by Alyssa Stark
“Each man shall have one arrow. The target will be placed two hundred paces out to field. Each man shall draw a straw that will designate the order in which he will shoot,” Hodges said loudly. He cleared his throat as was his nervous gesture and tugged at the confining collar of his shirt. “The man whose arrow lies furthest from the target shall be eliminated from the tournament. The man whose arrow is nearest the target shall win the honor of sitting next to Lady Isobel at the evening meal. May your aim be true,” Hodges said as he regarded the contestants. He turned from the crowd and took his seat next to Isobel with visible relief.
Hodges motioned to his steward, who sprang into motion and jogged towards the contenders. In his hands was a small burlap sack, which he extended to the first man, Rabbie MacFarland. Rabbie reached into the sack and withdrew a straight wooden stick of medium length. He looked at the stick in his hand and shrugged, eliciting a muffled laugh of amusement from the crowd.
Isobel’s heart raced in her chest. Tristan would win. He had to win. And if he won, they would be allowed to sit next to each other at the evening meal. She thought that her heart might beat right out of her chest at the prospect of being allowed to sit next to Tristan. Would that he could win!
The steward worked his way down the line of warriors, having each man repeat the process of reaching into the sack and withdrawing a stick.
Rogan Cameron made a spectacle of digging in the sack until he had found the stick that he wanted. His lips curled into a smile as he withdrew the shortest stick. He raised the short nub of a stick high over his head and let out a victorious growl, which elicited a cheer from the crowd. He smirked as he lowered his fist. Rogan had been trained as an archer under his father’s watch. His reputation of skill and accuracy was well known across the Highlands.
Rogan was a crowd favorite. His father was well respected within the clan, having been Rudy McLaughlin’s trusted war chief for two decades. Rogan had fought along side the McLaughlin warriors and had proven himself as both a warrior and a leader. Many McLaughlin clansmen would be eager to accept Rogan as Laird should he win.
Tristan drew next. He reached into the sack and pulled out the first stick that his fingers touched. In his mind, it did not matter if he shot first or last. Archery was a skill that he would not be bested at.
“What did ye draw, Finnegan?” Rogan asked as he craned his neck to see the stick clasped in Tristan’s fist.
Tristan ignored Rogan and looked straight ahead.
“Looks as though ye will be able to watch and learn. I’ll be sure to show ye how it’s done,” Rogan said with an arrogant chuckle.
After the last warrior had drawn his stick, the contenders lined up in order from the shortest stick to the longest. Rogan Cameron was pleased to be first in line and made a pompous display of stretching his muscles for the crowd, eliciting a roaring cheer from the onlookers.
Tristan was surprised to find that he had drawn the longest stick, giving him the grace of shooting last. He took his place at the back of the line of men gratefully and stole a quick glance at Isobel. His pulse quickened when he discovered that she had been watching him already.
A faint smile graced her lips and Tristan knew that it was just for him.
It appeared that luck was on his side this afternoon. Shooting last was a weighty advantage. He would be given the opportunity to quell his nerves and gauge the skill of his competitors. Such an opportunity could provide him with valuable information for further events. He needed to learn all that he could about his opponents if he was to best them in the tournament.
Wasting no time, Rogan took the proffered bow from the steward and took his mark at the line. The crowd applauded, shouting words of encouragement at Rogan as he readied himself. He was a showy fighter and made further display of loosening his muscles and stretching his fingers before choosing an arrow from the small velvet draped table and fitting it into the bow.
He drew the string of the bow taut and stilled his breathing. The crowd fell silent as Rogan took his aim upon the red painted circle of the target. He pulled back the string a little further and then loosed his arrow.
The crowd released a collective cheer when the arrow was true, striking within the red target but just slightly to the left of center. Rogan spun on his heel and made an elegant bow towards Isobel, winking before dropping his head into the formality.
“Milady,” he said regally as he straightened himself and handed the bow back to the steward.
One by one, the other men chose their arrows. Much to Isobel’s dismay, none of their efforts were closer to the center of the target than Rogan Cameron’s. Only Tristan remained now and as he walked forward to take his shot, Isobel dug her fingers nervously into the silk folds of her gown.
Tristan dared not look up to where Isobel sat on the podium. Although he was confident in his skill with a bow, he dared not make the mistake of over confidence. His heart beat a steady rhythm, beating the drum of hope within the confines of his chest.
He strode up to the line and took the bow from the steward. The last arrow lie on the small velvet draped table next to the line. Tristan reached for it. He ran his fingers experimentally over the feathers that flanked the arrow, gauging how the arrow had been crafted so that he could estimate how true it would fly.
Taking his place at the line, he dug his boot into the earth, moving his toe from side to side as he took an active stance. His hazel eyes flitted up towards the distant target.
Six arrows had met their mark. Mine shall be the seventh.
Rogan’s arrow, the first of the tournament, was still closest to the target.
Tristan pushed this knowledge from his mind, forcing himself to clear his thoughts as he fitted the hilt of the arrow into the bow string and drew it back. His breathing was still and he could hear his pulse thumping in his ears. He drew his hand back next to his face as he closed his left eye and focused on the target.
Tristan had made similar shots thousands of times. He said a silent prayer that his aim would be true, for his own sake as well as for Isobel’s. He visualized the arrow striking the direct center of the target and closed his eyes. In the same instant, he loosed the arrow. It whizzed as it passed right next to his face, whistling through the air.
The crowd gasped and then erupted into applause.
The arrow had found its mark, striking dead center of the target.
Tristan breathed a sigh of relief and glanced towards Isobel. He could tell that she was working hard to repress the full thrill of her excitement. But he could also tell from the attractive flush that had spread over her cheeks that she was happy. Very happy. And right now, that happiness was enough.
Handing the bow to the steward, Tristan strode towards the podium. The corner of his mouth tugged up into the faintest hint of a smile.
“Milady,” he said as he winked playfully and dropped into a formal bow. His hazel eyes locked with Isobel’s and he watched appreciatively as her face flushed crimson.
Tristan spun on his heel and stalked past Rogan.
“Thank you for the lesson. It was most informative,” he said underneath his breath as he passed the stunned warrior.
..ooOoo..
“Milady,” Tristan said with a smile in his voice as he pulled out the high-backed chair so that Isobel could sit. His hand brushed lightly against her back and sent shockwaves down her spine.
His deep voice had startled her for she had not known that he was behind her in the great hall. Tristan’s presence was a welcome surprise as the flood of clansmen entered the hall and took their places for dinner. Isobel’s heart thrummed with anticipation of sitting next to Tristan at the evening meal.
“Blacksmith,” she said coyly as she took her seat.
Her eyes flitted towards Tristan as he sat in the chair to her left. She could barely contain her excitement over the fact that they could spend the evening together publicly. They would need to be careful, ever so cautious in their interactions this evening. Th
e other suitors would most certainly be watching.
Tristan’s hair was still damp from his recent bath and Isobel thought that he looked especially attractive tonight. They were seated close to the hearth and the glow of the warm firelight cast a mesmerizing shadow on Tristan’s masculine features. The firelight danced over the stubble that dotted his jaw line, lending him the faintest shadow of a beard. His sandy blonde hair was pulled back at the nape of his neck, being tethered there with a strip of thin leather. He wore a billowing white linen shirt underneath the crimson Finnegan plaid, which he wore proudly now secured with a ruby brooch at his shoulder. Isobel thought that he was the picture of masculine perfection.
She suddenly found herself remembering what it had felt like when he had kissed her. She thought of how delicious his firm body had felt pressed against her own. She tore her eyes away from Tristan and took a sip of water in an effort to cool her thoughts.
“Why do you always call me that?” she asked, still holding the mug of water suspended in her hand.
“Call you what, milady?” Tristan drawled as he smiled innocently at her.
Isobel could not look away from his charming smile. It bewitched her. She was sure that there was a hint of devilment in Tristan’s smile.
“Milady. You may call me Isobel,” she said as she felt a blush color her cheeks.
“I ken full well that I may call ye Isobel,” Tristan said with a lop-sided grin. “But I prefer to call you milady because that is what you are. My lady,” he said with a heated look.
Tristan’s possessive words made Isobel’s heart go wild in her chest.
“Do you feel their eyes upon us?” Tristan asked as he leaned back against the high leather back of his chair. His eyes scanned the great hall over the rim of his ale mug. He was working diligently to look casual and collected, but the constant observation of his fellow suitors made his possessive nature flare almost beyond the power of his fragile control.
“Aye,” Isobel said as she looked around the room. Some of the younger suitors looked away when her blue eyes met theirs; acting as though they had simply been surveying the room. Others were bolder with their stares and held her gaze, refusing to look away despite having been caught. Rogan Cameron was one of these men, and the way that he looked at Isobel made her most nervous indeed. After holding his gaze for a split-second, she glanced down at her plate, eager to look at anything other that his imposing dark eyes.
“They are jealous, ken?” Tristan said. He flashed Isobel an arrogant yet playful smile when her eyes lifted to meet his.
“I suppose that they are,” she said shyly. It was difficult becoming accustomed to being a prize. She said a silent prayer in gratitude for the fact that Tristan had won the first challenge. She was so thankful that he was sitting beside her tonight and she decided to push aside her thoughts and worries and enjoy their time together.
“I was so nervous when you sighted your arrow. I think that I stopped breathing altogether!” she confessed.
“Ye didn’t think I would win? Even after…” Tristan’s words tapered off when he realized the danger of discussing their private archery tournament in the forest.
“I was very pleased when your aim was true,” Isobel said whole heartedly.
Tristan smiled wryly and turned his attention to the food that the maids had laid before them. He tore off a hunk of bread for Isobel and then one for himself. Taking a hearty bite, he resigned to keep his eyes on his food, for he knew that every time he looked at Isobel, he risked betraying their secret.
Being seated so close to her was both a blessing and a curse. Suspecting that any man who caught him looking at her would see his desires written plainly on his face, Tristan knew that it was only safe to slip Isobel a glance every now and then. He would have to be more careful.
Isobel took a bite of bread and feigned interest in the musicians that struck up a lively tune in the corner of the great hall. She knew that it was not safe to look upon Tristan, but she felt his attention on her. She prayed that her longing for him did not play openly across her face. Someone would surely notice.
Beneath the table, she felt Tristan’s knee move against her leg. Her heart did a back flip in her chest. She had to remind herself to keep chewing her bread. He moved his leg against hers and left it there. When she glanced in his direction, he smiled devilishly and arched his eyebrow.
Isobel froze, unable to believe what Tristan was doing. His leg was warm against hers. The close bodily contact was maddening and sent her blood rushing through her veins. Her face suddenly felt flushed and she took a sip of the cool, refreshing water in her mug. Her eyes glanced around the great hall, making sure that no one was watching them closely. Her frantically beating heart slowed when she realized that no one was watching her. Instead, the men had turned their attention to the roast pheasant.
Isobel relaxed against her chair and pressed her leg gently back against Tristan’s. She quelled a secret smile and took another sip of water. She was certain that she heard Tristan chuckle. He knew how greatly his touch affected her and Isobel knew that her response to his touch pleased him greatly.
“Did you enjoy the sport today, milady?” Tristan asked.
“I had to remind myself to breathe,” she said with a careful glance in his direction. Isobel wished that they could speak freely as they had done before. The shackles of their careful ruse were much too restraining.
Isobel glanced around the great hall to affirm that their conversation was not being monitored. All looked well and she leaned slightly towards Tristan.
“How is it that you are eligible for the tournament?” she asked in a hushed voice. The question had been nagging her all day, never far from her thoughts. She feared that perhaps Tristan was not of suitable birth. If he was found out to be an imposter, they could never be married, even if he was victorious in the tournament.
Tristan smiled wryly. He let out a slow breath and leaned back against the high wooden back of his chair.
His hazel eyes darted swiftly around the room. He had expected her to ask this question tonight.
“I havena been completely honest with you, Isobel,” he whispered. “And I’m regretful of it.”
Isobel felt her pulse quicken. Could Tristan reveal something that would make her change how she felt about him? No, she thought. Nothing that he could say would change her feelings. She loved him.
“There are parts of my past that I canna tell you. Not yet at least,” he said softly as his eyes searched hers for understanding. The hurt that he saw in her blue eyes was like a dagger through his heart. He fought the urge to touch her, to kiss her and console her and to beg her forgiveness for keeping secrets from her.
“I’ve had painful things happen to me, Isobel. Things so painful that I never expected to feel anything again. You have made my life worth living again,” he confessed as he held her gaze.
Isobel’s face flushed crimson. She took another sip of water, needing something to do with her hands. To hear Tristan speak so openly gave her hope and yet she knew that he was holding back pieces of himself, shielding his deepest secrets from her still. She wanted to know everything about Tristan, the painful secrets of his past and all, so that she could help him to become whole again.
“My oldest brother is Laird of our clan. I am his Tanist. If he produces no heirs, I will be Laird,” Tristan said quietly. He raked his hand through his hair, just as he often did when unnerved. “After what happened, I ran away from my duties to my clan. I needed to be as far from Dunhaven as possible. That’s what brought me here. I needed to be away from everyone and everything that reminded me of my past.”
Tristan took a sip of ale and continued.
“It was cowardly to run away from my responsibilities to my clan. I was young and unable to deal with what had happened. Looking back, I now ken that I made a grievous mistake by leaving my family. I can only hope that they will forgive me.”
“And so you became a blacksmith?” Isobel as
ked. She silently wondered what could have been so terrible to drive Tristan away from his family.
Tristan was pleased to see that she was not angry. He saw trust and understanding in her eyes. His heartbeat stilled slightly.
“I would have become a stable lad,” Tristan said with a chuckle. “My cousin Brandon had an apprenticeship with the McLaughlin smithy and having no plan of where to go, I came here. The smithy took us both on and we learned his craft together.”
“Someday will you tell me what happened?” Isobel asked cautiously. She knew that something within Tristan had been broken years ago and she longed to piece his broken parts together. She longed to help him heal from the trauma of his past.
“Aye,” Tristan said with a tender smile. “When we have time alone to speak properly, I will tell ye everything,” he promised. “Even the most painful bits.”
“I thank you,” Isobel said. Her eyes scanned the planes of his handsome face. She wished to take his sweet face between her hands and kiss away his pain.
“Cousin!” Brandon said loudly as he slammed two fresh mugs of ale on the table in front of Tristan. The foamy brew sloshed over the rims of the pewter mugs onto the wooden table.
Tristan growled low in his throat. He patted Isobel’s knee softly beneath the table, his gesture letting her know that they would continue their conversation later.
“Cousin,” Tristan returned the greeting, his voice perturbed. He had but precious little time with Isobel and did not like the fact that it had just been interrupted.
Brandon tucked his unruly mop of hair behind his ears. Isobel smiled when she noticed how the curls sprang from his scalp. They were just long enough for him to tuck behind his ears, but not yet long enough for a queue. Brandon was handsome and reminded her of Tristan. The two shared a clear family resemblance.
Brandon was well into his cups as was indicated by his flushed face and boisterous nature. He leaned against the table and looked down at Isobel with a silly grin plastered on his face.
