Tournament of Hearts (18 page)
Read Tournament of Hearts Online
Authors: Alyssa Stark
“Argh!” Isobel
gritted as another contraction gripped her womb.
“Push out our
baby,” Tristan said sternly as he grasped Isobel’s legs and held her as the
contraction racked her small frame.
His familiar voice
broke through Isobel’s pain and she centered her mind upon his command.
Push out our
baby.
Mustering the last
of her strength, she grasped Tristan’s forearms and bore down, pressing her
chin to her chest and clenching her eyes tightly shut.
The midwife
squealed with delight as the baby spilled forth like a cannonball, eyes open
and screaming bloody murder. She caught him and held him up for his astonished
parents.
“A boy!” she
exclaimed. Laying him gently on the bed, she began to wipe the remnants of
blood from the baby and then swaddled him handily in a lengthy strip of cloth.
Isobel collapsed
against Tristan’s chest. She relished the joy of the moment, safely enclosed
in her husband’s supportive arms. When the midwife handed her son to her, she
thought that her heart might explode from the depths of the love that she felt
for the tiny being. Isobel settled the tiny bundle into the crook of her arm
and smiled down at him proudly, swimming in the bliss that accompanied his
arrival.
“You did it,
love,” Tristan said warmly as he kissed her hairline. He cupped his tiny son’s
head in his palm. “Can you fathom that we made him?” he asked, his voice
filled with wonder.
“Now that he’s here,
I scarcely cannot,” Isobel said as she began to unwrap the tiny bundle. She
needed to count his fingers and his tiny toes, ensuring that he really was as
perfect as he seemed. “Part of you and part of me, together forever in him,”
she said warmly as she admired their creation.
The baby’s eyes
opened and he looked up at his parents, blinked twice and then settled back
into his peaceful slumber.
Tristan and Isobel
giggled.
“Are you happy?”
Isobel asked, wondering if Tristan was feeling the same overwhelming joy that
had rooted itself within her soul.
“Happy?” he asked,
huffing incredulously. “Happy is hardly the correct word to describe the way I
feel. I am over the moon, love! I am so damn proud of you, and of him and of
myself for that matter that I feel like I should go strut about the grounds,
prouder than a peacock.”
Isobel laughed
gently, afraid that she might wake the baby.
“When you do begin
to strut about, may I watch?”
“I do believe that
when a peacock struts, he does it mostly for the benefit of his mate anyhow,”
Tristan said, chuckling as he gathered his family more firmly in his arms.
“Aghem,” the
midwife cleared her throat, intruding into the couple’s intimate moment.
“Yes?” Tristan
asked coolly, not appreciating her interruption.
“I’ve allowed you
to stay thus far, milord, but I absolutely must insist that you leave now.
I’ll be needing to clean up milady so that she can get some proper rest.”
Tristan clenched
his teeth and fought to retain his patience. The midwife had allowed nothing.
He would have liked to have seen her try to remove him from Isobel’s side
during her labor.
“May I ask one
favor from you first?” he asked, smiling sweetly so as to increase the chances
that the midwife would comply with his request and garner a few more precious
moments with his new family.
“Yes milord?”
“I’d like a moment
alone with my wife and new son,” he said, smiling as he glanced proudly at
Isobel.
“Gladly, milord,”
the midwife responded, having grown a soft spot for Tristan Finnegan. Any man
who had done for his wife what he had just done had earned himself high esteem
in her eyes.
The midwife nodded
to the maids, giving them the signal that the new family needed a few moments
of privacy. When she opened the door to the chamber, Eleanor almost fell over,
having been leaning against the door and trying to figure out if all was well
within the chamber.
“Is everything
alright?” Eleanor asked worriedly.
“Quite,” responded
the midwife warmly.
Eleanor beamed at
the midwife’s words.
“I must compliment
you upon your son, milady. Never have I seen a man behave as wondrously as he
did just now. If more women were blessed with husbands of his character, I do
believe that the world would be a better place.”
Eleanor had no
notion of what the woman spoke about, but her heart warmed when the kind woman
sung her son’s praises. Tristan had grown into a fine man, and Eleanor was
right proud of all that he had become. He would be an excellent father, and
she was overjoyed that fatherhood was again in his future.
Inside the small
chamber, Tristan leaned against the headboard, naked from the waist up with
Isobel wrapped in his arms. Her head rested on his shoulder and in her arms
slept the most perfect, precious little boy. Both parents stared at the baby
contently with looks of absolute wonder on their faces, unable to believe that
they had created such a miracle.
Tristan’s heart
swelled with love and pride as he held his family in his arms.
He kissed Isobel
softly on the hair and stroked his fingers lightly down his son’s tiny face.
In this tiny bundle lie his future, lovingly intertwined with Isobel’s.
In his arms, he
held everything that he had ever wished for.
..ooOOoo..
Thank you for reading my debut full length novel,
Tournament
of Hearts
!
I do sincerely hope that you enjoyed it.
If you enjoyed
Tournament of Hearts
, please
consider reading my next title,
A Promise in Midwinter.
I’ve attached the first
two chapters for your reading pleasure.
A Promise in Midwinter
By: Alyssa Stark
..oo Chapter One oo..
“Come closer,
Daughter. The walls of this canvas tent are thin,” Lady Olivia Campbell
whispered through parched, bloodied lips. Speech was difficult for her now.
Lady Olivia swallowed hard and began again, “And if he hears my secret we shall
both soon be dead.”
Lady Olivia’s
breathing was ragged from the effort of speaking.
Her breath came in
shallow, raspy gulps.
They were the
labored last breaths of a dying woman.
“Shh, Mama,” Elizabeth soothed in a hushed voice. She took her mother’s hand and kissed the pale bony
knuckles before lowering her ear to her mother’s chapped lips. The disease had
overtaken Lady Campbell with remarkable speed, withering her lithe body into a
weakened shell in only a matter of days. The tell-tale fever had come first,
sending Elizabeth to her knees to beg the Lord’s mercy for her mother’s life.
Elizabeth knew
what would happen next.
She was no
innocent.
She had seen far
too many of her step-father’s soldiers die from the same condition.
First came the
fever and then the bloody flux.
No one survived
the bloody flux.
“What is it Mama?”
Elizabeth asked as she leaned closer to her mother.
Olivia Campbell
pursed her lips together and closed her eyes briefly. Her pain was unbearable,
but no pain was worse than admitting the truth to her beloved daughter. She
had lived her life as a coward, always denying the truth that beat with every
pulse of her heart.
“Your father
lives,” Olivia whispered sternly to her daughter, being ever so careful to
secret her words. “Listen to me carefully, child. John can know nothing of
this! If he discovers my secret, your very life will be in danger!” Olivia’s
blue eyes pierced Elizabeth’s, imploring her daughter to understand the full
implication of her words.
Elizabeth shook
her head in blatant denial.
“This is madness,
Mama!” she said in wild disbelief. “My father died before I was born! You
always told me that-
“I lied to you,
daughter!” Olivia said, shame weighing on her fragile voice. “I lied to
protect you.”
“But how could you-
“Elizabeth, please
listen! We have but precious little time. You must listen!” Olivia scolded as
she squeezed her daughter’s hand.
Elizabeth nodded
once and forced her questions to wait.
“I’ve sent word
to him, to your father,” Olivia said as her eyes searched Elizabeth’s face for
understanding. “He thought that you were dead. He thought that we were both
dead,” Olivia admitted as tears welled in her eyes.
“But why-
“I loved him,
Beth,” Olivia confessed as a tear rolled down her cheek. “Your father and I
were handfasted. You were conceived in love and he would have wanted you had
he known of you,” she said, her voice breaking off into a sob as she spoke of
the heartbreak that she had repressed for so long. “He would have loved you so
much, just as I have done, sweet child,” Olivia said as she raised a shaky hand
to brush her daughter’s cheek.
Elizabeth bit her
lower lip, a habit that betrayed her effort to hide her emotions.
“Your father is a
MacFarland,” Olivia whispered, revealing the dire nature of her deadly secret.
“John believes that your father raped me and that you were a product of that
coupling, but it was all a lie,” Olivia said as she cried freely now, revealing
her sins to her daughter. “I was betrothed to John Campbell before I met your
father. We met by chance in a battle camp just like this one,” she said as her
eyes flitted up to the ceiling of the canvas field tent. “I loved him from the
first moment that we met. The brief time that I spent with the McFarland was
the happiest time of my life.”
The flap of the
tent was suddenly cast open, causing both women to jump visibly.
“I can tell you no
more, daughter,” Olivia whispered hurriedly. “Tell no one of what I have said,
but know that I have sent word to him. He will come for you,” Olivia said with
a forlorn look as she squeezed her daughter’s hand reassuringly.
There were so many
things that Olivia had wanted to say to Elizabeth. There were so many words
that would go unspoken between them now. Olivia’s eyes held her daughter’s
gaze, telling her without words the burden that her silence had rift upon her
heart.
“Come,” John
Campbell barked at Elizabeth. His presence loomed in the entrance to the
canvas tent.
Elizabeth’s
step-father was a commanding man. His broad shoulders filled the entrance to
the tent. He stood with his arms crossed and gave not a hint of care towards
his wife Olivia. John Campbell ruled his clan with an iron fist and not even
the impending death of his wife could take his mind away from the aftermath of
the battle.
Campbell was
growing impatient.
Elizabeth knew
better than to hesitate.
She had paid the
lofty price of disobeying John Campbell’s orders on more than one occasion.
Elizabeth stood
and placed a gentle kiss atop her mother’s knuckles. Olivia squeezed her
daughter’s hand in response, the effort causing her fragile hand to tremble. Elizabeth bent down and kissed her mother’s cheek. She shuddered at the sound of the
raspy breathing that emanated from Olivia Campbell’s chest. She knew that her
mother was not long for this world.
“I love you,
Mama,” she whispered as she brushed the auburn hair back from Olivia’s face.
Reaching up to wipe the unshed tears from her eyes, Elizabeth brushed off her
skirts and moved towards the canvas door.
“And I you,
Daughter,” Olivia said as she fought to restrain the tears that threatened to
spill down her cheeks.
Elizabeth turned
without looking back and followed John Campbell into the gray twilight. She
knew that this was the last time she would see her dear mother alive. She
clenched her teeth and prayed for strength.
Her mother’s
secret was a talisman of hope burning deep in the pit of her belly.
She dare not let
John know of her precious secret or the hope that kindled with it.
..ooOOoo..
“His life is worth
more to me than yours,” John Campbell spoke harshly as he regarded the warrior
that lie tethered to the base of the massive oak tree. “Do not allow him to
die,” he commanded as he glowered at Elizabeth.
Elizabeth looked
down at the MacFarland warrior. A lump settled in her throat as she
contemplated the enormous task that her step-father had charged her with. The
man was slumped against the base of the tree, crusted with so much blood that
she could not readily identify the nature of his wounds. His hair was
plastered to his face, partially concealing a myriad of scrapes, bruises and
cuts. There was a large gash spanning from his muscular neck across his
pectoral muscle which was still seeping a steady stream of blood. His head was
split open above his temple, the wound crusted with dirt and debris.
John Campbell was
expecting the impossible.
He was asking for Elizabeth to perform a miracle.
The MacFarland
warrior appeared to barely cling to life and Elizabeth was charged with the
daunting task of bringing him back from the abyss of death.
“He’s their
Laird’s son. Lachlan MacFarland,” Campbell said, his gruff voice snapping Elizabeth back to reality. “When your mother is gone, I’ll expect that you earn your
keep,” he said coldly as he motioned towards the warrior and arched a bushy
eyebrow at Elizabeth. “Let him die and you will be punished.”
Elizabeth nodded
vacantly and knelt in front of the warrior. Her lips set into a hard line of
determination as she contemplated where to begin.
