There was something amiss.
While he didn’t know what it was exactly, he vowed to arrive on the practice field the following morning in time to watch the battle for Lady Isolde’s honor. While there, he would try to convince the earl to allow him to fight instead.
That failing, he wanted to be there to ensure the Englishman didn’t get killed. And if he did, at least someone could be there to protect Lady Isolde. Regardless of how the events transpired the following day, Cormac knew blood would be shed. He only hoped that not too much of it belonged to the Earl of Easton.
7
Isolde’s trepidation about her upcoming battle with Brodie did not diminish through the night. In fact, it increased from a tumble of thoughts to a tumultuous storm of worry.
She was awake long before the gentle creaks and murmurs of the servants moving about began. Her stomach roiled with unease, and her head ached with the discomfort of a sleepless night.
Matilda drew open the bed curtain and peeked in at her. “My lady, ’tis time.”
Isolde removed herself from the bed and allowed Matilda to gently wash her face and comb her hair before preparing her for the fight. It did not escape Isolde’s notice that Matilda’s brows were drawn together as though she were in physical pain.
“Are you certain you must do this, my lady?” Tears shone in the maid’s eyes.
Isolde notched her chin upward with determination. “I am certain I have no other choice and that I have been well-trained for this moment.” Mayhap her bravado in front of Matilda might pass off onto her own awareness.
Isolde could use all the confidence she could muster.
Matilda did not protest Isolde’s decision again as she dressed her mistress in Gilbert’s armor. Though the padding beneath the chainmail had been set in cedarwood to help remove the rank of stale sweat, the mustiness still rose over the metallic odor of chainmail. And beneath it all was the coppery tinge of her own fear.
She settled the helm into place and gave herself a moment to adjust to the limited visibility while Matilda belted the sword to her side.
At last, Isolde was prepared for battle.
Upon arrival to the practice field, any concerns she might have harbored over being unable to locate Brodie dissolved. He had arrived before her and waited impatiently for her to show. He was not the only one. A small band of men gathered around the area in anticipation. Among them were Sutherland and the slender mercenary who had come to their aid after the joust the prior day.
Pip caught sight of her and ran at her with such speed that it pulled his pink tongue from the corner of his mouth. His broad front paws hefted into the air and landed on her thighs, practically knocking her to the ground with the impact. Wouldn’t that look fine? To be felled by a mid-sized dog before Brodie could even land a single blow.
She scratched the spot behind his ears and whispered a command for him to return to Alan, one she’d heard Cormac say often. The hound did as he was bade, but with great hesitation and apparent regret.
Sutherland caught sight of her and met her halfway. “Let me fight in yer stead, my lord.”
“Nay, Sutherland,” Isolde said brusquely in Gilbert’s petulant tone. “This is my man to take down and so help me God, I shall do it with my own blade.”
“He’s far stronger than ye.” Sutherland’s voice took on a warning tone that slithered a trail of ice down Isolde’s spine.
“He’s nothing I cannot handle,” she replied. “What concern is it of yours?”
“I’ve come to know yer sister,” Sutherland said in a low voice. “She’s a good woman who has been taken advantage of. A fact that doesna sit well with me.”
“Nor I,” Isolde replied. “And so, I shall address this now, as the man I am.”
Sutherland put his hand to Isolde’s chest to stop her. It was all she could do to keep from drawing back as though she’d been struck. Her breasts were strapped down, aye, but would he feel the swells of her bound bosom through the layers of batting and chain and linen? Tingles raced over the area he’d touched, intimate despite her inability to feel anything more than the slight pressure of his hand.
“Ye’re far more dexterous than Brodie,” Sutherland said, oblivious to the reaction coursing through her like fire. “He’ll be moving slow given his size. Use that to yer advantage.”
Isolde nodded her thanks and brushed past him to the center of a small circle of men where Brodie awaited her. The Highlander snarled at her in greeting and did not even wait for her to prepare before plunking his helm upon his head and charging. She dodged the first blow of his sword, but was not so lucky with the punch that followed.
His metal fist slammed into her side with the force of a hammer. The breath gusted from her lungs, and she nearly collapsed. The only thing keeping her upright after such a strike was the very real possibility she might never get up if she fell.
She swung her sword, but it glanced off his shoulder. No doubt, the scant power behind her own weapon was not nearly as impactful as his. He roared his irritation at the blow. The back of his hand crashed into her helm, knocking it sideways and sending her whole world plunging into darkness, with a shrill ringing in her ears.
Her breath panted in great heaving gasps.
Your helm.
She calmed her frenzied thoughts and righted her helmet. Once more, Brodie came into view. He lumbered toward her and drove his sword down with two hands. She managed to evade the blow. The grass where she’d been split against the sharp weight of his blade, revealing a wound in the dark soil beneath.
While he was still hefting his weapon to reclaim it from the earth, Isolde fell back on the advice Sutherland had so generously imparted. She was dexterous. Faster than most men. She rushed behind Brodie, curled a leg around his feet, and shoved with all her strength. He pitched backward like a falling tree, arms flailing.
Isolde wasted no time—she climbed atop him and shoved off his helm. Before she could settle her blade to his throat, he withdrew a rod from the belt at his waist and whipped it at her wrist.
Pain exploded into a thousand white-hot stars before her eyes. This time, she did freeze, made immobile by the brilliance of the agony. Brodie grabbed her and flipped her onto her back. Her helm rocked back against the ground, rattling in her ears.
The slit of her vision faced up to a cloudy gray sky, rendering her blind to her opponent. His weight pushed down on her like a crushing millstone. She gasped, but her chest struggled to fill with air against the press of his body. Her right hand buzzed with pain and clenched around nothing.
She had lost her sword.
The helm tilted as though being pried from her face.
She would be found out.
A rush of energy surged through her, exploding with a power of which she had not thought herself capable. Nearly blind from her limited visibility, she arched her hips up, throwing him off her. In a single move, she leapt atop him, whipped out her dagger with her left hand and held it to his throat.
“Concede,” she gasped in whatever imitation of Gilbert’s voice she could muster from her rasping throat.
“Aye,” Brodie snarled. “I concede.”
She pushed off of him and strumbled backward. Only then did she adjust her helm to bring the narrow line of her vision correctly over her eyes. Brodie lumbered to his feet, his face dark with rage.