“She did not rouse as I was breaking my fast this morn. I dare say we will not be seeing her for the remainder of the day.”
Lightning streaked overhead, and a roll of thunder snarled. Fat drops of rain hammered down at them.
Cormac widened his stance. “I’d like ye to reconsider my offer to stand in yer stead with Edmund the Braw.”
“My reply is still nay.” Though Cormac couldn’t see inside the helm, he was certain Isolde was shaking her head within.
“He’s a powerful warrior,” Cormac cautioned. “The best Scotland has ever known.”
Isolde was quiet, and the pinging of raindrops pelting her helm filled the silence. “As I said before, help me by training me to beat him.”
Cormac clenched his teeth. Instruction would still not be enough to save Isolde. However, if he could train with her and show her where she lacked strength, mayhap she might change her mind and allow him to fight Edmund the Braw.
“Aye.” Cormac led Isolde to an awning-covered overhang to provide some reprieve from the worst of the rain. “I’ll help ye, but I’d like a favor in return.”
Pip huddled against Isolde’s leg, eyeing the storm as though it meant him harm. “Of course you do,” Isolde replied in a haughty tone, unlike her usual appealing demeanor.
Again, Cormac bit back a chuckle. For all her sweetness and consideration, she played the part of an entitled noble well.
“I’d like to get advice from ye on how to speak to Lady Isolde.” Somehow, he managed to proffer his request with a straight face.
Another grumble of thunder came from the blackened clouds.
“Why ever would you care for advice on how to speak to her?” Isolde asked sharply.
“Because I’ve no’ ever been good at speaking with women.” Cormac shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant. “I’ve no’ ever been interested in trying to appeal to a lass, before her. Which only makes me say foolish things even more when I’m around her. I wondered if ye might offer some suggestions. Assuming ye know what she likes to speak about.”
The shush of the falling rain filled the silence. “Aye,” she replied finally. “She wants respect and to be seen as more than a prize to wed. For someone to appreciate the person that she is beneath her beauty and wealth.”
The patter of rain began to slow to a steady drizzle.
Cormac nodded. He could do that.
“I’ll give you more than that later, after I’ve thought on it some,” Isolde replied. “The rain is slowing, and we haven’t a second to waste.”
He followed onto the muddy grass. Pip, however, remained under the awning and was joined by Alan.
“When ye go to strike, draw the blade up with the strength in yer belly rather than yer arms.” Cormac clasped his weapon’s hilt in his hands and swung it toward a wooden post with just the strength of his arms. He repeated the action again, this time drawing the strength from his stomach. The pole split in half.
Isolde approached and did as he had done. On her second strike, the top of the pole went flying and splashed into a puddle several paces away.
“Did ye feel the difference?” He asked.
“Aye,” she replied. “Show me more.”
And he did. They spent the better of the morning going over various battle techniques. The lightened rain did not hold and eventually became a downpour that drenched them, weighing down the gambeson beneath their chainmail as well as their surcoats. Other men practiced alongside them, paying them little mind.
Cormac showed Isolde how to throw a man over her back despite her size and bade her try it herself. Unfortunately, when she grabbed him suddenly and slung him over her shoulder, her helm slipped from her head and plopped into the sodden ground alongside where Cormac lay face-up in a puddle of mud.
She froze where she stood, exposed to anyone who could see her face. Granted, the padded hood of her armor covered her long auburn hair, but her features were decidedly feminine.
Far too much to pass for a man.
Her mouth fell open, and her wide blue gaze darted about. Quick as the lightning still forking through the sky above them, Cormac grabbed her helm, settled it on her head and dragged her from the practice field. He didn’t know where he intended to take her until they were already in his tent with the flap drawn firmly closed.
Rain pattered over the thick, waxed linen of the tent, but other than those sounds, the tent was heavy with palpable silence.
“Lady Isolde?” he asked softly.
She pulled in a breath and lifted the helm from her head, revealing her beautiful face with bits of her fiery hair slicked against her skin beneath her padded hood. “Aye,” she replied. “’Tis me.”
9
Isolde stood before Sutherland, shamefaced and exposed. He knew her secret.
She waited for his scorn. Mayhap his disgust.
Instead, he stared at her with incredulity. “Who taught ye how to fight?”
“Hugh,” she answered readily in her surprise at his response. “Our Master of the Guard.”
“Are ye all right?” He asked the question with such tenderness that it edged into the most fragile part of her heart and made an ache of emotion tighten at the back of her throat.
“Aye, I’m fine,” she answered tentatively.
“I mean from the beating ye took yesterday.” He glanced down at her body, worry bright in his eyes. “I’ve seen warriors who struggle with hits like ye took. I’ve no’ ever imagined a well-born lady might withstand them. Are ye badly hurt?”
“I’ve had worse.” She grinned. It was true. She had.
At the beginning of those early training days with Hugh, there had been cracked ribs and bruises and scrapes. All had been hidden with jewelry and veils and gritted teeth.
Sutherland laughed good-naturedly at her comment. It was the first time she’d heard him laugh. The sound was warm and pleasant, one she realized she’d like to hear more of. His green eyes crinkled at the corners, and his smile eased the severity of his face, giving him an almost boyish handsomeness.
She looked around the narrow tent. There were two cots within. Mayhap one for his brother who looked just like him. She recalled seeing him before, the man who looked identical to Sutherland, and the flicker of jealousy she’d felt when she’d seen him with Lady Clara.
Aside from the men’s cots, there were two bags set on a wax-lined sheet to keep them dry and several surcoats and tunics hanging from a line at the back. No doubt to keep them from wrinkling thoroughly in the bags.
“Ye’re serious.” His mirth faded into a sincere expression. “I hope ye’ve no’ had many more injuries than what I saw ye endure with Brodie.”
“Is it possible to become a warrior without learning to take a hit?” she asked.
A muscle worked in Sutherland’s jaw. “Why did ye do it?”
She returned her attention to him. His dark hair hung damp around his face. Even wet and cold, he looked inviting. “Why did I learn to fight?” she clarified.
He opened his hands in a helpless gesture. “Aye. And why did ye fight Brodie?”
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.