If there was a possibility of her mayhap being killed, then there was a possibility that Cormac could die as well. He was the chieftain of a clan who relied on him, and she was simply a woman who had little foothold in the world, save noble birth and wealth.
She could not allow him to die in her stead. Not when it was her honor, and her decisions, which took them down this path.
She shook her head, her mind made up. “He would not allow you to fight in his stead.” She folded her hands in her lap and stared hard at her interlaced fingers.
Coming to the feast had been a mistake. Seeing Sutherland again had been a mistake. It had all been indulgent and foolish.
“I canna allow Lord Easton to go into a fight that he canna survive,” Sutherland said.
The serving girl approached with a flagon of wine and tipped more of the dark-red liquid into Isolde’s goblet. Isolde waited for the woman to leave before replying, “You have people depending on you, Sutherland.”
“Does yer brother no’ have people relying on him as well?”
He had a point. Isolde lifted the goblet with her left hand to avoid the bruise on her right arm from showing again. She let the rich wine wash down her throat in a burning swallow that roiled in her stomach. After this goblet, she decided, she would have another and mayhap another.
Anything to slow the churn of her mind and warm the creeping chill of fear in her veins.
“Lady Isolde.” Sutherland’s voice was gentle with his Scottish burr, the tone low and intimate. “I want to help ye.”
She finished off her goblet and nudged it toward the edge of the table so the serving wench might see it more readily. She returned her attention to Sutherland, and the protest died on her lips.
His mouth was fuller than she’d noticed before, appearing soft and pink compared to the bristle of his hard, whiskered jaw. She had the sudden urge to kiss him. Her palms tingled, longing for the rasp of that short, wiry hair against them, her lips eager to discover if his mouth truly was as supple as it looked.
A splash sounded as her goblet was filled once more. Bile burned up the back of Isolde’s throat, and the room rocked about in a dizzying spin.
“I should go,” she murmured.
“The feast is no’ yet over.” His eyes narrowed with apparent concern. “Are ye well?”
Isolde got to her feet, which only set the world twirling faster. She tipped to the side, but Sutherland caught her. Pain exploded at her injured arm, and she cried out, drawing it protectively to her chest.
“Forgive me, I dinna mean to hurt ye. I merely tried to keep ye upright.”
“Is she well?” A woman asked in a snide tone.
“Too much excitement,” Sutherland said.
He didn’t leave her side. Instead, he put a supportive arm over her shoulders to aid in keeping her upright. She leaned into him, not because she needed to, but because she wanted to. Aye—with every aching beat of her hollow heart, she wanted to. He was solid under her touch, his body heat radiating through his fine tunic. She longed to close her eyes and revel at his strength until she was lulled into sleep in the cradle of his arms.
His essence was all around her, the hint of sandalwood and wonderful masculinity. She inhaled, savoring his scent. Her exhale came out in a contented hum.
“You have no idea how much I’ve longed for this,” she whispered.
Or did she whisper it? Mayhap it had merely been a thought.
It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered because she might soon die. Or be forced to wed Brodie Ross. Either future was dismal.
“What ails her?” Matilda’s voice pitched with concern.
“Wine,” Sutherland replied quietly.
“I’ll see to her,” Matilda said.
“I can help her to her rooms,” Sutherland said.
Matilda hesitated. “Aye, very well. I don’t think I’d be strong enough to get her above stairs.”
Velvety darkness winked in and out of Isolde’s world. She felt herself lifted as if she were floating and carried through a cold hallway before being delivered into a warm chamber and pillowy bed that seemed to embrace her whole body.
The click of a door startled Isolde from her dreamless slumber.
“My lady.” Matilda settled beside the bed and filled Isolde’s vision. “I’ve never seen you in such a state. What ails you?”
“Oh, Matilda,” Isolde said miserably. Tears ran hot from her eyes and soaked into the pillow as her pent-up emotions finally were free to wash over her. “I think I’m going to die.”
Cormac scanned the surrounding field of men. Some donned their finest surcoats over their chainmail in preparation for the joust. He wore an old tunic over his chainmail, eager more for practice rather than the daily jousts.
“I signed you up for the melee.” Alan smiled so wide that all his teeth showed.
Cormac lifted a brow. “Why would ye do that?”
The sky rumbled overhead as flecks of rain began to spit at them.
Alan framed his hand over his face like a visor. “Now you have an excuse to remain here through the end of the tournament.” He lifted his brows up and down as if they were in on a secret plot together.
“I said I was part of the melee to appease Lady Isolde,” Cormac replied. “I dinna have actually to join it.”
Alan opened his mouth, paused, then closed it and dropped his head. Guilt tightened in Cormac’s chest. He put a hand to the mercenary’s shoulder and gave him a reassuring squeeze. At that very moment, Pip’s ears perked up, his attention pinpointing on a lone man in armor who wore his helm, even in the rain.
Lord Easton.
Or, most likely, Lady Isolde.
The dog panted excitedly, leapt to his feet and dashed over to Lord Easton.
For now, Cormac did not question his suspicion. Especially not after he had accidentally grabbed her injured arm in his attempt to keep her from falling the prior eve.
He could still recall how her body had rested so easily against his, the sweet scent of roses tempting him to tilt her head upwards to have better access to her mouth. He hadn’t, of course. But it didn’t mean he hadn’t been tempted.
Especially when she’d inhaled deeply, as though smelling him and breathed out those words that had haunted him through the night.
“You have no idea how much I’ve longed for this.”
Had she truly longed for him the way he’d longed for her? Most likely, the wine had put such words in her mouth. She had consumed a hearty amount. But he could not quell his hopeful thoughts.
The rain came down in earnest as she approached in her brother’s armor.
Cormac clasped her forearm as he would do with any other warrior. “Good morrow, Lord Easton. I see ye’ve joined us on this bonny summer day.”
“I couldn’t let you Scots enjoy all the fun,” Isolde said.
She did a fine job of masking her voice to sound like a whiny earl. Now that he knew her secret, however, he could detect the underlying femininity. How had he missed it before?
“I spoke with yer sister last night,” Cormac said. “I trust she is well?”
Isolde scoffed. “Foolish chit doesn’t know her own limitation when it comes to wine.”
Cormac had to fight to keep from chuckling at her own self-rebuke. “Did she tell ye what I said to her?”