Tournament of Hearts (8 page)

Tristan’s
words ran through her mind.

His
words plagued her.

 The
McLaughlin guards sighted Isobel immediately once she cleared the safety of the
trees.  Her sky blue silk gown glistened like a beacon in the moonlight.  As
the men raced towards her, she heard Tristan’s voice resounding in the depths
of her soul.

“I
can and I will.  I will fight for you Bella.”

..ooOoo..

Tristan watched
from the cover of the trees as Isobel was collected by her father’s guards. 
She was hoisted into the waiting arms of a McLaughlin warrior and Tristan
gritted his teeth as he watched the man wrap her in his plaid.

 Tristan
knew in the deepest corner of his heart that he was choosing to do the
unthinkable.  Isobel McLaughlin was worth fighting for.  She was everything
that he had ever wanted, everything that had been denied to him.  She was his
only chance at redemption.  She was his only chance at happiness. 

Isobel
was his
sonuachar.
  His soulmate.

Tristan
vowed silently to cast aside everything that he was running from and fight. 

He
would hide from his birthright no longer.  Only his feelings for Isobel would
propel him to reclaim the position he’d been meant for since birth.  He was an
excellent warrior and a strong leader, traits that had been cultured in him
from his first breath of life.

Tristan
knew that he had the ability to win McLaughlin’s tournament.

The
chance to love was worth fighting for.  Without even being aware of her power
as a woman, Isobel McLaughlin had claimed Tristan’s heart.  He would give his
dying breath to claim her as his own.

He
stood alone, helpless in the dark moonlit night, surrounded by the looming
branches of the trees.  His hands felt empty without touching her, his lips
ached to kiss her again.  But his heart was affected the most.  It pounded
within his chest, beating out the mortifying rhythm of truth.

Despite
his best intentions, he had fallen in love with Isobel McLaughlin.

..oo      Chapter Ten     oo..

Isobel
closed her eyes and leaned her forehead against the cold stone wall. 
Bolstering her reserve, she willed herself not to cry.  The chill from the
stone quelled the throbbing of her head.  She garnered what strength she could
from the ancient walls of her ancestral home.

“Give
me strength, Papa,” she whispered, her voice barely audible in the silence of
the corridor. 

Swallowing
hard, she pushed away from the wall and opened her eyes.  Her fingers flitted
nervously to the folds in her gown and she brushed at them impatiently, wishing
to look as good as she might given that she felt lousy.

Today
would be the day when she would meet her husband.  Her thoughts went to
Tristan, turning over the last words that he had said to her that night in the
forest.

I
can and I will.  I will fight for you, Bella.

What
had he meant?  Her father’s decree had been painfully clear.  Only men of noble
birth could enter the tournament.

And
Tristan Finnegan was but a blacksmith.

Isobel
made her way down the flagstone steps, clinging tightly to the banister to
steady her shaky legs, which threatened to rebel at any moment and carry her
back upstairs to the safety of her chamber.  She glanced at her hand, noticing
how white her knuckles appeared in contrast to the dark wooden beam of the
banister.

Hodges
awaited her arrival at the bottom of the staircase.  He said nothing, but
nodded pertly and cleared his throat as he reached for Isobel’s hand.  She
smiled nervously as he tucked her hand into the crook of her arm and patted the
back of her hand reassuringly. 

“It
will be all right, milady,” Hodges said softly as he led her towards the grand
front doors of the keep.

“I’m
frightened,” Isobel admitted, swallowing hard in an effort to dislodge the knot
that had built in her throat.  Her hand trembled involuntarily and she grasped
Hodges arm, seeking the familiar comfort that his close proximity brought.

“As
am I, dear.  This is not how your father and I had planned to see you wed, but
I vow to you that I shall honor your father’s memory and see that a good match
is made.  That was his dying wish, ye ken?”

“Thank
you, Hodges,” Isobel said softly as she felt tears welling in her eyes. 
Forcing them away, she straightened her spine and squeezed Hodges’ arm.  “I
know that my father trusted you,” she said softly as she stopped walking and
looked up at the man before her.  She had known Hodges her whole life.  “Please
help me choose wisely.  Our clan depends upon my choice,” she whispered,
suddenly feeling the full weight of her burden bear down upon her.

“Aye,
lass.  We shall do this together,” he said as he leaned down and placed a
chaste kiss upon Isobel’s forehead.  “I loved your father as a brother and I
shall see to it that a good match for you is made.  And if by chance we choose
wrong, or if the wrong man claims victory in the tournament, I’ll use my dying
breath tae insure that no harm comes tae ye, lass,” Hodges vowed, his eyebrows
arched in a somewhat sinister manner.  “I’ll kill the bastard if he does ye
wrong.  Just as yer father would have done were he here.”

Isobel’s
heart beat faster as she understood the implications of Hodges vow.

“Shall
we?” she asked hollowly as she straightened her spine and looked towards the
massive oak doors that led to the courtyard before McLaughlin keep.

“Aye
lass.  We shall go, they will be waiting for us now.  Never forget that I am by
your side.  Show no weakness and give no indication about your father’s death. 
Our secret is vital.”

Isobel
nodded and stepped forward to meet her fate.

Hodges
opened the giant doors, ushering Isobel into the bright sunlit courtyard.  She
was blinded for an instant as her eyes adjusted to the afternoon sunlight.  Her
blue eyes squinted as the men standing before her came into focus.

There
were nine of them.  Her eyes scanned the warriors as her heart raced wildly in
her chest.  She recognized the first man at once.  When her eyes focused on
Rogan Cameron she felt dread settle in her stomach.  Tearing her eyes away from
the massive warrior, she glanced at the other men.  Their faces were unknown to
her, save for the man standing next to Rogan Cameron.

Isobel’s
heart flip-flopped in her chest.

His
hazel eyes were warm and comforting as they locked with hers.

Tristan
Finnegan, the blacksmith, stood before her.  He wore a crimson kilt and a fine
hammered breastplate, which glimmered radiantly in the afternoon sunlight. 

Isobel
inhaled sharply when Tristan had the audacity to wink at her.  She struggled to
hide the relief that flooded through her body at seeing Tristan amongst her
suitors.  Her hand trembled and she fisted her fingers into her gown.  Isobel
tore her eyes away from the blacksmith, hoping that her true emotions had not
played openly across her face.

Her
father’s men could never know that she held Tristan in such high regard.  She
knew that she loved him already.  Isobel worried that her heart would betray
her.  She hoped that her face would mask her true emotions, the emotions that
were becoming stronger with each glance that passed between them.

 Isobel
dared to hope that they might have a chance, albeit a slim one, of living their
lives together and relishing that love.  She knew not what stroke of luck had
allowed Tristan to stand before her in the line of suitors, but her heart was
bursting with gratefulness.

When
she caught Tristan watching her it made her heart go wild in her chest.  She
knew that he could do no more than offer her a knowing smile, but there was an
intimacy in his hazel eyes that drew her in and made her forget that she needed
to pretend as if they were mere strangers.  Tristan’s eyes enchanted her, made
her feel vibrantly alive.  They reflected his hidden desires as well as a deep
sense of longing.  She wanted to do naught but stare into his familiar eyes,
but she knew that her own longing would betray her if she indulged this
fantasy.

Pray
that he will  win!

Tristan’s muscles
tensed when Isobel’s eyes flitted back to meet his for a mere second.  He saw
the unmistakable burning of desire in her blue eyes and he forced himself to
look away from her.  How Isobel could affect him with but a simple, heated
glance!  He made an intentional effort to calm his breathing and slow his
racing heartbeat.

Assume
command.  Remain calm.  Ye must appear wholly detached.  They cannot see what
she means to ye.
  Tristan chanted the words over and over in his mind.  He
could never let them know what she meant to him, never let his emotions show. 
For if his competitors discovered what was between them, the budding love that
he and Isobel shared, it would be his undoing. 

They would use her
against him.

Tristan squared
his shoulders and prepared for the battle of his life.  The battle which would
also be for Isobel’s life and very well-being.

 He would not fail
her.

Maintaining his
rigid posture, Tristan’s eyes slanted to the left.  Their slight movement was
the only indication of acknowledgement that he gave to the men that would be
his competitors.  His gaze shifted towards the right, where he could just make
out the Cameron warrior’s profile.  He could feel the burn of his opponent’s
dark eyes boring holes into the side of his head.  Turning ever so slightly to
show the Cameron that he would not be intimidated, Tristan’s bold gaze
challenged his opponent. 

Rogan Cameron’s
face possessed a steadfast, hungry look of determination.  His brown eyes
glinted wildly and the small muscle in his jaw twitched as he noticed that
Tristan was looking at him.

Tristan stood
erect with his muscles tense, his tightly clenched jaw the only indication that
he had heard the muttered insult from the man standing next to him.  He did not
lower himself to responding to Rogan Cameron’s comment.  Tristan knew that weak
men uttered insults under their breath, especially when they were intimidated
by an opponent.  He hoped to Hell that this was the situation with Cameron. 
The Cameron was the son of Clan McLaughlin’s war chief and was known across the
Highlands as a fearsome warrior.

The other men,
highborn sons of neighboring Lairds and Nobles posed no threat to Tristan.  He
wondered how many of their swords had been crafted by his own hand. Tristan was
confident of his superior swordsmanship, having been trained for battle his
whole life. 

Yes, Cameron would
be the only one of the men that would pose a challenge.  Rogan Cameron did not
fight honorably or fairly.  He fought to win.

Tristan felt the
burn of his opponent’s dark eyes once again.  Tristan allowed the corner of his
mouth to turn up into an arrogant smile and he turned to acknowledge Cameron
only briefly before returning his attention to Hodges.  Tristan had long ago
tuned out the steady stream of rules for engagement that Hodges spewed from a
lengthy list.  Much care had been taken to ensure that the tournament was
governed appropriately and that more importantly, the results of the tournament
would be most official.

“The field shall
be narrowed to two men, men whose strength, cunning and victories have outshone
all other contestants.  From these two men, Lady Isobel shall choose her
preferred husband,” Hodges announced, his voice ringing loudly above the crowd.

Tristan allowed
his eyes to glance at where Isobel stood next to Hodges.  She stood regally,
spine erect and chin held high as she looked over the crowd that had gathered
for the spectacle.  He could tell that she was terrified, but she was strong
and hid her emotions well.

Tristan slid his
fingers beneath the metal of his breastplate, pulling the heated metal out
slightly from his chest and shrugging his shoulders.  The oppressive heat of
the unnecessary garment was a burden than he had borne solely for the purpose
of formality.  He had suspected that the other contenders would come dressed in
their finery and given his current station as a blacksmith, Tristan had worn
the breastplate to claim his rightful place as their equal.  He had never grown
accustomed to wearing the silly garment, had never found use for the meager
protection that the scrap of polished metal provided.  He much preferred to
fight with his arms and chest free of restraint so that he might exercise his
full range of motion.  He tugged at the hot metal again and silently vowed that
this would be the only time that he wore the damned thing.

Shifting his eyes
to focus on Isobel made him forget all about the bloody breastplate.  The same
afternoon sun that had made him unpleasantly hot blurred the lines of the great
McLaughlin keep, sending waves of heat upward around Isobel, cloaking her as if
she was a fallen angel.  She stood as still and picturesque as a statue.  She
was the epitome of grace and virtue.

 Tristan knew at
once that the men beside him were not here only to claim the Lairdship as
Isobel believed.  There was no man alive that could resist Isobel’s beauty. 
The men beside him wanted Isobel as well as the Lairdship to which she held the
key.

 They wanted what
was his.

Damn the bloody Lairdship. 
Isobel McLaughlin belonged to him.  Tristan fought the urge to climb the stone
steps and sweep Isobel into his arms.  He wanted to kiss her soft lips and
stake claim to her in front of his competitors.  He wanted to dare them to try
to take her away.

Isobel was his. 
And he was hers.

You can never
let them know.
 

He repeated the
words again and again, cautioning himself to govern his actions carefully.  To
show any indication of his love for Isobel would betray them both.

They can never
know.  They can never know of what lies between us.

 He cast his eyes
back towards the ground and began to tug anxiously at his breastplate once
more.  If Cameron and the others discovered what had transpired between him and
Isobel, they would surely use such knowledge against him.  His love for Isobel
McLaughlin was now a weakness, vulnerability.  Although the very same love
bolstered his confidence and gave him a reason to fight, it might also be his
downfall.

They can never
know.