Alan held out his palm.
Cormac sighed and dug out his purse. This lie about the dog being his was by far one of the most foolish ones he’d told. He set a coin in Alan’s hand.
“And you’ll only pretend he’s your dog,” Alan said slowly.
Cormac nodded.
The mercenary gave a more relaxed smile, picked up Pip and carried him from the Great Hall to comply with Cormac’s request. At least that was one small task seen to. The following day, he would have to smooth over what he had so terribly ruffled today with Lady Isolde.
He hoped Graham was having a better time with Lady Clara, as Cormac didn’t hold much confidence in his own ability to woo Lady Isolde. Especially when he’d had such a terrible start.
Isolde’s stomach twisted in a series of anxious knots. The nervous energy humming through her veins left her restless, but she forced herself to remain still while Matilda dressed her in the heavy chainmail and surcoat.
It had taken her maid a fortnight of finding excuses to be around the guards to learn how to get all the straps and buckles fastened correctly. Now, she implemented that knowledge with fingers made deft through the days of practice they’d run through before leaving for the Rose Citadel.
Matilda finished securing the blue-and-white surcoat over the chainmail and regarded Isolde with a worried crinkle to her otherwise smooth brow. “Are you certain this is safe, my lady?”
Isolde shoved aside the fear trying to edge into her resolve. “It most assuredly is not safe, but I cannot marry Brodie.”
Matilda’s large gray eyes reflected her concern. “What if—?”
Isolde shook her head vehemently. “Do not say it. Don’t even think about it. We must be confident. Without a doubt.”
Matilda nodded and pressed her lips together, as though sealing away her misgivings. She lifted the bucket-shaped helm, and Isolde’s world went dark as it fit over her head. A thin band of vision showed before Isolde’s eyes but little else. It wasn’t ideal, of course, but it was necessary to hide her identity.
“I shall return posthaste,” Isolde said in a lofty tone, imitating the nasal speech of her brother.
Matilda’s worry dissolved into a grin. “You’re almost too good at that.”
“Impossible,” Isolde snipped. “Remain here and cover for my wayward sister while I defend her honor as I should have done weeks ago.”
Matilda offered an exaggerated curtsy. “As you wish, my lord.”
Isolde straightened her back and strode from the room, not only adorned in Gilbert’s armor but also his pompous arrogance. She located the practice field on the outskirts of the sea of tents without difficulty. It was easy when one followed the clangs, clatters and grunts. Locating Brodie, however, would be far more challenging around so many men.
She strode through the crowd, searching with her obstructed vision. To no avail.
“Are you looking for someone?” The lanky man who had been with Sutherland the night before put himself into her line of sight. His brown hair had been combed and gleamed cleanly in the early morning light.
“Brodie Ross,” Isolde answered in her brother’s petulant tone. “Have you seen him?”
The man shook his head. “The Chieftain of the Sutherland clan is getting ready to practice with several men. Perhaps you’d like to join them while you wait?”
He indicated a gathering of several Scotsmen in armor. Sutherland was easy to identify with his height and the breadth of his shoulders. Something bumped at Isolde’s knee. She glanced down to find a dog nudging at her for attention. Not just any dog, this was the one belonging to Sutherland, now so thoroughly washed she could see that the muddy hair was actually a shiny buttery gold.
Sutherland had taken her advice. She didn’t bother to hide her smile, knowing it couldn’t be seen under her helm. She did, however, smooth her gloved hand over the dog’s head. The beast gazed up at her with adoration, its pink tongue lolling from the side of its mouth.
“Alan, are ye inviting people to join us?” Sutherland frowned at the man, evidently displeased.
It was on the tip of Isolde’s tongue to decline the invite, but then she remembered she was pretending to be her brother. And Gilbert would never be so charitable. Besides, some light combat might help ease some of the tension roiling through her body. As it was, her blood pumped through her veins with such force that she felt ready to burst.
“I could use the practice,” she said in Gilbert’s lofty tone.
Sutherland slid her a wary glance.
“He evens out our number,” a red-haired man wearing no surcoat over his chainmail said.
Sutherland didn’t answer so much as he simply grunted, but it appeared to be acquiescence enough. Isolde joined the men as two others prepared for a mock fight against one another.
“Do ye always walk about with yer helmet on?” Sutherland kept his own head bare as he braced for combat.
“I didn’t pay a king’s fortune for this armor to not wear it,” Isolde said, plucking her brother’s words without effort.
Sutherland scoffed. “I’m sure ye dinna get the chance often to wear it in battle. At least no’ outside of tournaments and practice.”
Isolde simply raised her sword rather than deign to reply. Sutherland didn’t move toward her. No doubt, he knew her—or rather her brother’s—arrogance and was assured she would advance first. And advance she did, with her blade aggressively swiping toward him.
He evaded the strikes, shifting this way and that, his movements smooth. When she lowered her weapon to prepare to strike once more, he took advantage and jabbed at her side, a blow she only just managed to dodge. It was then she knew she had to forego her brother’s overconfidence on the field lest she fall. In this one thing, she would rely on her own education and instinct, lest she end up dead.
“Do ye think that bonny serving wench will be at our table again tonight, Duncan?” the red-haired man asked.
His opponent, a man with cropped dark hair, grinned. “Ach, I hope so. She had a fine set of duckies on her.”
Isolde’s face burned with mortification at the man’s crude speech about the woman’s breasts. Her own were bound tightly beneath a band of linen. It was a necessary discomfort she would gladly endure for an opportunity to defeat Brodie Ross.
Sutherland shot a long-suffering look at the two men.
Duncan held up his free hand in surrender. “I canna help that I noticed she was a fine thing to gaze upon. And ye’re one to chastise when ye were talking up the bonny lass in the yellow kirtle.”
Isolde froze, uncertain if she ought to interrupt this discussion lest her own “duckies” be put on the table for discussion. After all, Cormac had made a point of noting his appreciation for them the night before.
“Blundering, more like.” Sutherland’s mouth quirked in a smile and a dimple showed in his left cheek. “Lady Isolde is too fine a lass for the likes of me.”
The men laughed.
“Lady Isolde?” she haughtily quipped. “I say, that’s my sister you’re referring to. You haven’t come to speak to me of any interest.”
Sutherland turned his glare first to Alan, who offered an apologetic smile, then to her as his eyes narrowed with skepticism. “With all due respect, if I had an interest in the lady, I’d converse with her rather than her brother.”