She pressed her lips together.
He’d said the wrong thing again. Irritation for his own blundering tightened along his back.
“I have to wonder if you are where you want to be.” She lifted her head and gave him a brazen stare.
“Do ye think I’m no’?” he asked.
“I saw you earlier before the feast began.” Color blossomed in her cheeks and she slid her gaze from his, but not before he caught the brilliance of hurt in the pale blue depths.
“I only just arrived,” he replied.
She nodded, evidently not believing him, and nudged the venison on her plate with her eating dagger.
Her behavior was…odd.
“I wasn’t aware you were acquainted with Lady Clara,” she said abruptly.
Lady Clara? Cormac searched his mind for the name when understanding dawned on him. “I think I understand now.”
She sank the point of her eating dagger into the meat, so it stood upright and looked at him.
“My brother, Graham,” Cormac explained. “My twin brother, Graham. He holds an affinity for the lass.”
“Your twin?” she repeated slowly.
He nodded. “I’m older, which is why I’m chieftain. But we look the same. We drove our mum nearly mad when we were boys as we were always switching our names to confuse her.” He chuckled at the memory.
All at once, the tension relaxed somewhat from her shoulders, and a tight smile touched her lips. “Forgive me, I…” She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter.”
Cormac’s own stress eased somewhat. If she’d seen Graham and Lady Clara and had assumed Graham was Cormac, did her reaction mean she was jealous?
He practically grinned at the thought. “I apologize if ye mixed us up,” Cormac replied. “It wouldna be the first time. I thought ye were upset over the counter-challenge.”
Her expression hardened, and she took a sip of wine from a goblet that appeared nearly empty. “Have you heard of Brodie’s champion?”
Cormac filled his own plate and reached for a roll. It had long since gone cold and would probably be hard as a stone by now. Tournaments often had such problems with their food. Too many people to serve, and too much food left out to cool while waiting to be delivered to the proper table. At least the meat was hot.
He put a bite in his mouth and chewed the tender morsel slowly as he considered how to answer Isolde’s question. Edmund the Braw was a man whose head rose over all others and whose arms were thick as tree trunks. Defeating him would be difficult for any warrior, even Cormac. But especially for the Earl of Easton.
Especially for a lady if Lady Isolde was indeed masquerading as a man. Cormac regarded her, and his chest drew tight.
“He is powerful,” Cormac said eventually.
“I see.” Lady Isolde’s lips pinched into a narrow line. She reached for some bread, and the draped blue silk sleeve of her gown caught at the table’s edge and drew back over her wrist to reveal her forearm. A vivid, purple-black bruise showed like ink on her fair skin.
She quickly covered it, and Cormac pretended to have been too fixed on his meal to have noticed.
But he had seen it.
And now he knew with certainty.
The Earl of Easton had not defeated Brodie that morn. The victor had been Lady Isolde. Which meant it was she who would go up against Edmund the Braw. And she who would die.
Unless Cormac could convince her to let him fight in her stead.
8
Isolde should not have attended the feast. Her body ached with every breath, and her chest throbbed with every blazing beat of her heart.
However, she needed to maintain appearances. It would not do to have her miss a feast simply because Gilbert had been counter-challenged after his win. Or at least, that was what she told herself.
She knew the truth. And judging by the little smile Matilda had given as she brushed Isolde’s hair to a brilliant shine, she knew it too.
The truth had everything to do with the man sitting at Isolde’s side. Sutherland.
That truth had been confirmed in the stab of jealousy she’d experienced when she’d thought she’d seen him with Lady Clara. In hindsight, she realized it couldn’t have been Sutherland. Not when the other man had such a cocky smile, and his gait had been more relaxed as he walked alongside Lady Clara.
Sutherland was far too rigid. Stoic.
She tugged down the sleeve of her dress, ensuring it covered her bruise. A quick glance confirmed he had not seen it on her arm. Thanks be to God. The last thing she needed in this complicated mess of events was for him to know she was playing the part of her brother as well as herself.
The serving girl refilled Isolde’s goblet with more wine. Already the numbing effects of the beverage heated through Isolde’s blood and eased the throb from the worst of her injuries.
She lifted the full chalice to her lips and drank deeply before addressing Sutherland. “How do you think my brother will fare against a man like Edmund the Braw?” She kept her attention fixed on Sutherland to gauge his reaction.
His jaw tensed, and his gaze flicked briefly away. Not a good sign. He shifted in his seat. “I must be honest with ye, my lady. Edmund the Braw is one of the largest men in Scotland. He’s verra powerful and skilled.”
The muscles along her back knotted at his wary tone. She gave a terse nod for him to continue.
“I believe if yer brother were to fight Edmund, he wouldna fare well.” Sutherland watched her carefully as he spoke.
She looked into his green eyes, drawing strength from the impenetrable man before her. It was one of the reasons she’d longed to see him. His confidence and the power he carried with such ease. She had need of it, of him.
She was struck once more with the desire to ease against his hard body, to lay her head to his chest and let his arms curl around her in an embrace. Had she ever had such protective comfort?
Not from her brother, nor their father. From her mother, aye. But her mother’s arms, though tender, had been frail and delicate. And there had been love, so much love that it caused an ache to form at the back of her throat.
Isolde wanted love of a different form now, and comfort. But she also wanted someone whose strength she could share. A man like Sutherland.
“I dinna mean to make ye cry.” He reached a hand toward her face as though he meant to brush away a tear and stopped abruptly.
The way he caught himself reminded her where they were: in the middle of a feast, surrounded by courtiers, with Brodie hovering somewhere in the near distance. Such stark realizations made her want to cry more. The entire effort of her ruse, the fight she had endured, the risk she had taken—all of it had been futile.
She hastily swiped the tear from her cheek.
“I know ye’re close with yer brother,” Sutherland said gently.
Isolde almost gave a sardonic bark of laughter. He had no idea exactly how close she and Gilbert had become at the tournament.
“Do ye think Lord Easton will change his mind and allow me to fight Edmund the Braw in his stead?” Sutherland asked.
She recalled Sutherland’s offer—one she’d declined out of bravado. Now though, she took his suggestion with more consideration.
She had barely survived her victory with Brodie and hadn’t emerged unscathed. Sutherland was not a man for dramatic statements. He had sparred with her, and if he deemed her skills against Edmund the Braw would be inadequate, she knew he spoke in earnest.