Westmorland, England
The vial of poison rested hot against Lady Isolde Maxwell’s palm.
She entered the solar and her brother, Gilbert Maxwell, Earl of Easton, lifted his head. “What do you want?”
They both shared the delicate appearance inherited from their late mother with slight figures, fair skin and sculpted cheekbones. But when Gilbert scowled as he did now, he resembled their father whose disposition had been equally as sour.
Isolde lifted her chin in silent refusal to be cowed by his usually foul demeanor. “You know why I’m here.”
“Not this again.” He pressed his hands to the smooth tabletop and regarded her with the impatient exasperation one does to a small child who fails at comprehension. “You are going to wed Brodie Ross of the Ross clan at Baron de la Rose’s tournament this coming sennight.” Gilbert had a slightly high pitch to his voice for a man, and when he spoke with such snideness, it took on a shrill tone.
“I do not wish to,” Isolde replied, unwavering.
“But you will.” Gilbert smiled coldly at her. “You haven’t a choice.”
“We don’t need an alliance with the Ross clan.” Isolde glanced around the opulent solar, which had become even more finely decorated after their miserly father’s death. “We have a noble title, a good name and wealth enough to afford a comfortable life.”
More than comfortable, in truth. Their life bordered on ostentatious now. The solar was only one example. The plain walls had been fitted with carved whorls and flowers along the tops of the walls and the fireplace, then painted with vivid color and gilt, so it practically glowed in the firelight. Gilbert had the great desk polished to a high shine and had commissioned several more pieces of furniture to be built, including two chairs before the hearth.
It was more than they needed. Especially when so many others had so little.
“You know why this must happen.” Gilbert’s statement took on a nasal condescension. “Your tattered reputation has need of salvaging.”
Anger licked at her patience and heat simmered through her veins. “I did nothing wrong.”
He gave a sharp bark of laughter. “If allowing a man liberties with your person and then refusing them marriage is not wrong, dear sister, I am uncertain what is.”
She squeezed the vial in her hand. “I told you I was tricked.”
“I know what you said.” He steepled his long, slender fingers together. “And I know what I saw.”
Isolde pressed her lips together. There was no use in arguing how she’d been found with Brodie in the hall, his body pinning her against the wall, her skirts pushed up to her thighs. Her cheeks burned now to even think of how exposed she’d been, how easily she’d been fooled. She’d been disgustingly naive.
Never again would she allow herself to be misled.
“You saw what he wanted you to,” Isolde countered. “He feigned confusion as to where the Great Hall was located, bade me lead him there and then he pushed me against the stonework and hefted up my skirt so it would appear that…” Her words caught in her throat. She couldn’t even speak of something so vile.
Her stomach writhed at the memory. He’d shoved her so hard that she’d smacked the back of her head on the whitewashed stones. She’d been too surprised to fight him off. By then, it was too late. Footsteps were headed in their direction, and his rough, callused hands were pushing up her skirt.
He hadn’t actually touched her, thanks be to God. But the evidence of her naked leg, along with their improper proximity, had been enough to condemn her.
Her brother issued a flat smile. “Is that all, Isolde?”
The ire in Isolde’s body made her blood as hot as boiling oil. “You told Mother you would look after me.”
“Aye, but she’s dead now.” He narrowed his eyes. “And I made the promise before realizing you were such a slattern.”
Isolde jerked back as though she’d been slapped. Indeed, she had been struck—deep in her chest and by the person who should care most for her in this world.
“I want you to cancel the arrangement for my union and instead fight Brodie to defend my honor.” By some miracle, she was able to keep a quaver from her voice.
Gilbert cast his eyes to the ceiling with impatience. “Nay. We leave for the Rose Citadel in the morning.”
All at once, she was glad she had found the courage to seek out the healer and procure the small vial. The potion wouldn’t be enough to kill him. Isolde did not want him dead.
She did, however, need him to be unable to travel.
A night violently evacuating his bowels, and possibly the following day as well would leave him weak and in need of rest. Or so she’d been promised.
“Very well,” Isolde said. “I’ll be prepared.”
It seemed like compliance, but in truth, they were the words she’d told her maid, Matilda, to listen for.
Gilbert did not notice that Isolde spoke slightly louder; he was simply eager for her acquiescence. His irritation melted away, and once more, he was her beautiful brother with a face that reminded her so fondly of her mother that it made her heart ache.
The door opened and Matilda entered with a flagon of wine and two chalices.
“I asked you to bring that a while ago,” Isolde scolded. Though she and Matilda had planned the exchange, Isolde still loathed speaking so poorly to her trusted lady’s maid.
“Forgive me, my lady.” Matilda lowered her head in chastisement with such conviction that it made Isolde’s chest squeeze.
She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from apologizing to her maid. “Leave the wine. I’ll pour it.”
“Aye, my lady.” Matilda set the wine on a table across the room where Isolde would have to put her back to Gilbert to pour. With that, the maid bobbed a curtsey and quit the room.
“I apologize for the delay.” Isolde indicated the flagon of wine. “Would you care for some wine before I go?”
Gilbert’s gaze drifted to the table, and he licked his lips. “Aye.”
His response had been expected. Gilbert never could resist the lure of wine. Just like their father. It turned him into the same man the late earl had been as well: impatient and ill-tempered.
Isolde faced the table and first poured herself a measure, then swiftly dumped the contents of the vial into the flagon. It was such a small amount, it made almost no sound as it married into the fine wine and the pale brown extract blended into the rich red without issue. She pretended to almost drop the flagon in an effort to churn the liquid together.
“You should have let your maid do it,” Gilbert muttered.
“’Tis fine.” Isolde splashed a hefty amount of wine into his goblet and carried both over to his desk, handing him the one with poison.
“To our mother.” Isolde lifted her chalice.
“To our mother,” Gilbert echoed. “And your impending nuptials.”
Any regret Isolde may have harbored for what she was doing dissipated at that moment. She drank from her chalice as her brother swallowed down his wine with his usual zeal. No doubt it was nearly empty.
She watched his face carefully, fearing he might notice the sharp aftertaste of the purgative.