Gilbert’s shoulders relaxed, and he nodded. As though she needed his permission to leave. She departed without another word and made her way to her own chamber, where she found Matilda waiting. Their eyes met, and Isolde nodded in quiet conveyance that it had been done.
They passed the time together, finalizing their plans in whispered voices—the intent to leave in the middle of the night, taking everything Gilbert had packed for himself. He was just vain enough to remain home if he did not have his newly sewn fine clothes to wear. His armor would be coming with them as well, though it was not part of the plan to prevent him from following them.
Footsteps came from the solar below, frantic with the urgency of one’s bowels about to erupt. Matilda and Isolde smothered their mirth as his bellows of exclamation filled the castle.
Nay, the armor was for Isolde. For if Gilbert refused to defend her honor, she would do it herself.
2
Travel from Scotland to England was a grueling journey spanning long, rain-soaked days that left Cormac in a terrible mood. At least finding the Rose Citadel had been relatively easy with all the ribbons and streamers dancing in the wind from the turrets like maypoles.
The brothers and two trusted clansmen, Duncan and Lachlan, dismounted amid the sea of tents and went about setting theirs among the others. Lucky for them, they’d all had the foresight to wrap their bags in the wax-coated linen tents to prevent everything they brought from being thoroughly soaked. They set up the tents with haste, eager to scour the travel from their skin and hair and wear dry clothes once more.
Duncan and Lachlan went to fetch some water for washing while Cormac and Graham tightened the last of the ropes. They were just finishing when a lanky man with messy brown hair approached. A medium-sized dog trotted at his side, its hair as matted and mud-colored as its owner’s.
“Are you looking for a mercenary?” the man asked.
Cormac pulled the rope taut. “Nay.”
The man rushed to secure the rope before Graham could help. Cormac exchanged a glance with his brother before turning to the mercenary. “We’re no’ going to hire ye.”
The man remained in place. “I don’t see any mercenaries with you or any sort of guard. You’ll have need of someone to mind your back.”
Cormac braced his feet wide and looked down at the slender man who was a head shorter than he was. “I dinna think we do.”
The dog issued a whine and stared up with soft brown eyes set beneath his filthy hair.
Was the dog begging Cormac now as well?
Cormac didn’t bother to mention Duncan or Lachlan. Instead, he grabbed his pack and slipped into the tent with Graham following behind him.
“We dinna have time for all this,” Cormac muttered. “No’ when we have to prepare for the feast. We dinna even know what time it starts.”
“Just before the sun goes down,” the mercenary answered from outside the tent.
Cormac ignored the man’s reply. Graham, however, called out to the man in thanks. Sundown was swiftly approaching. Not that they needed the motivation to hurry them from the wet clothes chafing at their skin. Duncan and Lachlan appeared several moments later with a bucket of fresh water to wipe away the mud of travel, while the brothers returned to their tent to prepare for the feast where they would be spying on the nobles.
Cormac and Graham changed into their finest tunics, which they belted over woolen hose, and emerged from the tent to discover the mercenary lounging outside, his back pressed to a pile of timber with his dog resting its head in his lap. The mercenary leapt up as his gaze caught Cormac and Graham.
“The feast is going to be one of the best from what I hear,” the man said. “M’name’s Alan and this here’s Pip.” The dog cocked his head at the mention, forehead rumpled with concentration.
“We dinna need an escort, Alan.” Cormac fixed his gaze on the man. “We dinna need protection. Men already travel with us, men from our clan. Ye’re no’ wanted, and I’ll no’ be paying ye.”
Not only did Alan appear nonplussed, but he also did not leave their side. “Do you even know where you’re going?”
“The castle,” Cormac replied. “Where I’ll no’ have need of ye.”
“Aye, well, the entrance is that way.” Alan indicated west with a long, thin finger. “You’ll be going toward the back of the castle with the direction you’re heading.”
Cormac grudgingly shifted his direction.
“If you’re not in the market for a mercenary, what are you here for?” Alan asked. “The joust? The melee? Revenge?” He stated the last word with dramatic flair, his brown eyes growing wide.
Graham met Cormac’s gaze, and Cormac knew immediately what his brother was thinking. Neither of them knew what the ladies they sought looked like. Graham wanted to utilize the mercenary’s knowledge of the people to glean the identities of the women.
Cormac shook his head, but Graham was already pressing a coin into Alan’s palm and whispering in his ear. Alan nodded and picked up his pace with a determined purpose.
The Great Hall was packed with people by the time they entered. Musicians filled the air with the merriment of strings and pipes floating above the raucous din of too many conversations. A space would no doubt be cleared by the lower tables later for dancing.
Cormac grimaced at the idea of having to dance.
“There is Lady Clara de Montfort ,” Alan said in a low whisper. “Daughter to the Norman Count de Evreux.”
Cormac followed the direction of his stare to a brunette in a green kirtle with a pert smirk on her lips. She offered a chuckle to the woman next to her and casually sipped from the goblet in front of her.
“And there is Lady Isolde Maxwell.” Alan shifted his focus across the capacious Great Hall. “Sister to Earl of Easton.”
Cormac turned his head and stopped short. Lady Isolde wore a yellow silk gown that complimented her auburn hair and set her skin off like rich cream. Her face was delicate in its beauty with high cheekbones and finely arched brows, balanced with the fullness of her rosy lips.
Despite the excitement humming around her, Lady Isolde held only a small smile on her lips, as if she were offering it for posterity rather than in genuine enjoyment. She didn’t engage in conversation with those around her, as others did. Nay, she gazed at the flowers strewn over the linen tablecloth with that plastered smile, her thoughts so far away, it made Cormac wonder where they took her.
Lady Isolde Maxwell.
Her name hummed in Cormac’s veins like a challenge.
She was the lady he wished to woo. He regarded his brother, hoping beyond hope Graham would not seem as smitten by Lady Isolde as he.
But nay, Graham’s focus was homed in on Lady Clara, a cocky grin already tipping the corner of his mouth.
Cormac leaned toward his brother. “Shall I take Lady Isolde?”
“And I’ll help myself to Lady Clara.” He lifted his brows suggestively and cut a path through the sea of people toward the Norman count’s daughter.
Cormac was preparing in his mind what he planned to say to Lady Isolde when the nobleman at the dais, presumably Lord Yves, stood up and began a speech to welcome them all to the Rose Citadel.
“In case you aren’t aware, he is Baron de la Rose,” Alan said under his breath. “The man hosting the tournament. You can either sit here at the lower end of the table or outside with the servants.”
Cormac lifted his brow. “I’m a chieftain.”
“Then I leave you to your feast, my lord.” Alan offered a slight bow and finally took his leave.
“’Tis ‘sir,’” Cormac grumbled, but the man was already too far away to hear.
Cormac scanned over the crowd and once more found Lady Isolde. She was no longer bothering to feign a smile as she watched the baron deliver his welcome speech. Her eyes narrowed as if in contemplation, and Cormac found himself wishing to see what filled her thoughts. And what he might do to gain access to them. And through them—her.
A man appeared behind Lady Isolde and sank onto the bench beside her. Cormac bristled as he recognized the tall, blond beast of a man as none other than Brodie Ross, the Scotsman to whom Lady Isolde had been promised.
Whatever appetite Isolde had possessed disappeared as Brodie settled onto the bench next to her. The heat of his thigh settled against hers and made bile crawl up her throat.
“Good evening, my lady.” His lowered voice held an intimacy she did not care for. Indeed, a shiver of disgust scrabbled over her flesh.
She did not bother to reply. She had hoped the empty seat at her side might be taken by another lord’s daughter, although in the pit of her stomach, she’d anticipated it would be filled by Brodie.
Lord Yves’s speech came to a conclusion, followed by cheers and toasts. Music and conversation resumed, and a servant settled a heavy platter of meat before them.
“We’ll be married within a sennight.” Brodie speared the venison with his eating dagger. “Lord Yves has already seen to all the preparations to ensure we can be wed following the melee.”
He let the chunk of meat slide from his dagger onto her plate. The cut was not a good one, riddled with fat that was already congealing into waxy white globs. For himself, he dug into the center of the pile of game and unearthed a slab of meat that still steamed with warmth from the oven.
Isolde swallowed the temptation to retch and glared down at her hands.
She wished she was wearing Gilbert’s armor now so that she could throw the gauntlet at Brodie’s feet and issue the challenge to save her honor. She was confident in her ability to fight with a sword. Her brother’s Captain of the Guard, Hugh, had instructed her for several years after she’d been left alone in an attack at their home at Easton. She’d sworn then never to allow herself to feel so helpless and by God, she would honor that vow to herself now.
Brodie would not have her hand in marriage.
Once she was free from the obligation with Brodie, she’d leave the Rose Citadel and the whole foolishness of the tournament.
“Where is Lord Easton?” Brodie asked.
“My brother is supping in his rooms as he doesn’t care for such formal occasions,” Isolde replied curtly, having prepared the lie earlier on. Though it truly wasn’t too far from the truth. While Gilbert enjoyed the glory and attention his title brought him, he didn’t relish the tedium of ceremony or casual conversation with those he felt were beneath him. Had he not been ferociously ill the previous evening and still moaning in his chamber when Isolde left, he would no doubt be in the apartments upstairs with at least one comely lady ready to warm his bed.
Despite Gilbert’s intention to wed Isolde off and the years of disdain he’d afforded her, she did experience a pinch of guilt for the incident with the potion. She’d even commissioned a stable lad to bring her word upon his recovery, so she could rest her conscience.
The feast dragged onward. Platters of food were set upon the linen table clothes among the scattered daisies and candles and salt cellars while wine and ale were poured liberally into goblets. Through it all, Brodie spoke to her as if she wished for his conversation. His diatribes were tedious in the faults he noted in others and offensive in the joy he took in such shortcomings.
Isolde pushed the food around on her fine metal plate, eager for it all to be done.
“Why’s that Sutherland cur staring at ye?” Brodie asked abruptly.
Isolde lifted her head and caught sight of the man Brodie had referenced. He was taller than those sitting around him, his shoulders square and strong. He wore his dark hair to his shoulders and studied her with a fierce intensity he didn’t bother to hide. Not even when she intentionally met his gaze to let him know that she noticed his attention.
Instead, he merely nodded once to her, as though in greeting. Unapologetic and bold and entirely unfamiliar.
She’d never seen the man in her life but didn’t bother stating such to Brodie. It was none of his concern. Nothing in her life was any of his concern. And after she challenged him tomorrow and beat him in a fight, she would be free of the betrothal.
The beat of the music became somewhat faster, and several people stood from their benches to dance to the thrumming beat. Isolde bit into a honey cake, suddenly finding her appetite rather than be subjected to a dance with Brodie.
Not that he was so easily put off.
“Dance with me, Isolde.” The tone of his voice didn’t suggest a request so much as a demand.
She arched her brow at him and swallowed the bite of cake around her dry throat. “I did not give you leave to call me by my Christian name. You may address me as Lady Isolde.”
He narrowed his eyes, then cleared away his irritated expression. “Dance with me, Lady Isolde.”
“Nay.” She turned away from him. “I won’t wed you either, so do not set your heart on our union.”
A hard grip curled around her forearm, hidden from sight by the tablecloth. “If ye keep talking with that stubborn tongue, I’ll make sure ye’re claimed thoroughly next time.”
She wanted the hilt of a sword in her palm at that very moment, while facing him on the battlefield. Her muscles knotted with energy, eager for the opportunity to swing the heft of her blade and let it connect with jarring impact.
Instead, she jerked her arm free and stood. “Excuse me. I’m feeling rather unwell.”
Matilda was at her side immediately.
A muscle worked in Brodie’s jaw. Isolde thought he might protest her departure, but his small eyes scanned the nobles around them, several of whom had stopped to gape at him. He lowered his head reverently. “I bid you good evening, Lady Isolde.”
She turned away from him and strode through the press of people with Matilda at her side.
“Will ye dance with me, Lady Isolde?”
The last thread of Isolde’s nerves snapped. Civility and decorum were not worth the level of harassment she was receiving from the Scotsman.
“Nay.” She spun on her heel to face Brodie. “And if you ask me once more, I’ll—”
It was not Brodie who stood behind her, but the man who had watched her. Being in closer proximity to the curious stranger, she could make out the green of his eyes that had been indiscernible from a distance. He had a sharp jawline beneath the dark stubble he hadn’t taken the time to shave. It was appealing, that shadow of coarse hair on his sculpted face.
He was appealing.
Far more than she liked to admit.
“Forgive me,” she stammered. “I thought you were...” She shook her head. This man didn’t need to know about her any more than Brodie did.
“I’m Cormac, Chieftain of the Sutherland Clan.” He inclined his head rather than bowing.
“I’m Lady Isolde Maxwell,” she replied.
“Well met.” Sutherland shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Would ye care to dance with me?”
She glanced toward the open space before the musicians. Brodie stood nearby with a group of men around him, some of whom were his brothers. There were five Ross lads in total, all at the Rose Citadel with their da, the Chieftain of the Ross clan. She’d heard from Matilda that Baston, the second eldest son, was set to marry a Norman count’s daughter.
Isolde hated the Norman woman’s fate as much as she hated her own. The whole lot of the Ross clan were bullies who relished the shame and pain of others for their own mirth. And if Isolde agreed to dance with the bold, mysterious Chieftain of the Sutherland clan, she would have to walk past the Rosses to do so.
What was more, if she danced with this man, Brodie would likely seek out Gilbert to discuss the offense. What would she do then? She couldn’t very well meet privately with Brodie while wearing full armor with a helm to mask her identity.
“Forgive me, Sutherland,” she said after a moment’s hesitation. “My answer is still nay. Do excuse me.” With that, she swept away with Matilda following closely behind her.
Mayhap it was rude of Isolde to leave him standing thus,
but she could not risk jeopardizing her opportunity to challenge Brodie the following day. For it might be the only chance she would have to be free.
3
Cormac stood in silence for a heart-stopping moment as Lady Isolde strode away from him. Her narrow waist was displayed in her yellow silk kirtle, defined by a decorative gold belt and gilt thread had been plaited into her braid, so it glinted like stars in her fiery hair.
“You should have said please,” Alan offered in a matter-of-fact tone.
Cormac frowned at him. “When did ye get back in here?” His frown deepened. “Where is Graham?”
Alan shrugged. “I figured you’d have need of my assistance.”
Cormac grunted.
Alan lifted his chin expectantly.
“Verra well,” Cormac growled in frustration. “Where is Graham?”
“With Lady Clara.” Alan scratched Pip on the head, stopped and pinched a flea between his nails.
Agitation tensed at the back of Cormac’s neck. Graham always knew what to say to women. It was Cormac who could handle the many tasks and tedious details of being chieftain. But Graham was the charismatic one who knew what to say and how to say it.
“Do you need advice with Lady Isolde?” Alan asked in a tone that was almost pompous.
Cormac didn’t like it. But he was also desperate.
In the distance, Lady Isolde was making her way to the exit. If he hurried, he could still catch her.
“Fine,” Cormac said with exasperation. “Tell me what to say to her.”
“Tell her she’s lovely and ask her nicely to dance with you.” Alan lifted a shoulder as if what he was suggesting was an obvious solution. “Mayhap follow your request with a ‘please.’”
But Cormac didn’t respond; he was already pushing through the throngs of colorfully dressed nobles to where Lady Isolde was nearly to the great double doors that would lead her out of the Great Hall and ruin his chance to make a better impression.
The Highlander's Lady Knight (Midsummer Knights Book 2) Page 2
