Gilbert drained his chalice without issue and got to his feet. “I’ve arranged for your belongings to be packed while we are at the tournament.”
“Have you?” Isolde asked in a pleasant tone. After all, he would realize the futility of his plans within the hour. Perhaps sooner.
He fetched the flagon from the table and poured another helping. “Within a fortnight, you will be part of the Ross clan, dear sister, and we will have a strong ally in Scotland.”
“Why do we need an ally in Scotland?” Isolde pulled her gaze from the wine in her brother’s hand. The more he talked, the more he drank. And the more he drank, the more he talked.
And the sooner he’d consumed it all…
Gilbert scoffed at her as if she were too lacking to understand the reason. “The reason for an alliance with the Rosses is nothing for you to concern yourself over.” He tilted the goblet back, as well as his head, while his neck flexed in a greedy swallow. His stare flicked to her goblet, and she knew he feared she might request more wine.
He had played right into her hands, predictably merciless against his vice.
She set her goblet on the edge of the desk. “I shall leave you to the rest of the wine.” She smiled sweetly. “I want to ensure I have rested well before we travel to the Rose Citadel on the morrow.”
Gilbert’s shoulders relaxed, and he nodded. As though she needed his permission to leave. She departed without another word and made her way to her own chamber, where she found Matilda waiting. Their eyes met, and Isolde nodded in quiet conveyance that it had been done.
They passed the time together, finalizing their plans in whispered voices—the intent to leave in the middle of the night, taking everything Gilbert had packed for himself. He was just vain enough to remain home if he did not have his newly sewn fine clothes to wear. His armor would be coming with them as well, though it was not part of the plan to prevent him from following them.
Footsteps came from the solar below, frantic with the urgency of one’s bowels about to erupt. Matilda and Isolde smothered their mirth as his bellows of exclamation filled the castle.
Nay, the armor was for Isolde. For if Gilbert refused to defend her honor, she would do it herself.
2
Travel from Scotland to England was a grueling journey spanning long, rain-soaked days that left Cormac in a terrible mood. At least finding the Rose Citadel had been relatively easy with all the ribbons and streamers dancing in the wind from the turrets like maypoles.
The brothers and two trusted clansmen, Duncan and Lachlan, dismounted amid the sea of tents and went about setting theirs among the others. Lucky for them, they’d all had the foresight to wrap their bags in the wax-coated linen tents to prevent everything they brought from being thoroughly soaked. They set up the tents with haste, eager to scour the travel from their skin and hair and wear dry clothes once more.
Duncan and Lachlan went to fetch some water for washing while Cormac and Graham tightened the last of the ropes. They were just finishing when a lanky man with messy brown hair approached. A medium-sized dog trotted at his side, its hair as matted and mud-colored as its owner’s.
“Are you looking for a mercenary?” the man asked.
Cormac pulled the rope taut. “Nay.”
The man rushed to secure the rope before Graham could help. Cormac exchanged a glance with his brother before turning to the mercenary. “We’re no’ going to hire ye.”
The man remained in place. “I don’t see any mercenaries with you or any sort of guard. You’ll have need of someone to mind your back.”
Cormac braced his feet wide and looked down at the slender man who was a head shorter than he was. “I dinna think we do.”
The dog issued a whine and stared up with soft brown eyes set beneath his filthy hair.
Was the dog begging Cormac now as well?
Cormac didn’t bother to mention Duncan or Lachlan. Instead, he grabbed his pack and slipped into the tent with Graham following behind him.
“We dinna have time for all this,” Cormac muttered. “No’ when we have to prepare for the feast. We dinna even know what time it starts.”
“Just before the sun goes down,” the mercenary answered from outside the tent.
Cormac ignored the man’s reply. Graham, however, called out to the man in thanks. Sundown was swiftly approaching. Not that they needed the motivation to hurry them from the wet clothes chafing at their skin. Duncan and Lachlan appeared several moments later with a bucket of fresh water to wipe away the mud of travel, while the brothers returned to their tent to prepare for the feast where they would be spying on the nobles.
Cormac and Graham changed into their finest tunics, which they belted over woolen hose, and emerged from the tent to discover the mercenary lounging outside, his back pressed to a pile of timber with his dog resting its head in his lap. The mercenary leapt up as his gaze caught Cormac and Graham.
“The feast is going to be one of the best from what I hear,” the man said. “M’name’s Alan and this here’s Pip.” The dog cocked his head at the mention, forehead rumpled with concentration.
“We dinna need an escort, Alan.” Cormac fixed his gaze on the man. “We dinna need protection. Men already travel with us, men from our clan. Ye’re no’ wanted, and I’ll no’ be paying ye.”
Not only did Alan appear nonplussed, but he also did not leave their side. “Do you even know where you’re going?”
“The castle,” Cormac replied. “Where I’ll no’ have need of ye.”
“Aye, well, the entrance is that way.” Alan indicated west with a long, thin finger. “You’ll be going toward the back of the castle with the direction you’re heading.”
Cormac grudgingly shifted his direction.
“If you’re not in the market for a mercenary, what are you here for?” Alan asked. “The joust? The melee? Revenge?” He stated the last word with dramatic flair, his brown eyes growing wide.
Graham met Cormac’s gaze, and Cormac knew immediately what his brother was thinking. Neither of them knew what the ladies they sought looked like. Graham wanted to utilize the mercenary’s knowledge of the people to glean the identities of the women.
Cormac shook his head, but Graham was already pressing a coin into Alan’s palm and whispering in his ear. Alan nodded and picked up his pace with a determined purpose.
The Great Hall was packed with people by the time they entered. Musicians filled the air with the merriment of strings and pipes floating above the raucous din of too many conversations. A space would no doubt be cleared by the lower tables later for dancing.
Cormac grimaced at the idea of having to dance.
“There is Lady Clara de Montfort ,” Alan said in a low whisper. “Daughter to the Norman Count de Evreux.”
Cormac followed the direction of his stare to a brunette in a green kirtle with a pert smirk on her lips. She offered a chuckle to the woman next to her and casually sipped from the goblet in front of her.
“And there is Lady Isolde Maxwell.” Alan shifted his focus across the capacious Great Hall. “Sister to Earl of Easton.”
Cormac turned his head and stopped short. Lady Isolde wore a yellow silk gown that complimented her auburn hair and set her skin off like rich cream. Her face was delicate in its beauty with high cheekbones and finely arched brows, balanced with the fullness of her rosy lips.