Tournament of Hearts (2 page)

..oo      Chapter  Three     oo..

“The coffers run low,
even now,” Hodges said cautiously as his nervous eyes rose up to meet Laird McLaughlin’s.

“How can it be? 
Have the rents been tallied in?”  McLaughlin asked angrily as he glowered at
the members of his high council.

“Aye.  I’m afraid
that they have, milord.”

“And I suspect
that the proceeds from the harvest have already been entered as well?”

“Aye.  War is an
expensive undertaking, milord,” Hodges said with an accusing sigh as he cast
his eyes sideways towards Hector Cameron.  Privately, Hodges believed that most
of the Clan McLaughlin’s ruin could be blamed upon Cameron. 

Hector Cameron was
Rudy McLaughlin’s oldest friend and in so being, he had been promoted
handsomely when the young Laird McLaughlin came into power.  Cameron had spent
a number of years in his current position as the clan’s war chief.  His hunger
for increasing land holdings and challenging neighboring clans had drained the
coffers near dry.

McLaughlin struck
his fist against the massive oak table.  The blow hit with a reverberating
strength that startled Hodges.  McLaughlin was dangerously near death now.  He
could no longer hide the rapid progression of his disease.  His skin was ashen
and hung slack over his once powerful frame.  Hodges knew not where the sudden
burst of energy had come from.  He knew that his Laird must be very, very angry
to muster the strength for such an outburst. 

“And what do you
reckon we are to do about this?” McLaughlin asked heatedly as his blue eyes
scanned the faces of the members of his high council.

“We have made
tentative peace with our neighboring clans,” Hodges declared as his eyes baited
Hector Cameron across the table.  “Measures must be taken to ensure that the
peace takes hold as we have no further coin available to finance petty wars.”

Cameron glared at
Hodges from across the table and crossed his arms over his chest.  He was a
massive warrior, his body scarred from a lifetime of battle.  And he was not
about to let Hodges place the clan’s current state of ruin upon his shoulders.

“We’ve a fresh lot
of horses to be sold at market in Inverness,” Cameron proposed with a shrug.   “I’ll
have my men take them to sale in a fortnight.  They should fetch a good price,
money which will help to relieve some of the strain on our coffers.”

“What else?”
McLaughlin insisted.  He had slumped back against the high back of the leather
chair in which he sat.  His weakness secretly terrified him.  It was an
ever-present reminder that his time on Earth was short.   With each passing day
it became more obvious that he would soon be beyond managing the affairs of the
clan. 

An heir needed to
be found quickly or McLaughlin feared that his power would not be handed down
to a man of Isobel’s choosing, but it might be stolen by any man strong enough
to take it.

“There is also the
matter of the new territory that was acquired in our last raid,” Cameron added
arrogantly as he shot a steely glare across the table at Hodges.  “Rents have
not been collected and we have not yet seen our share of the crops that were
harvested this spring.”

“Will that be
enough, Hodges?” McLaughlin said hopefully as he arched an eyebrow at his
Master of Coin.

“We shall still
need to cut back, milord.  The rents and the sale of the horses will improve
the situation, but money must be set aside to purchase necessities for the
upcoming winter.”

“Keep peace with
the neighboring clans,” McLaughlin ordered at Cameron who still sat with his
arms crossed, sulking like a boy forbidden from an act that he greatly enjoyed. 
“The survival of our clan depends upon it.”

“Aye, milord,”
Cameron agreed half-heartedly.

“There is another
possibility,” Hodges said suddenly.  He knew that the subject would anger his Laird,
but at the same time, he knew that his idea could strengthen the precarious situation
of the clan.

“What then?”
McLaughlin asked wearily.  He made a massive effort to sit upright in the
leather chair, the strain of such a movement making the rhythm of his breathing
speed up.  His eyebrows scrunched together, their movement the only indication
of the burgeoning pain that plagued him.  McLaughlin blinked rapidly to clear
the sudden spinning of his head and forced his eyes to remain focused on
Hodges.

“Lady Isobel must
find a suitable husband.  If we were to marry her to a lad from one of the
neighboring clans it would strengthen our alliance and…”

“I’ll not hear of
it!” Cameron thundered as his giant fist struck the table.  The sudden outburst
caused his chest to heave with the exertion of his emotion.

“I agree,
Cameron,” McLaughlin said, his voice weary.  “Hodges, your idea is well
contrived, but I fear that our clansmen would rebel against the idea of a man
from a neighboring clan assuming the Lairdship.  The man that weds my daughter
will rightfully claim the Lairdship of Clan McLaughlin.  We need to find a
suitable man that is tied more closely to our clan.”

“What are the parameters
of your tournament?”  Cameron asked, seizing the opportunity to pin down the
rules of the reckless game that would choose the Laird’s successor.

“Hodges and I drew
up a list.  Do you have it?” McLaughlin asked as he motioned towards Hodges.

“Aye, milord.” 
Hodges responded as he dug in his leather satchel and withdrew the rolled up
parchment.  “Shall I read it?”

McLaughlin nodded
and relaxed against the high back of his chair.  He was thankful of the fact
that Hodges seemed to be able to read his mind.  His friend must have been able
to see how exhausted he had become.

“The tournament shall
commence on Samhain, as the clan shall already be gathered together for the
harvest festivals.  Clansmen of suitably noble birth shall report  prior to the
commencement of the tournament and I shall mark their name on the ledger,”
Hodges paused and looked up.  Hearing no protests from either of the men
sitting next to him, he continued.  “There shall be games such as swordplay,
archery and hunting to test each man’s strength and ability as well as
exercises to test his aptitude to function as Laird of Clan McLaughlin.”

“What sort of
exercises do you speak of?” Cameron asked as he tapped his knuckles impatiently
atop the wooden table.  McLaughlin’s tournament was the most outlandish manner
of choosing a successor that Cameron had ever heard of.

“A Laird must
balance the coffers as well as rule over matters of dispute within the clan. 
We had thought to test the competitors in each of these areas,” Hodges said and
then glanced over at his friend the Laird.  McLaughlin’s eyes were heavy and he
was fading quickly.  He needed to rest in order to regain what precious little
strength he had left.

“Very well,”
Cameron agreed and motioned impatiently for Hodges to continue.  He knew that
once McLaughlin contrived an idea, no matter how preposterous, he would stay
the course.  The tournament would take place no matter how unconventional or
outlandish.

“When the field of
suitors is narrowed to only two, his Lairdship wishes that Lady Isobel be given
a choice between them.  He desires her to choose her husband.”

Cameron arched an
eyebrow at this unconventional addition to the rules of the tournament.  Hell,
the entire idea of the tournament was unconventional.

“My daughter will
make the final decision,” McLaughlin said weakly from his seat across the
table.  “And I shall see to it that both of you along with Cardinal Chesley
enforce my wishes.  The three of you shall be joint Masters of Tournament for I
fear that I will not live long enough to see Isobel properly married.  Her
safety is of the utmost importance to me and I charge the three of you with
ensuring that she is properly wed.”

Hodges and Cameron
nodded, sealing a silent pact with their Laird.

“Have a copy of
the rules made and send it to Cardinal Chesley,” McLaughlin ordered at Hodges. 
“Are there additions that should be made to the rules before I sign the
decree?” he asked as his blue eyes flitted between his oldest friends.

“There is one,
Rudy,” Cameron said as his fingers suddenly stopped their impatient drumming on
the surface of the table.

“What has been
omitted?” McLaughlin asked.

“The part about
eligible clansmen sits wrong with me, for although I have pledged fealty to you
and Clan McLaughlin, I am not a member of your clan.  And neither is my son.”

“So you wish for
Rogan to be eligible to compete for Isobel’s hand?”

“Aye, my Laird. 
He has also pledged fealty to your clan but because of his Cameron blood, he is
not a member of clan McLaughlin.  I assure you that his blood is indeed noble,
a fact which you yourself can attest to because of your knowledge of his
parentage.”

McLaughlin
contemplated his war chief’s proposition.  He did not care overly much for
Rogan Cameron.  In fact he had been disappointed more than once by the lad’s
arrogance in battle coupled with his hot-blooded nature.  But Cameron was
right.  There were men who had pledged fealty to Clan McLaughlin with noble
blood coursing through their veins.  Men who would make commendable Lairds if
given the opportunity.

“I shall grant your
request,” McLaughlin said with authority.  “But not just for Rogan.  Any man of
suitably noble birth that has pledged fealty to Clan McLaughlin may compete in
the tournament,” McLaughlin said with finality as he pushed away from the
table.  “And may the best man win.”

The legs of his
chair squeaked loudly against the flagstone floor.  A cold sweat broke out on
McLaughlin’s forehead as he stood.  The room took flight around him and he
grasped the arms of his chair in desperation.  McLaughlin took a moment to
catch his balance and garner his strength.  His knuckles were white as they
gripped the chair.  He closed his eyes, bathing in the shame of the weakness
that had befallen him.  When the room stopped spinning, McLaughlin straightened
his spine cautiously before moving slowly out of the room.  He had refused to
look at the men that surrounded him, ashamed of what he had become.

“May the best man
win,” Cameron said with an air of challenge as he stood and walked briskly from
the Laird’s chamber, leaving Hodges alone at the massive wooden table with the
draft of the tournament degree heavy with its implications.

..oo      Chapter Four     oo..

“And so you come,”
Tristan said with a lop-sided smile.  He had looked up momentarily from his
work after feeling the heat of Isobel’s sky blue eyes upon him.  She stood in
the doorway of his shop, her golden curls again obscured beneath her cloak. 
She was so slight of stature and yet her blue eyes twinkled with a bravery that
Tristan had not seen before in the eyes of a woman.  He could tell from the way
that she was wringing her hands together that she was uneasy and yet her
conviction was steadfast.

Tristan wondered
again why the lass was in need of a weapon. 

His heart beat
sped up as he looked upon Isobel.

Mo sonuachar.

He remembered the
wise woman’s words.

 Could it be
true?

“And so I come,”
Isobel said with mock confidence.  She stepped forward towards the heat of
Tristan’s fire.  There was a chill in the autumn air and her body was trembling,
either from the brisk air or her precarious situation.  Isobel knew that she
was taking a great risk in meeting secretly with the blacksmith.  Her father
would be livid if he discovered her missing, let alone if he found out that she
was meeting with a man without a chaperone.

“If it is too much
trouble or you do not have time today…I could return later,” Isobel stammered,
suddenly feeling quite brash from arriving unannounced.

“Nay, lass.  Your
timing is impeccable.  I was almost finished here,” he lied handily, eyes
hooded as he watched Isobel.  “Give me a moment to stow my tools and we shall
begin your lesson.”

Isobel watched
intently as Tristan banked his fire and methodically put away his tools.  His
muscles rippled beneath the linen of his homespun shirt.  He was a powerful
warrior and Isobel knew that she should not be alone with him. It was most
improper for a young un-wed lass to be alone in the company of such a man.  Her
father would not approve of this secretive meeting, but what choice had he left
her with?  Isobel refused to be a victim and thus, she needed a weapon.  And
above all, she needed to learn how to use it.

Tristan Finnegan
was her only hope.

“How did you
arrive here?” Tristan asked as he buckled the belt that secured his sword around
his waist. 

“I rode my horse,”
Isobel responded, thinking his question daft.  How else would she have arrived
here?

Tristan rolled his
eyes.  He sheathed two daggers in his belt and stuffed a few items hastily into
his saddlebag.

“Did you wish for
the entire village to ken that you are here?”

“Of course not!”
Isobel exclaimed as her face flushed crimson.  “I had not thought…” she
stammered as she realized the error of her blunder. 

“You’ll need to be
more careful in the future so as not to attract attention.  You shall walk or
we can arrange to meet in the forest, but do not risk riding your horse here again.” 
Tristan looked out in front of the shop and shook his head slightly.

 Isobel’s grand
white mare was mightily out of place tethered to the wood beam at the entrance
of his small shop.  McLaughlin’s guards were not as foolish as Isobel perceived
them to be.  She was lucky to have arrived here unnoticed and Tristan vowed to
instruct the lass in the importance of secrecy.

“Walk her around
back to the stable.  You shall ride with me.”

Isobel nodded. 
Heading his instructions, she hastily untied Apple’s reins and walked her to
the stables behind Tristan’s shop.  All the while she cursed her lack of
forethought.  Being devious was not in her nature, but suddenly it was a trait
that she found need to foster.

 There was much
that Isobel McLaughlin needed to learn.

..ooOoo..

“The element of
surprise is your best weapon,” Tristan instructed.  The late October sun warmed
his back as he stood across from Isobel in the grassy meadow.  The sun
glimmered off of Isobel’s hair and Tristan had to work hard at not allowing his
mind to wander.  She looked lovely, completely determined and breathtakingly
beautiful as she held Tristan’s dagger in her lightly boned hand.

Isobel stood,
still as a statue, the dagger gripped so tightly in her hand that her knuckles
were white as they grasped its hilt.

“Ease up on the
hilt a bit, lass,” he told her as he demonstrated the correct manner of holding
a dagger by showing her his own grip.  “Firm but yet not so rigid that you
cannot move your fingers.”

Isobel loosened
her grip and dared a quick glance up at his hazel eyes.  She wanted his
approval.  She wanted to learn to wield this dagger properly as her life might
someday depend upon it.

Tristan nodded
briskly and reached up to tuck his sandy blonde hair behind his ear before
continuing his instruction.  The day had grown incredibly warm for so late in
the autumn and Tristan yearned to remove his linen shirt.  The fabric scratched
at his skin and he shrugged his shoulders in an effort to get comfortable.  He
settled with loosening the lacings at his neck.  Removing his shirt in front of
Isobel would certainly not be proper.

“As I said, you
should keep your weapon concealed until the last possible moment.  Do not let
your opponent know that you have a weapon unless you must, and then the element
of surprise shall be in your favor.”

Isobel nodded her
head, acknowledging that she understood her teacher’s instructions.  Her eyes
wandered to Tristan’s chest.  He had loosened the lacings at the neck of his
shirt, exposing the smooth, muscled contour of his upper chest.  Isobel felt
color flushing her face when she wondered what it would feel like to touch
Tristan.  She imagined that his skin would feel very smooth and would be warmed
from the sun.

 He was a very
handsome man.

“If you intend to
kill, which I suppose that you do?” Tristan asked with his eyebrows arched in
question.  He waited patiently for Isobel’s response.

“I suppose that I
do,” she said, nodding her head in affirmation.  Isobel was immediately
embarrassed for appraising Tristan’s attributes so openly and sent a quick
prayer heavenward, hoping that he had not noticed her wandering eyes.

Tristan smiled
ever so slightly.  Lady Isobel McLaughlin was a rare woman indeed.  She was so
slight of bone and her eyes blazed with mesmerizing innocence yet she had just
admitted that she intended to kill someone.  Or at least she supposed that she
might.

“Well, in the case
that you do have the need to kill someone, go for the neck if you can manage,
but a quick stab to the liver or the stomach can be just as deadly.” 

Stashing his
dagger in his belt so that his hands were free, he began to demonstrate.

“The liver is just
here,” Tristan said as he patted his torso.  “On your right side.  Mind you that
if you’re facing someone, their liver will be on your left.”

Isobel nodded. 
She reached up and tucked an errant curl behind her ear.  Never had she dreamed
that she would be in need of such information.  She had been protected by her
father’s guards her whole life and suddenly she cursed not having the
forethought to learn to protect herself.

“The stomach is
opposite the liver, on your opponent’s left side.  Just here,” Tristan
demonstrated as he trailed his fingers over his upper abdomen.  “Mind you to
run like hell if you go for the liver or the stomach because such a wound will
be fatal, but not immediately.  It takes some time for a man to die from a
wound to the liver.”

Isobel lowered the
dagger.  It suddenly felt very heavy in her hand.  Could she really kill a
man?  Is this what her life had come to?

“Are you well,
lass?” Tristan asked with obvious concern.  He watched as uncertainly washed
over Isobel’s beautiful features.  The color had drained from her face.

“Quite,” she
retorted.  She shook her head and cast doubt from her mind.  She was a strong
woman, quite capable of learning to defend herself.  This was her only hope. 
“Continue,” she prodded as she lifted her chin with determination and gritted
her teeth together.

“Take a stab at
me, will you?” Tristan invited as he crouched into an athletic stance.

Isobel mimicked
his posture and swung the blade clumsily at him.  She felt like an imp trying
to fight the giant of a man that stood before her.  Tristan easily danced out
of the way of her dagger and smiled at her teasingly.

“Is that all
you’ve got, milady?” he prodded, his slight smile intent on mocking her.

Isobel’s eyebrows
knit together in concentration.  She gripped the dagger firmly and lunged at
the blacksmith.  He moved out of her path easily and she pitched forward,
stumbling as she lost her balance.

“You must
anticipate my movements,” Tristan coached.  “Which way will I go?  Left or
perhaps right?” he teased, his eyes sparkling with challenge.

Isobel glared into
his hazel eyes.  She hated to be bested at anything and the blacksmith was
weaseling his way under her skin.  He smiled openly at her now, challenging her
to move against him.

“If you intend to
kill me, you must catch me first.  Don’t forget to use the pointy end.”

Frustration
bloomed within Isobel.  She charged at Tristan, aiming her blade at his chest
as if she meant to impale him.  He stood fearlessly in front of her, his
massive legs braced apart.  When her blade was mere centimeters from his chest,
Tristan grabbed her wrist and spun her in his arms, trapping her securely against
his chest.  He squeezed her wrist and she winced in pain, reflexively dropping
her dagger.

Isobel’s heart
pounded in her chest, partly from the anger at her lack of ability with the
dagger, but mostly from the close proximity of her body to Tristan’s.  Her back
rested against his chest and her bottom was crushed most intimately against
him.

“What do you do
now?” Tristan demanded, his voice harsh against Isobel’s ear.

The scent of
lavender flooded over him and he shook his head to clear the enticing smell
from his senses.  Holding the lass so intimately was beginning to arouse him. 
The sweet, somehow familiar smell of Isobel’s hair reminded Tristan of his
reoccurring dream.  He fought the sudden urge to spin Isobel in his arms and
kiss her senseless.

Mo sonuachar.

Isobel felt the
wall of Tristan’s chest behind her, rock hard and overwhelming.  She knew that
she would never overpower him.  Thinking quickly, she drove the heel of her
boot into the top of his foot.

Tristan smiled
against her hair and released her.  Isobel was a fiery lass.  She was the most
beautiful, intriguing, fiery lass that Tristan had ever encountered.  Her
slight weight had done little to injure him, but he was pleased that she was
fighting so bravely.  He had intended to reward the lass for thinking quickly
by letting her go, but never would he have anticipated what Isobel did next.

She spun in his
arms and drove her knee directly into his ballocks.

Tristan dropped
his dagger and doubled over with unexpected pain.  His mouth formed a gaping
“O” as he struggled to recover the precious oxygen that had vacated his lungs. 
Pain radiated up his spine and for a distinct moment, he was sure that he saw
stars.

“Tristan!  Oh my
Lord!  I’m so sorry…please forgive me…it was an accident!” Isobel exclaimed as
she reached out to touch Tristan’s shoulder and then thought better of the gesture. 
He would surely be cross with her.  Isobel wondered if she could out run him in
his temporarily weakened state.

“Christ, lass! 
What was that for?” he asked, chest heaving as he struggled to regain his
breath.  He straightened his spine and fought to recoup his composure.  His
attraction to the lass had caused him to drop his guard.

Isobel’s face
flushed completely crimson.

“I…I only meant to
get out of your grasp!  I was so mad because you are so much stronger than me…”

Tristan began to
chuckle, a deep rumbling resounding within his chest.  “You did braw well,
lass.  I suppose that I deserved that for teasing you,” he admitted as he
reached down and retrieved both daggers from the ground.  He sheathed his
dagger in his belt and extended Isobel’s weapon to her, holding the dagger by
the blade so that she could take the hilt.

“Are you quite all
right?  I’m so sorry,” Isobel stammered, knowing that her face was a most
un-Godly shade of red.  Her skin burned with embarrassment. 

“I’ll manage,”
Tristan said as he raked his hand through his hair and tore out the leather
throng that bound it at the nape of his neck.  “But I do not believe that it
was an accident as you claim,” he said, laughing softly as he rebound his unruly
hair.

“Perhaps not,”
Isobel admitted with a shy smile.  “A lady must use the few defenses that she
has.” Her cheeks flushed as Tristan called her out.  She bit her lip in a vain
effort to stifle her giggle.  Isobel enjoyed bantering with the blacksmith,
finding that his sense of humor enlivened her own.  A full blown laugh tore
free from her lips as she watched Tristan.

 He took a step
away from her and arched an eyebrow hinting caution.

Tristan joined
Isobel in laughter as he finished rebinding his hair.  Her laugh was high and
melodic and he could not fight against the powers of the petite siren that
stood before him.  The lass had nearly unmanned him and yet he could harbor no
ill feelings towards her.

Being with Isobel
made Tristan feel more alive than he had in recent memory.  He suddenly
wondered when he had last laughed like this.  His face hurt from the fit of
genuine laughter.  It felt marvelous!

“Well done, milady,”
Tristan chided as he withdrew his dagger from his belt with the intention of
resuming the lesson. “Twas a surprising response, but an apt one.  Ye did well,
Isobel.”