Tournament of Hearts

 
Tournament of Hearts

By:  Alyssa Stark

Then love knew it was called love.

And when I lifted my eyes to your name,

Suddenly your heart showed me my way.

~Pablo Neruda

..oo      Chapter One     oo..

Loch Fyne, Scotland, 1721

 “I would rather
die!” Isobel said as she glowered at her father and squared her shoulders for
battle.

“You
need
a
husband, Isobel.  And I can think of no other way,” Laird McLaughlin snapped at
his only daughter as he rubbed his throbbing temple.  His knuckles were gnarled
by time.  They moved in small circles against his skull.  He would have given
anything to quell the incessant aching.

“Have you spoken
with Hodges?  Is there still no manner by which I could manage our holdings
with a legal guardian?” Isobel asked in desperation.

“It cannot be,
sweetheart,” Laird McLaughlin sighed.  “The decree is quite specific on the
path of succession.  In the event that there is no heir apparent, I am free to
choose my heir.  But, it is clearly written that the chosen heir must be male.”

Isobel sighed
heavily and knitted her tawny eyebrows together in frustration.  This was not
the first time in her life that she had cursed being born a female.

“Have we no
distant cousin, no far-off relation that I could rule jointly with?  A marriage
of convenience perhaps?”

McLaughlin
chuckled.  Isobel had never been one to give up easily.  He watched her now,
with her wild blonde hair cascading down over her arms which were crossed over
her chest in a silent act of defiance.  The lass was as stubborn as a rock, but
she had grown up well.  Isobel would serve her clan as she was bid.  She would
do her duty however distasteful.

 McLaughlin was
proud of his daughter.

“I have looked, my
dear.  I have searched tirelessly for a proper match for ye and to no avail.  Ye
are my only daughter and in mine eyes, there is no man worthy of ye!”
McLaughlin exclaimed as he closed his eyes and rubbed at his forehead.  
“Perhaps that is the reason why I have forsaken the task of finding a suitable
husband for ye,” he admitted as his eyes locked with his daughter’s.

Isobel smiled
half-heartedly.  She knew that her father loved her more than life itself.

McLaughlin leaned
forward and punched at the pillow between his back and the massive wooden
headboard.  The disease was progressing quickly and as a result McLaughlin
spent most of his time abed now.  He was consumed with chronic pain and could
never seem to find comfort.  He settled himself back against the bolster and
prepared to voice his fears aloud to Isobel.

He had been
dreading this very moment, but time was short.

McLaughlin knew
that he would soon be dead.

 “We must face the
fact that I am the last of our line and I too shall soon be gone.  It pains me
that I was not given a son, a son that would carry on the McLaughlin name,” he
said as his eyes fell down to the feather duvet that covered his legs.    “Now
we are forced to look outside the immediate clan to find a suitable match for
you,” he said, his shame preventing his eyes from looking up to meet his daughter’s. 
“A man to carry on my legacy not through name, but through blood.  Through your
blood, our McLaughlin blood mingling in the veins of the children that he will
give you.”

Isobel fought the
urge to run.  The thought of the marriage bed terrified her, but she knew that
her duty to the clan must be upheld.  She was the last of the true McLaughlin
line and in so being, she held the responsibility of bearing the future Laird
of Clan McLaughlin, a fact that iced the blood in her veins.

Bearing a future
Laird was a weighty responsibility.

Isobel was fearful
of the intimate relations that took place between a man and a woman.  Her
mother had died when she was very young and Isobel’s only knowledge of the
intimate subject had come from the hushed conversations of her maids. 

Conversations that
Isobel’s tender ears had not been meant to hear.

  “It will ease my
passing to know that you will be taken care of,” McLaughlin said softly as he
looked upon his only living child.  There had been four others, three girls and
a stillborn boy, none of which had survived past the age of five years.

“Have you chosen
an heir, father?” Isobel asked suddenly, a knot of dread building in her throat
as she awaited her fate.

“Not as of yet,
sweetheart,” McLaughlin admitted.  He watched Isobel relax as the relief of his
words flooded over her.  “As there is no heir apparent, I am free to choose my
heir.  I fear that time is short, Isobel.  I’ve devised a plan to find a man
worthy of succession.  A man who is born to lead and will keep the clan safe
under his watch.”

“What sort of plan
is this that you speak of?” Isobel asked skeptically.  Her eyebrows arched in
obvious shock.  Rudy McLaughlin had always been unconventional in his manners
of ruling.  Isobel could only imagine the wild plan that her father had dreamed
up.

“A tournament,” McLaughlin
said simply.  “Eligible men of suitable birth shall compete.  There shall be
tests of leadership as well as feats of strength and cunning.  When the games
have narrowed the field to only two suitors, you may choose between them.  You
shall choose your husband,” McLaughlin said softly as he awaited Isobel’s
response.  His eyes locked with hers now, their light blue depths the mirror
image of his own.

Isobel forced
herself to close her mouth, which at present was gaping open in a most
unladylike fashion.

“I will be no
man’s prize!” she spat as she turned on her heel and fled from the solar.  A
storm of rage swelled within her.  How could her father be so selfish?  Why had
he neglected finding a suitable husband until it was nearly too late?  Any man
could win her father’s silly tournament!

Blast!
 
Isobel cursed in her mind as hot tears stung at her eyes.

“Isobel!”
McLaughlin thundered.  His authoritative voice stopped his defiant daughter in
her tracks. 

Isobel turned
without speaking.  Her blue eyes rose to meet her father’s.

“This is the only
way.  If I cannot find a successor, our clan will be absorbed into one of the
larger clans.  I cannot allow that to happen.”

“Tis shameful,
father,” Isobel said.  “I had hoped for better,” she said icily as she turned
and strode briskly from her father’s chamber.

She had meant the
words to sting and sting they most certainly had.

Rudy McLaughlin
sighed deeply and collapsed back against his bed.  His lungs heaved with
exhaustion.  The disease was wasting away his strength rapidly.  It had taken
every ounce of his energy to portray his fragile act of health to Isobel.  The
lass had no idea of how far the disease had progressed.  She had no inkling
that sitting upright was almost more that her father could now manage.

There was precious
little time left.

 McLaughlin’s
dying act would be to ensure that Isobel was safe.  His greatest regret in life
was not seeing to her marriage sooner.

..oo      Chapter Two     oo..

“I need to
purchase a dagger,” the young woman said from beneath the heavy woolen cloak. 
She stood at the edge of the blacksmith’s shop, wringing her slender fingers
together.  The gesture hinted at the fact that she was nervous.

The long black
cloak covered her from head to foot.  She had taken great care to obscure her
identity, but the tell-tale color of one errant blonde curl that had escaped
the confines of her hooded cloak betrayed her.  The golden strand danced in the
breeze and whipped across her face.  Recognizing the imminent threat of
discovery, the young woman moved quickly to tuck the strand beneath her cloak
and safely out of sight.

Tristan set down
his mallet on the work bench.  Using a fist-full of cloth, he removed the iron
blade from the fire, not wishing it to overheat while he dealt with this most
unexpected customer.

“It has been my
experience that a lass with a dagger is often more harm to herself than good,”
he said huskily as he approached the young lady that stood before him.  He had
known her at once, despite the fact that she had tried to cover her blonde
curls. 

Lady Isobel McLaughlin
was a striking beauty and such a woman could not easily obscure her identity.

“I did not ask for
your opinion,” Isobel said coolly.  “I asked you to sell me a weapon,” she said
with an air of challenge. 

Her blue eyes met
the intense hazel eyes of the blacksmith.  His eyes were the most unusual
color, striking green flecked with gold.  The look that she found in those eyes
caused her heartbeat to quicken.  His eyes held a hint of recognition as if he
knew her from somewhere before.  Isobel felt the burn of sudden panic bloom
within her, warm and heady. 

The blacksmith had
a commanding presence and he arched an eyebrow at Isobel’s retort.  He watched
her now, appraising her openly in a manner that made Isobel blush.

Tristan’s lips
curled into the faintest hint of a smile.  He knew that he should send her away
at once, but immediately decided against that idea.  His curiosity was piqued. 

Why ever could
Lady Isobel McLaughlin be in need of a dagger?  Her father’s guards kept her
well protected.  Tristan wondered how she had managed to slip their watchful
eyes and make her way here.  He determined to wait awhile longer and coerce the
lass into revealing her true intentions.

“And would I not
be at fault should you find misfortune at the hand of a blade that I crafted?”
Tristan asked as he walked around the anvil to stand in front of the McLaughlin
lass.

Isobel looked up
at the blacksmith.  He towered above her and yet she stood fast and unafraid. 
The blacksmith was a powerful man with broad, muscled shoulders.  He stood
before her with his legs braced apart, his stance relaxed as he removed his
leather gloves and sat them on his workbench.  Isobel had heard tales of his
prowess as a swordsman and she could not help but notice that his body was fit
and sinewy, the result of hours spent practicing his craft. 

Despite his
obvious physical strength, the blacksmith did not frighten Isobel.  On the
contrary, there was a gentleness about his nature that set her at ease.

“No harm shall
come to me,” Isobel assured him.  She straightened her spine and looked up
confidently into his intriguing hazel eyes. 

 “I wager that it
would be most irresponsible of me to sell you a weapon with which you might
find grave injury,” he challenged in return, enjoying the thrill of
antagonizing Laird McLaughlin’s only daughter.  She was sharp of wit and did
not cower in his presence as women often did.  Tristan had gained a reputation
as being cold, a reputation that he had done nothing to change.  He looked
forward to the challenge of extracting lady Isobel’s secret reason for needing
the weapon.

Tristan had seen Laird
McLaughlin’s daughter from afar on a couple of occasions, but never had he had
the pleasure of admiring her from such a close proximity.  He had once refitted
the shoe of her white mare in the stables of McLaughlin keep.  As he was
packing away his tools, Lady Isobel had walked into the stables to check upon
her prized horse.  Tristan had watched her from the back corner of the stables
as she ran her graceful hand down the mare’s back and whispered gentle words
into the beast’s ear. 

Isobel’s beauty
had mesmerized him.  He had been drawn to her and had fought the urge to reveal
himself and speak to her.  In his old life such a thing would have been
possible.  He could have spoken to her as an equal.  But in the new life that
he had chosen, he was naught but a blacksmith.  He was now unworthy of the
attentions of a highborn Lady.  Tristan had not dared to dream about speaking
with Lady Isobel McLaughlin.

 Not until now.

 Lady Isobel had
the reputation of being a rare beauty.  Many suitors had tried and failed to
claim her hand in marriage.  Her blonde curls were said to be unmatched in
splendor by those of any woman. Tristan admired them now, noticing how they
were even more radiant in the sunshine than when he had first looked upon her
in the stables.

 Tristan shook his
head ever so slightly, understanding exactly why Laird McLaughlin had kept his
daughter so heavily guarded.  If every man who looked upon the lass felt the
same rush of impure thoughts that Tristan had just experienced, Lady Isobel
McLaughlin needed her present guard doubled.

 The men who had
spoken of Isobel had been dead wrong.  Lady Isobel McLaughlin was no rare
beauty.  She was absolutely exquisite.

“No blame shall come
to you,” Isobel assured him, her voice clear and confident. 

Tristan’s thoughts
snapped back to the present.

“Is that so?” he
asked in a teasing voice.

Isobel’s heart
raced in her chest as she felt the blacksmith’s eyes upon her.  His angular jaw
and expansive chest were the picture of male perfection.  Isobel had overheard
her maids discussing the blacksmith’s many virtues yet this was the first time
that she had seen him with her own eyes.  The maids had been quite accurate in
their descriptions of him.  He was indeed a very handsome man.

Handsome yet
troubled.  Cold and devoid of feeling.  That was what they had said.  Isobel
found herself suddenly wondering what troubled the blacksmith.  Her present
interaction with the man was quite contrary to what the maids had described. 
The blacksmith had conversed with her in a pleasant, almost teasing manner. 
Isobel found him to be quite amiable indeed.

Her cheeks flushed
with color when she realized that she was quite enjoying his attentions. 
Carefree banter with a man was a harmless pleasure that had never been allowed
under the watchful eye of her guards.  Perhaps that was what caused the fluttering
in the pit of Isobel’s stomach.  Speaking so freely with the handsome
blacksmith was exhilarating. 

“I will make you a
proposition,” Tristan said.  The logical part of his mind screamed for him to
tread cautiously.

His words whipped
Isobel’s thoughts back to the conversation.

  “A proposition
that will allow my conscience to be at peace should I choose to sell you a
dagger,” he continued.

“Go on,” Isobel
said, her interest piqued.

“If I sell you the
dagger, you shall allow me the pleasure of teaching you how to use it
properly.  So that I may ensure your safety.”

“Will that be all?”
Isobel asked.  She was unnerved by the way that the handsome blacksmith was
watching her.  His eyes seemed to look directly into her soul.

“That is my side
of the bargain.  And if I uphold my side of the bargain, which I fully intend
to do mind you,
you
shall tell me with complete honesty why you find
yourself in need of the blade.”

Isobel thought for
a moment, holding eye contact with the blacksmith.  She barely reached his
shoulder and she realized that she had to look considerably upward to meet his
gaze.  Fear bloomed within her suddenly, thick and black as it settled in the
pit of her stomach.  She had spoken of her plight to no one and the thought of
divulging her desperate secret to the blacksmith was unsettling.

Isobel’s fear was
quickly replaced by a delicious, secret joy.  The blacksmith intrigued her and
she wanted to spend more time with him.

And yet, she had
but precious little time.  And she
needed
that dagger.

“You have my word,”
she told him as she nodded in agreement.  “Know that I keep my promises,
blacksmith.”

“Call me Tristan. 
And I shall call you Isobel.”

Isobel’s hand flew
up to cover the fact that her mouth had just dropped open.  She had taken every
care to secret her identity and this man had known who she was without the
merest hint of hesitation.

“And mind you, Lady
Isobel, I am in the habit of keeping my promises as well.”

..ooOoo..

The dream had
plagued Tristan for as long as he could remember.

When he was
younger it had taken on many innocent forms.  He had chased after her on
horseback, watching with a smile on his face as her long blonde tendrils flew
behind her in the breeze.  She ran up a spiral staircase, her laughter warming
his heart and spurring him onward as he delighted in chasing after her.

She was always
just beyond his grasp and never had he seen her face in his dreams.

The dreams always
left him with an overwhelming sensation of happiness.  The sort of happiness
that filled the heart and overflowed such that a hint of a smile would linger
upon his face when he awoke.  He would waver for awhile, somewhere between
sleep and wakefulness, yearning to get back to her.  Yearning for her to turn
around so that he might see her lovely face.

Happiness was an
emotion that visited Tristan Finnegan infrequently.  And thus, he cherished his
dreams and the lovely flaxen haired lass that occupied them.

As he had grown
into a man, the dreams had become more intimate.  It was if he could feel her
in his arms, her skin warm and vibrant beneath his fingertips.  Her blonde hair
would surround them like a veil as they kissed.  His fingers would thread
through her satiny tendrils as he kissed her.  She lay on top of him, her hair
enveloping him with its sweet softness and the delicious scent of lavender
enticing his senses.

When he would open
his eyes to look upon her, she was gone.  He would awake with a start,
breathing heavily and thoroughly aroused to find himself alone in his bed.

He missed her as soon
as she was gone.

 She left a void
that he had been unable to fill with the attentions of other women.

He needed her.

She was the only
one who could heal the wounds of his heart.

Tristan had told a
wise woman of his dream once, many years ago.

The wise woman had
smiled and then closed her eyes.

The girl in
your dream is the very lifeblood of your heart. 

She is your
Sonuachar.

When you meet
her beyond the world of your dreams, do not let her get away, lad.

The woman’s words
had given Tristan hope for his future.

As long as the
dreams returned and the flaxen haired lass visited in him in the darkness of
night, he had room to hope.

Perhaps she would
someday come for him.

Tonight’s dream
had been different.  When he opened his eyes to look upon the lass that he held
in his arms, he saw her face for a brief moment before he awoke.

Lady Isobel McLaughlin
could never obscure her identity.