Despite the excitement humming around her, Lady Isolde held only a small smile on her lips, as if she were offering it for posterity rather than in genuine enjoyment. She didn’t engage in conversation with those around her, as others did. Nay, she gazed at the flowers strewn over the linen tablecloth with that plastered smile, her thoughts so far away, it made Cormac wonder where they took her.
Lady Isolde Maxwell.
Her name hummed in Cormac’s veins like a challenge.
She was the lady he wished to woo. He regarded his brother, hoping beyond hope Graham would not seem as smitten by Lady Isolde as he.
But nay, Graham’s focus was homed in on Lady Clara, a cocky grin already tipping the corner of his mouth.
Cormac leaned toward his brother. “Shall I take Lady Isolde?”
“And I’ll help myself to Lady Clara.” He lifted his brows suggestively and cut a path through the sea of people toward the Norman count’s daughter.
Cormac was preparing in his mind what he planned to say to Lady Isolde when the nobleman at the dais, presumably Lord Yves, stood up and began a speech to welcome them all to the Rose Citadel.
“In case you aren’t aware, he is Baron de la Rose,” Alan said under his breath. “The man hosting the tournament. You can either sit here at the lower end of the table or outside with the servants.”
Cormac lifted his brow. “I’m a chieftain.”
“Then I leave you to your feast, my lord.” Alan offered a slight bow and finally took his leave.
“’Tis ‘sir,’” Cormac grumbled, but the man was already too far away to hear.
Cormac scanned over the crowd and once more found Lady Isolde. She was no longer bothering to feign a smile as she watched the baron deliver his welcome speech. Her eyes narrowed as if in contemplation, and Cormac found himself wishing to see what filled her thoughts. And what he might do to gain access to them. And through them—her.
A man appeared behind Lady Isolde and sank onto the bench beside her. Cormac bristled as he recognized the tall, blond beast of a man as none other than Brodie Ross, the Scotsman to whom Lady Isolde had been promised.
Whatever appetite Isolde had possessed disappeared as Brodie settled onto the bench next to her. The heat of his thigh settled against hers and made bile crawl up her throat.
“Good evening, my lady.” His lowered voice held an intimacy she did not care for. Indeed, a shiver of disgust scrabbled over her flesh.
She did not bother to reply. She had hoped the empty seat at her side might be taken by another lord’s daughter, although in the pit of her stomach, she’d anticipated it would be filled by Brodie.
Lord Yves’s speech came to a conclusion, followed by cheers and toasts. Music and conversation resumed, and a servant settled a heavy platter of meat before them.
“We’ll be married within a sennight.” Brodie speared the venison with his eating dagger. “Lord Yves has already seen to all the preparations to ensure we can be wed following the melee.”
He let the chunk of meat slide from his dagger onto her plate. The cut was not a good one, riddled with fat that was already congealing into waxy white globs. For himself, he dug into the center of the pile of game and unearthed a slab of meat that still steamed with warmth from the oven.
Isolde swallowed the temptation to retch and glared down at her hands.
She wished she was wearing Gilbert’s armor now so that she could throw the gauntlet at Brodie’s feet and issue the challenge to save her honor. She was confident in her ability to fight with a sword. Her brother’s Captain of the Guard, Hugh, had instructed her for several years after she’d been left alone in an attack at their home at Easton. She’d sworn then never to allow herself to feel so helpless and by God, she would honor that vow to herself now.
Brodie would not have her hand in marriage.
Once she was free from the obligation with Brodie, she’d leave the Rose Citadel and the whole foolishness of the tournament.
“Where is Lord Easton?” Brodie asked.
“My brother is supping in his rooms as he doesn’t care for such formal occasions,” Isolde replied curtly, having prepared the lie earlier on. Though it truly wasn’t too far from the truth. While Gilbert enjoyed the glory and attention his title brought him, he didn’t relish the tedium of ceremony or casual conversation with those he felt were beneath him. Had he not been ferociously ill the previous evening and still moaning in his chamber when Isolde left, he would no doubt be in the apartments upstairs with at least one comely lady ready to warm his bed.
Despite Gilbert’s intention to wed Isolde off and the years of disdain he’d afforded her, she did experience a pinch of guilt for the incident with the potion. She’d even commissioned a stable lad to bring her word upon his recovery, so she could rest her conscience.
The feast dragged onward. Platters of food were set upon the linen table clothes among the scattered daisies and candles and salt cellars while wine and ale were poured liberally into goblets. Through it all, Brodie spoke to her as if she wished for his conversation. His diatribes were tedious in the faults he noted in others and offensive in the joy he took in such shortcomings.
Isolde pushed the food around on her fine metal plate, eager for it all to be done.
“Why’s that Sutherland cur staring at ye?” Brodie asked abruptly.
Isolde lifted her head and caught sight of the man Brodie had referenced. He was taller than those sitting around him, his shoulders square and strong. He wore his dark hair to his shoulders and studied her with a fierce intensity he didn’t bother to hide. Not even when she intentionally met his gaze to let him know that she noticed his attention.
Instead, he merely nodded once to her, as though in greeting. Unapologetic and bold and entirely unfamiliar.
She’d never seen the man in her life but didn’t bother stating such to Brodie. It was none of his concern. Nothing in her life was any of his concern. And after she challenged him tomorrow and beat him in a fight, she would be free of the betrothal.
The beat of the music became somewhat faster, and several people stood from their benches to dance to the thrumming beat. Isolde bit into a honey cake, suddenly finding her appetite rather than be subjected to a dance with Brodie.
Not that he was so easily put off.
“Dance with me, Isolde.” The tone of his voice didn’t suggest a request so much as a demand.
She arched her brow at him and swallowed the bite of cake around her dry throat. “I did not give you leave to call me by my Christian name. You may address me as Lady Isolde.”
He narrowed his eyes, then cleared away his irritated expression. “Dance with me, Lady Isolde.”
“Nay.” She turned away from him. “I won’t wed you either, so do not set your heart on our union.”
A hard grip curled around her forearm, hidden from sight by the tablecloth. “If ye keep talking with that stubborn tongue, I’ll make sure ye’re claimed thoroughly next time.”
She wanted the hilt of a sword in her palm at that very moment, while facing him on the battlefield. Her muscles knotted with energy, eager for the opportunity to swing the heft of her blade and let it connect with jarring impact.
Instead, she jerked her arm free and stood. “Excuse me. I’m feeling rather unwell.”