watched Isobel relax as the relief of his words flooded over her. “As there is no heir apparent, I am free to choose my heir. I fear that time is short, Isobel. I’ve devised a plan to find a man worthy of succession. A man who is born to lead and will keep the clan safe under his watch.”
“What sort of plan is this that you speak of?” Isobel asked skeptically. Her eyebrows arched in obvious shock. Rudy McLaughlin had always been unconventional in his manners of ruling. Isobel could only imagine the wild plan that her father had dreamed up.
“A tournament,” McLaughlin said simply. “Eligible men of suitable birth shall compete. There shall be tests of leadership as well as feats of strength and cunning. When the games have narrowed the field to only two suitors, you may choose between them. You shall choose your husband,” McLaughlin said softly as he awaited Isobel’s response. His eyes locked with hers now, their light blue depths the mirror image of his own.
Isobel forced herself to close her mouth, which at present was gaping open in a most unladylike fashion.
“I will be no man’s prize!” she spat as she turned on her heel and fled from the solar. A storm of rage swelled within her. How could her father be so selfish? Why had he neglected finding a suitable husband until it was nearly too late? Any man could win her father’s silly tournament!
Blast! Isobel cursed in her mind as hot tears stung at her eyes.
“Isobel!” McLaughlin thundered. His authoritative voice stopped his defiant daughter in her tracks.
Isobel turned without speaking. Her blue eyes rose to meet her father’s.
“This is the only way. If I cannot find a successor, our clan will be absorbed into one of the larger clans. I cannot allow that to happen.”
“Tis shameful, father,” Isobel said. “I had hoped for better,” she said icily as she turned and strode briskly from her father’s chamber.
She had meant the words to sting and sting they most certainly had.
Rudy McLaughlin sighed deeply and collapsed back against his bed. His lungs heaved with exhaustion. The disease was wasting away his strength rapidly. It had taken every ounce of his energy to portray his fragile act of health to Isobel. The lass had no idea of how far the disease had progressed. She had no inkling that sitting upright was almost more that her father could now manage.
There was precious little time left.
McLaughlin’s dying act would be to ensure that Isobel was safe. His greatest regret in life was not seeing to her marriage sooner.
..oo Chapter Two oo..
“I need to purchase a dagger,” the young woman said from beneath the heavy woolen cloak. She stood at the edge of the blacksmith’s shop, wringing her slender fingers together. The gesture hinted at the fact that she was nervous.
The long black cloak covered her from head to foot. She had taken great care to obscure her identity, but the tell-tale color of one errant blonde curl that had escaped the confines of her hooded cloak betrayed her. The golden strand danced in the breeze and whipped across her face. Recognizing the imminent threat of discovery, the young woman moved quickly to tuck the strand beneath her cloak and safely out of sight.
Tristan set down his mallet on the work bench. Using a fist-full of cloth, he removed the iron blade from the fire, not wishing it to overheat while he dealt with this most unexpected customer.
“It has been my experience that a lass with a dagger is
often more harm to herself than good,” he said huskily as he approached the young lady that stood before him. He had known her at once, despite the fact that she had tried to cover her blonde curls.
Lady Isobel McLaughlin was a striking beauty and such a woman could not easily obscure her identity.
“I did not ask for your opinion,” Isobel said coolly. “I asked you to sell me a weapon,” she said with an air of challenge.
Her blue eyes met the intense hazel eyes of the blacksmith. His eyes were the most unusual color, striking green flecked with gold. The look that she found in those eyes caused her heartbeat to quicken. His eyes held a hint of recognition as if he knew her from somewhere before. Isobel felt the burn of sudden panic bloom within her, warm and heady.
The blacksmith had a commanding presence and he arched an eyebrow at Isobel’s retort. He watched her now, appraising her openly in a manner that made Isobel blush.
Tristan’s lips curled into the faintest hint of a smile. He knew that he should send her away at once, but immediately decided against that idea. His curiosity was piqued.
Why ever could Lady Isobel McLaughlin be in need of a dagger? Her father’s guards kept her well protected. Tristan wondered how she had managed to slip their watchful eyes and make her way here. He determined to wait awhile longer and coerce the lass into revealing her true intentions.
“And would I not be at fault should you find misfortune at the hand of a blade that I crafted?” Tristan asked as he walked around the anvil to stand in front of the McLaughlin lass.
Isobel looked up at the blacksmith. He towered above her and yet she stood fast and unafraid. The blacksmith was a powerful man with broad, muscled shoulders. He stood before her with his legs braced apart, his stance relaxed as he removed his leather gloves and sat them on his workbench. Isobel had heard tales of his prowess as a swordsman and she could not help but notice that his body was fit and sinewy, the result of hours spent practicing his craft.
Despite his obvious physical strength, the blacksmith did not frighten Isobel. On the contrary, there was a gentleness about his nature that set her at ease.
“No harm shall come to me,” Isobel assured him. She straightened her spine and looked up confidently into his intriguing hazel eyes.
“I wager that it would be most irresponsible of me to sell you a weapon with which you might find grave injury,” he challenged in return, enjoying the thrill of antagonizing Laird McLaughlin’s only daughter. She was sharp of wit and did not cower in his presence as women often did. Tristan had gained a reputation as being cold, a reputation that he had done nothing to change. He looked forward to the challenge of extracting lady Isobel’s secret reason for needing the weapon.
Tristan had seen Laird McLaughlin’s daughter from afar on a couple of occasions, but never had he had the pleasure of admiring her from such a close proximity. He had once refitted the shoe of her white mare in the stables of McLaughlin keep. As he was packing away his tools, Lady Isobel had walked into the stables to check upon her prized horse. Tristan had watched her from the back corner of the stables as she ran her graceful hand down the mare’s back and whispered gentle words into the beast’s ear.
Isobel’s beauty had mesmerized him. He had been drawn to her and had fought the urge to reveal himself and speak to her. In his old life such a thing would have been possible. He could have spoken to her as an equal. But in the new life that he had chosen, he was naught but a blacksmith. He was now unworthy of the attentions of a highborn Lady. Tristan had not dared to dream about speaking with Lady Isobel McLaughlin.
Not until now.
Lady Isobel had the reputation of being a rare beauty. Many suitors had tried and failed to claim her hand in marriage. Her blonde curls were said to be unmatched in splendor by those of any woman. Tristan admired them now, noticing how they were even more radiant in the sunshine than when he had first looked upon her in the stables.
Tristan shook his head ever so slightly, understanding exactly why Laird McLaughlin had kept his daughter so heavily guarded. If every man who looked upon the lass felt the same rush of impure thoughts that Tristan had just experienced, Lady Isobel McLaughlin needed her present guard doubled.
The men who had spoken of Isobel had been dead wrong. Lady Isobel McLaughlin was no rare beauty. She was absolutely exquisite.
“No blame shall come to you,” Isobel assured him, her voice clear and confident.
Tristan’s thoughts snapped back to the present.
“Is that so?” he asked in a teasing voice.
Isobel’s heart raced in her chest as she felt the blacksmith’s eyes upon her. His angular jaw and expansive chest were the picture of male perfection. Isobel had overheard her maids discussing the blacksmith’s many virtues yet this was the first time that she had seen him with her own eyes. The maids had been quite accurate in their descriptions of him. He was indeed a very handsome man.
Handsome yet troubled. Cold and devoid of feeling. That was what they had said. Isobel found herself suddenly wondering what troubled the blacksmith. Her present interaction with the man was quite contrary to what the maids had described. The blacksmith had conversed with her in a pleasant, almost teasing manner. Isobel found him to be quite amiable indeed.
Her cheeks flushed with color when she realized that she was quite enjoying his attentions. Carefree banter with a man was a harmless pleasure that had never been allowed under the watchful eye of her guards. Perhaps that was what caused the fluttering in the pit of Isobel’s stomach. Speaking so freely with the handsome blacksmith was exhilarating.
“I will make you a proposition,” Tristan said. The logical part of his mind screamed for him to tread cautiously.
His words whipped Isobel’s thoughts back to the conversation.
“A proposition that will allow my conscience to be at peace should I choose to sell you a dagger,” he continued.
“Go on,” Isobel said, her interest piqued.
“If I sell you the dagger, you shall allow me the pleasure of teaching you how to use it properly. So that I may ensure your safety.”
“Will that be all?” Isobel asked. She was unnerved by the way that the handsome blacksmith was watching her. His eyes seemed to look directly into her soul.
“That is my side of the bargain. And if I uphold my side of the bargain, which I fully intend to do mind you, you shall tell me with complete honesty why you find yourself in need of the blade.”
Isobel thought for a moment, holding eye contact with the blacksmith. She barely reached his shoulder and she realized that she had to look considerably upward to meet his gaze. Fear bloomed within her suddenly, thick and black as it settled in the pit of her stomach. She had spoken of her plight to no one and the thought of divulging her desperate secret to the blacksmith was unsettling.
Isobel’s fear was quickly replaced by a delicious, secret joy. The blacksmith intrigued her and she wanted to spend more time with him.
And yet, she had but precious little time. And she needed that dagger.
“You have my word,” she told him as she nodded in agreement. “Know that I keep my promises, blacksmith.”
“Call me Tristan. And I shall call you Isobel.”
Isobel’s hand flew up to cover the fact that her mouth had just dropped open. She had taken every care to secret her identity and this man had known who she was without the merest hint of hesitation.
“And mind you, Lady Isobel, I am in the habit of keeping my promises as well.”
..ooOoo..
The dream had plagued Tristan for as long as he could remember.
When he was younger it had taken on many innocent forms. He had chased after her on horseback, watching with a smile on his face as her long blonde tendrils flew behind her in the breeze. She ran up a spiral staircase, her laughter warming his heart and spurring him onward as he delighted in chasing after her.
She was always just beyond his grasp and never had he seen her face in his dreams.
&
nbsp; The dreams always left him with an overwhelming sensation of happiness. The sort of happiness that filled the heart and overflowed such that a hint of a smile would linger upon his face when he awoke. He would waver for awhile, somewhere between sleep and wakefulness, yearning to get back to her. Yearning for her to turn around so that he might see her lovely face.
Happiness was an emotion that visited Tristan Finnegan infrequently. And thus, he cherished his dreams and the lovely flaxen haired lass that occupied them.
As he had grown into a man, the dreams had become more intimate. It was if he could feel her in his arms, her skin warm and vibrant beneath his fingertips. Her blonde hair would surround them like a veil as they kissed. His fingers would thread through her satiny tendrils as he kissed her. She lay on top of him, her hair enveloping him with its sweet softness and the delicious scent of lavender enticing his senses.
When he would open his eyes to look upon her, she was gone. He would awake with a start, breathing heavily and thoroughly aroused to find himself alone in his bed.
He missed her as soon as she was gone.
She left a void that he had been unable to fill with the attentions of other women.
He needed her.
She was the only one who could heal the wounds of his heart.
Tristan had told a wise woman of his dream once, many years ago.
The wise woman had smiled and then closed her eyes.
The girl in your dream is the very lifeblood of your heart.
She is your Sonuachar.
When you meet her beyond the world of your dreams, do not let her get away, lad.
The woman’s words had given Tristan hope for his future.
As long as the dreams returned and the flaxen haired lass visited in him in the darkness of night, he had room to hope.
Perhaps she would someday come for him.
Tonight’s dream had been different. When he opened his eyes to look upon the lass that he held in his arms, he saw her face for a brief moment before he awoke.
