The Highlander's Lady Knight (Midsummer Knights Book 2)

by Madeline Martin

  Isolde didn’t know where to start. There was too much to tell. So many years that had built up to where she was now that she had shared with no one but Matilda. Sutherland seemed to sense her uncertainty and stepped closer, lowering his voice to something gentler and more tender.

  “Mayhap, tell me why ye learned to fight.” He lifted his shoulder in a partial shrug. “’Tis a rarity to find a noblewoman who knows how to fight like a knight.”

  There was admiration in his tone, and it pulled the corners of her lips into a smile that memories quickly dissolved.

  “I started my training several years ago,” Isolde shut her eyes as that night so long ago came rushing back to her. “Our stronghold was attacked. It was before we had the stone keep that we do now, back when our fortifications were made of wood. We were being attacked by a rival lord who wanted our land. My father went to fight, as did my brother and all of their men. My mother was already in heaven then, thanks be to God, for no one thought to protect the women. The maid I had at the time and I were left entirely alone.”

  She could remember all too well how the time had dragged, weighted with uncertainty and fear while the shouts and cries of battle sounded from beneath her chamber window.

  “The men were able to break down the walls easily and forcibly entered the keep. One man hacked through my door with an axe. We waited, Mary and I, terrified with each strike of the axe head into the door. Bit by bit, the door splintered apart. We had not a single dagger between us. Not even a pair of sewing shears.” Even to speak of it now made the terror flutter to life like something living and all-consuming within her chest.

  “He killed Mary first.” Isolde shuddered. “An axe is a terribly gruesome way to die.”

  Mary’s image rose in Isolde’s mind, the woman who had cared for her since infancy, lying face down in a pool of her own gore. There had been so much blood. A puddle of it spread beneath the woman, soaking her blue kirtle to a glistening black red.

  “He came for me next, with Mary’s blood still dripping from the axe.” Fright sucked at her lungs, pulling air from them even now. She inhaled, and through the musky scent of sweaty male and the dampness of a rainstorm, she could still detect the odor of blood.

  “All I could do was scream.” And that was exactly what she’d done. She’d screamed and screamed and screamed until her throat was raw.

  “Just as the man was pulling his arm back to strike my skull with his wicked weapon, Hugh rushed in and ran him through before my very eyes.” Isolde swallowed down the taste of bile and opened her eyes to stare down at her hands. She still wore her gauntlets, though the gloves beneath were sodden and icy. “I had never witnessed a violent death before that day and was overwhelmed by its horror. I never wanted to be defenseless and at the mercy of my fears again. I bade Hugh promise to teach me to defend myself, to ensure I might never again be in such a helpless position. For had he not heard me crying out that day, I would be dead.”

  She looked up when Sutherland did not respond and found him watching her with a clenched jaw.

  “Ye shouldna have been left alone.”

  “I’m stronger for what I endured.” She lifted her chin. “I needn’t worry about being helpless now. Not when I can save myself.”

  “Ye shouldna have to save yerself,” he growled.

  She knew his anger was not directed at her. Still, it made her long to soothe him. “I do not regret the strong woman it made me. I only wish it had not happened at the expense of Mary.”

  He nodded, more to himself than her. “Hugh did a fine job training ye. I imagine it wasna easy to hide from yer father and brother.”

  She gave a mirthless laugh. “How did you know I had to keep my training a secret?”

  “Ye’re a well-born lady. It is assumed yer job is to wed and create heirs, aye?”

  She studied him to determine if he was mocking her. His expression remained serious. In the distance, a cheer rose, most likely from the jousting stands.

  “What do you think?” she asked.

  “I think ye shouldna have been in a situation where ye dinna feel protected. I vow to ye at this moment that will never happen to ye again. No’ as long as I’m alive.”

  His words brought a comfort she should not have relished. But she did. They enveloped her with the warmth of his promise and made everything inside her glow.

  “Why were ye fighting against Brodie?” Sutherland pressed. “Why did Lord Easton no’ do it for ye?”

  The embrace of pleasure at the moment cooled. “My brother does not share your sentiment on ensuring ladies under his care are well protected.” Isolde didn’t bother to keep the bitterness from her reply. “’Twas he who caught me with Brodie. He blamed me, of course. After all, ’tis never the man’s fault. The fault always lies with a woman.”

  “Ye came to defend yer own honor because he was too much of a coward?” Sutherland surmised.

  Isolde nodded.

  Outside, another round of cheers erupted from the joust.

  “What happened with Brodie?” Sutherland asked.

  Isolde explained the details she’d kept from him previously, how Brodie had bade her assist him in locating the Great Hall after having sent Matilda on a task to draw her away from Isolde. Once he had her alone in the hall, how he pushed her against the wall and shoved up her skirt to ensure that they were caught in a suggestive position.

  “He didn’t touch me.” Isolde didn’t know why she felt she had to offer that reassurance to Sutherland. “But he might as well have, for the opinion of all the men who saw.”

  Sutherland’s face darkened to an alarming shade of red. “I truly regret that ye dinna allow me to battle him that day on yer behalf.”

  Isolde regarded Sutherland warily. “Why do you say that?”

  “Because it would have been the best opportunity for me to kill him.”

  Cormac was entirely sincere about wanting to kill Brodie. The hurt and embarrassment blazing in Isolde’s face and the tears shining in her eyes made him want to slay someone. Brodie would be a good start. Then her brother would do nicely as a second.

  Cormac couldn’t stop recalling how hard Brodie had struck her. How even Cormac himself had hit her through the course of their practice when he thought she was her brother.

  He tugged off his gauntlets and let them fall unceremoniously onto his pack on the floor. “Let me see yer arm.”

  She didn’t move to slide off her gauntlet or lift up her sleeve. He closed the distance between them with a single step and carefully eased back the padded coif and chainmail hood from her head. All of her hair was visible now; the limp auburn waves plastered to her face and scalp with a braid that ran down the back of her gambeson and chainmail. She watched him with wide blue eyes as he did this, saying nothing.

  But not stopping him either.

  “Please,” he said in a quiet voice.

  He longed to caress her cheek, to warm her cold, damp skin with his hands. Instead, he lifted her arm and gently pulled off her gauntlet, the leather of her glove beneath cold and swollen with rainwater. Her fingers were slender and fine; her nails perfectly rounded and clean. Lady’s hands.

  Color touched her cheeks. “Hugh always insisted I wore gloves when we practiced so my palms wouldn’t become callused.”

  “Smart man.” Cormac pushed up the sleeve of her chainmail and the gambeson beneath, exposing the entirety of the bruise. It was as long as the hilt of his blade and a dark purple black.

  He ran his finger over her injury, his touch light as a feather. Her skin blazed under his fingertips.

  Concern and anger twisted into an ugly knot in his gut. “Are ye sure ’tis no’ broken?”

  She bit her lip and shook her head. “I’ve had a break before. I know what it feels like.”

  Rage coiled tighter inside him. He hated that she’d known pain before and that she was experiencing it now. He hated the man who had done this to her and those who had forced her into such extreme circumstances.
But more than anything, he was overwhelmed by the need to protect her. He wanted to be at her side for the rest of her life with his blade at the ready, prepared to slay any man who even thought of causing her pain.

  “’Tis fine, Sutherland,” she said.

  He regulated his breathing to cool his ire and caught her sweet rose scent. It was delicate and fine, like her.

  “’Tis no’ fine.” He curled his hand around hers, engulfing her slender, icy fingers. He wanted to embrace all of her thus. “Cormac. Please call me Cormac.”

  “Cormac,” she whispered his name, her demeanor suddenly reticent.

  He couldn’t tear his gaze from the brilliance of her blue eyes. They were pale and flecked with green around her pupil, a color that reminded him of a summer loch. Heat effused his veins, and he found himself fighting the urge to pull her toward him to capture her mouth with his.

  He gritted his teeth. He would do no such thing. Not when so many men had used her to their own advantage.

  Except he was doing that very thing now too, was he not? He was seeking her hand in marriage so that he might have access to her wealth. His soul went dark with guilt. He should walk away, abandon the foolish notion of wooing her into marriage.

  Graham appeared to be getting on well with Lady Clara. Surely, the dowry of one nobleman’s daughter would be enough to sustain the clan until they managed a season of successful crops.

  Cormac knew he should back away from her at that moment. Except her gaze swept to his mouth, her expression soft. Her hand was still in his, his large thumb tucked toward her palm with her fingers curled around his grip, holding him to her.

  “Where else were ye injured?” he found himself asking.

  She turned her face to the side, revealing a smear of blue at the edge of her jaw. “I concealed it with lily root powder at the feast.”

  It was not covered now. The mark was half the size of his smallest finger and ran along the sharp line of her jaw. His free hand raised of its own accord, and his fingertips whispered over the injury. Her skin was still damp from the rain and cool to the touch.

  “Where else?” He asked.

  She pulled her hand from his and gingerly touched her side, along the upper part of her waist near her ribs. “I don’t need to bother with covering the bruise there.” Her mouth quirked in a little smile he wanted to taste.

  His hand settled there as well. He cradled her carefully with his fingertips by her waist and jaw. An ache settled within him, a powerful longing for this woman who had been left to care for herself when no one else would do so. A woman whose strength took her where a lady should not have to venture. A woman who had risen to the occasion regardless.

  Her tongue ran along her lower lip, leaving it glistening with temptation, and her eyes found his once more. “Cormac,” she said quietly.

  “Isolde.” Her name came out sounding gruff with the force of his need.

  She edged closer to him, so her chest nearly grazed his. His heartbeat thundered in his ears and matched the pulse of desire in his groin. He should remove his hands from her, walk away and never look back.

  She was not meant for Brodie, but nor was she meant for him. Not when he had need of her wealth. Not when he would be using her for land and coin as others in her life had.

  He would not kiss her. Nor touch her. Nor long for her.

  Then he made the mistake of looking into her eyes. Dark lashes rimmed such an exquisite blue that he felt himself tip into them and become lost with no desire to be found again. Her rose perfume intoxicated him like the strongest Highland whisky. Aye, he should leave, and yet he could not walk away.

  What man could resist such alluring temptation?

  10

  Isolde had never wanted to be kissed before. Men had tried in past years. Most of them idiots, their eyes bright with avarice.

  But now—with Cormac’s green gaze pulling her into the embrace of an abyss she never wanted to leave—now she wanted the press of his mouth against hers.

  Kiss me.

  She inched closer to him and tilted her chin upward, giving him easier access to her lips. His brows tensed as though he was in pain. Or mayhap warring with the decision.

  Isolde had spent her life obeying the dictates of men. She’d been an obedient daughter and dutiful sister, and none of it had given her pleasure. Now, in a man’s armor, defending her honor, she had created her path in life, forged with determination and the steel of her own convictions.

  She put her hand on the thick fabric of his surcoat, pushed up on her toes and took the kiss he hesitated to give. His mouth was as warm as his hand had been, as soft as she had thought it might be.

  She lingered there, savoring the press of their lips together, breathing in his spicy sandalwood and leather scent. His hand caressed the uninjured side of her face in a sensual stroke that teased down her neck and back up the underside of her chin. He cradled the back of her head in his palm and closed his mouth over hers.

  Her heart slammed frantically at the nearness of him, at the way his lips moved over hers, at the brush of his tongue. Without realizing why, she parted her mouth for him. He deepened the kiss with his tongue, tasting her in an exquisite fashion that left her knees on the cusp of buckling.

  She ran her hand down his surcoat, wishing he hadn’t worn his gambeson and chainmail so that she might sense the bulk of his powerful body beneath. How she longed to feel his body through only a tunic or a linen.

  Or perhaps nothing at all.

  She could imagine it too easily, the heat of his skin against her touch, their bodies intimately close.

  A steady pulse of need thrummed with insistence between her legs as their mouths parted and their tongues caressed. She arched against him in a desperate bid to alleviate her longing, but the clink of chainmail offered no respite.

  His mouth slanted over hers with a low groan and pulled her more firmly against him. Their pelvises pushed against one another, yielding only pressure against the thick gambeson and impenetrable chain.

  She gave a desperate whimper. Wanting more.

  Her blood was impossibly hot as it raced through her veins like fire, and her thoughts fixated completely and totally on Cormac. On her desire for him.

  He stepped away, panting. “We must stop.” He rested his forehead against hers and closed his eyes.

  “I don’t want to,” she murmured. She tilted her face toward him and nuzzled her nose to his so their lips whispered against one another.

  His mouth touched hers in a firm kiss, as though he couldn’t help himself any more than she could. Delicious chills raced over her skin.

  He gave a low growl of an exhale. “We canna do this.”

  Isolde curled her arms over his neck. If her sensations were aflame despite so many layers, she could only imagine what they could experience without.

  “Ye’re shivering.” He tenderly ran his thumb down her cheek and brushed away a damp bit of hair from her brow. “Ye need to return to the castle and put on a dry kirtle lest ye become ill.”

  She tucked her lip into her mouth as though she could capture the spicy taste of him and the thrilling feel of his kiss there forever. His attention dipped to her mouth. The thrum of desire pounded harder. He wanted to kiss her again as badly as she wished he would.

  “Will you be at the joust?” she asked.

  “Nay.” He ran his hand through his hair. It was a casual gesture that left his black hair rumpled and boyishly endearing. “I need to gather some information during the joust.”

  Her fingers itched to smooth over the mussed tresses. “What sort of information?”

  “On Brodie and the Ross clan.”

  Thoughts of Brodie invaded their cocoon of happiness like a draft of chilled air creeping beneath one’s blankets. She scoffed. “What’s he done this time?”

  Cormac’s jaw clenched, and she could tell he regretted having mentioned it.

  Her curiosity piqued, she tilted her head. “What is it?”

>   “Isolde, ye must allow me to fight his champion for ye.”

  Isolde shook her head vehemently. “He might kill you.”

  Cormac stared at her, his expression fierce. “He will kill ye.”

  Isolde didn’t argue. What could she possibly say when what he said was most likely the truth?

  “Mayhap I could hire a champion of my own,” she suggested. “Can you recommend one?” While she had not taken many coins from Gilbert’s coffers, she had enough of his finery to fetch a considerable sum.

  “Ye have one right here.” He lifted her hands in one of his. “And I’m better than anyone ye’ll pay.”

  She loved the strength of his fingers curled around her own. Even as she relished his need to protect her, she hated what it might cost him. Tears warmed her eyes. “Your life is far dearer to me than any amount of coin.”

  He ran his thumb over the back of her hand. “I told ye that I would never leave ye unguarded. I stand by that vow. I will defend ye. I will fight Edmund the Braw for ye.” He leveled his gaze with an earnestness that sank into her heart. “I will fight him, and I will win.”

  “I cannot discuss this any further.” Isolde tugged her hands free of his grasp and pushed away from him. “I must go. They’ll be expecting me at the joust given my absence previously.” She paused at the tent flap and glanced at him. “I trust I’ll see you at the feast?”

  He inclined his head. “I’ll be there.”

  Heat crept up her cheeks, but she didn’t bother hiding her blush or how much pleasure she took from his words. She put the helm back on her head and slipped from the tent, rushing back to the castle.

  Matilda had a fresh kirtle waiting for her as well as a roaring fire by which to dry her hair and quell the icy chill that had settled into her bones. Isolde stared into the flames as Matilda pulled the armor from her body and put a linen robe over her cold, wet skin.

  In her mind, Isolde experienced Cormac’s mouth on hers again, smooth and sensual. The heady rush of lust washed over her again, and she did not bother fighting the currents of its pull. She wanted every delicious moment of longing, eager for the moment it might be sated.