Isolde's Wish (12 page)

The sixth and seventh gears rolled at him, eating up the platform, threatening his goal. Threatening his life.

He took the blow at the side of his chest. The air whooshed from his lungs. Black pain exploded behind his eyes. His sleeve caught in a giant tooth, and he was dragged upward, body dangling helplessly.

Below, the crowd undulated like a school of fish, washing along with him.

His hip struck the ground. The gear’s tooth let go of his shirt. Sadler sat dazed, staring out at the sea of faces. A trumpet blared, and a pale, delicate hand was thrust through the bodies.

Isolde’s lovely face was alive, her cheeks flushed beautifully, the swell of her cleavage rosy and riveting. “Rise, Marvic. Ye’ve just won the gauntlet.”

Chapter Ten

After Marvic’s near-flawless run, Isolde watched Sir Lionel go up against the blades, stones, and gears. Though she held no special feelings for Sir Lionel, she didn’t wish to see his brains bashed out by a revolving hailstorm of boulders.

She tried to keep her expression neutral while she watched, as the mysterious Marvic’s gaze rarely left her, but Lionel had brushes with the blades that brought gasps from the crowd and Isolde as well. A swinging boulder sent Sir Lionel flying from the platform, and when Isolde had leaped to her feet, Marvic spun away.

The Earl of Millvale made it farther than Sir Lionel but still lost to Marvic, the unknown competitor. Millvale sat on the opposite platform, surrounded by other dignitaries, brooding.

“To Marvic, for excellence in the gauntlet,” King Adlard announced, dropping a silver coin onto his palm.

With her heart in her throat, Isolde watched Marvic as he accepted the small token from the king. Winning the gauntlet was no small feat, and her chest filled with breathlessness. Something about the set of his shoulders and the way his dark hair hung against his neck stirred her.

Marvic shifted from foot to foot, his hair hanging in his face. He bowed low to the king, but when he straightened, his eyes flashed at Isolde. She felt a shiver of fear bounce through her stomach, rolling, gaining speed like its own gauntlet.

Her brother Colin was at her ear. “Careful, Sister.”

She held her smile, but a thick tendril of ice pierced her heart. “I don’t know what ye’re talking about,” she said through clenched teeth.

He put his hand on her wrist, thumb probing the place where her pulse leaped. “That man—Marvic, the Gauntlet God—I can see yer lust for him.”

She released a low hiss. “How dare ye speak to me this way?” Were the reactions of her body so obvious? And what kind of woman did this make her—that she welcomed Sadler’s kisses at every turn, and now she wished for a private moment with Marvic? Not to mention the way she strung Millvale along. While he brought no tender feelings from her, she needed him to give her answers about Sadler.

“I dare, Isolde, because I love ye. Do not let Father see yer face, for it is a clear pool reflecting yer emotions.”

She wrenched her wrist from his grasp. She glared at him. She wanted to light into him. “I do not seek yer counsel in this matter, Brother. In the future, do not be so forward.”

She lifted her skirts, bounced to her feet, and trundled down the stairs into the crowd. “My lord Marvic,” she cried. Marvic’s back continued to retreat through the group of people. Again she called his name.

The crowd parted for her with a rustle, and the ones nearest her bowed.

“Make way for the Princess Isolde,” Colin called from the dais, coming to her aid despite his warning.

Marvic whipped around, searching for her. When he spotted her so close, he scooped a hand over his heart and bowed to her. His eyes cautioned her, but she disregarded it. Her fingers ached from the tight confines of her fists.

Too breathlessly, she said, “May I seek yer counsel, sir?”

The knob in his throat bobbed as he swallowed. “As ye wish, my lady.”

As she wove through the crowd, her brother John, master of games, took the attention from them as he announced the next event.

Isolde backed Marvic against a fence and leaned into his face. “Do I know ye, sir?”

“I think not. If ye’ll excuse me, I’m late for the sword event.”

“Ye cannot risk yerself.”

“I already have, Princess.”

She slashed the air with her hand and pitched her voice low. “Stop it. I beg ye.”

“I cannot back away now. Ye’ve given me yer colors—yer blessing. Ye chose me. What has changed yer mind?”

As her lips became the target of his stare, she licked them nervously, terrified he’d try to kiss her, dying for him to do just that. She edged backward.

“I’m frightened for ye. ’Tis insanity,” she whispered. “Certain death.”

He shrugged, breaking the trance. “’Tis worth the gamble to me.”

“What can I say to make ye turn away from the sword event? Millvale will cut ye to ribbons.” Too late; she saw her words had sliced him.

He squared his shoulders, flipped a tendril of long black hair over one shoulder. His face mottled with anger, and his lips clamped in a fine seam of determination. “I see what my skill in the gauntlet has proved to ye.”

She opened her mouth to speak, but he cut across her. “No matter. Whether ye planned for me to win or yer Sir Lionel or”—he struggled a moment—“or
Millvale
, I will show ye. I will best them all. Tonight I will dine with the king.” He looked past her as the first clash of swords sounded. “Good day.”

Isolde watched him stalk away, his fist on the hilt of his sword, his back ramrod straight. All at once, she felt her face go hot and tight with fear. Her lack of confidence in him had angered him, and he might act recklessly in the sword competition as a result.

Her mind told her to stop—that he was one man among thousands, and she had no bond with him. Yet the length of his strides struck something deep in her core, and she almost felt as if she knew him.

* * *

Isolde cringed at the clash of swords. Seated once again on the platform with Colin at her side, she watched Sir Lionel and the Earl of Millvale hack it out with other opponents. Marvic stood some ten paces away, watching intently, studying their every move.

Colin’s voice was at her ear, heckling her for staring too long at him. She pinched him hard, brutally twisting the soft flesh of his underarm.

“Shut yer mouth, Colin, dear.”

“Not on yer life, Sister. Feel like wagering on whether Marvic will get ye into his bed?”

She slapped his face away. “Ye and yer bets, Colin. If ye feel like losing yer silver, why not take a chance on the man Sir Lionel is trying to hack to pieces?”

Colin laughed delightedly. “I think I’ll do that. Thank ye for the tip.” He crossed the wooden platform to his personal page, spoke with him for a long moment, and passed him a coin. The young boy shot down the steps and to the edge of the sword fight, where bets were being interchanged as rapidly as the swords sliced the air.

A clash of ringing steel brought her attention back to the fight involving Millvale. If he won this round—and she was almost certain he would—she could steal a moment alone with him. She intended to use it to her advantage, even if it meant letting him drop his oily kisses to her knuckles.

Millvale and a much taller and broader man were going at it hammer and tongs, the crash of steel deafening. Millvale drove the man backward, and the crowd pushed him forward. The man gathered his courage and lunged for Millvale’s midsection.

Millvale did a series of looping movements with the sword, confusing his opponent. When he brought the tip up against the soft part of the man’s throat, a hush fell over the crowd.

Isolde clutched the arms of the chair, straining to see without gaining her feet. From the corner of her eye, she felt Marvic’s gaze spear her.

A trumpet blared, heralding the end of the event. The tip of Millvale’s sword never wavered as he glared into his opponent’s eyes.

“The champion of team one is the Earl of Millvale,” Prince John announced to the cheers of the crowd. Among the people, Millvale was a well-liked man—bestowing charity and offering help to the poor. But behind their backs, he was disdainful toward the populace, badmouthing their simple ways. Far from likable.

As the earl released his opponent, Isolde stood. She strode past Marvic, giving a little tremble at the touch of his gaze, but continued on, determined to have her moment alone with Millvale.

She stopped before him, smelling the sharp tang of his sweat. She fought to keep her face neutral. “Congratulations, my lord.”

“I thank ye, Princess Isolde.” He bowed low, trailing his fingertips in the sandy dirt near her feet. She could almost feel their intense heat through the fabric of her slippers.

“A word, please?”

A self-satisfied grin spread over his face, flattening his nose and twisting his mouth up at the ends like a bow. He offered her his arm. She took it, avoiding Marvic’s gaze. Or glare. It felt hot enough to singe.

They made their way to a private area on the lawn. Isolde screwed up her courage and reached for the scrap of blue fabric tucked in Millvale’s chain mail armor. It pulled free, and she smoothed it before tucking it neatly back into place.

His gaze traveled over her face and lingered on the tops of her breasts where they spilled over her bodice. “Thank ye, my lady.”

She blushed at his scrutiny. “Ye’ve done well in yer first sword fight, my lord. I wish ye luck with the ones to come.”

Before she lost her nerve, she took his hand between hers. “Yer skill is amazing. It’s comforting to know yer presence in the castle will keep criminals at bay.”

He arched a brow. “Criminals?”

“Aye, criminals like Sadler, son of Corbet.”

Millvale made a slashing motion with one hand. “That man will receive the death he deserves.” He lifted a forefinger to the crest of her cheek. She struggled to keep from recoiling. “Ye look much like yer mother, Princess.”

Isolde clenched her teeth and bore his touch.

His beady eyes slid over her like a hawk on its prey. “Aye, so like yer mother as a maiden before yer father, the king, took her as wife. Yer mother and I grew up together. Our lands were neighboring.” He trailed his finger down to the curve of her jaw. “Ye have her eyes, surely. And her delicate bones. ’Twas a shame Corbet stole her away…was responsible for her execution.”

A little hole in Isolde’s chest, thought long-since healed, reopened and bled around the edges. Her throat was thick. “She had free will, did she not?”

Millvale snapped his eyes to hers. “Don’t believe for a moment that she wasn’t coerced by Corbet. He’s the one responsible. Yer mother lost her life because of him, and soon I’ll send his son to join him.”

Isolde shivered from his words and his touch.

He continued to trace a finger along her jaw to the point of her chin. His mouth was set into a long crease. “I will not rest until his son pays for the crimes committed against the king and for the crimes of his father.”

She forced her paralyzed throat muscles to work. “He will pay for the crimes of his father?”

“Aye. The blood is tainted and shall be destroyed. On the day of yer mother’s execution, I made the vow to avenge her. The attempt against the king merely added a second reason for me to hunt Sadler, son of Corbet.”

Isolde took a hesitant step away and sank into a curtsy to avoid Millvale’s evil stare rather than as a show of respect. “Yer opponent awaits, my lord.”

He spun toward the yard. Sir Lionel stood waiting, hands resting atop the hilt of his sword. Sweat poured down his reddened face, and his pale hair was plastered to his forehead. But he grinned broadly and dropped a wink at Isolde.

Twenty paces away, Marvic’s head snapped around. His eyes locked heatedly with hers, a silent battle between anger and possession waging on his features. All at once, she feared that fierce expression.
Ye cannot toy with these men, Isolde. It’s a dangerous game ye play.

Marvic turned away from her and threaded his way through the crowd. The hole gaped in her heart and began to bleed afresh.

* * *

The crowd cheered as Marvic’s sword whistled through the air. Isolde looked on tight-lipped, foot bouncing, muscles burning to leap up.

Marvic completed a series of whirls to avoid his opponent’s blade, dark hair lashing his face, biceps straining, belly muscles clenched. With a swift thrust, he sliced the fabric of the other man’s pants and exposed one naked thigh.

The crowd roared. The name Marvic became a chant. It was all Isolde could do to remain in her seat, to not shake her fists like the rest of the onlookers.

Across the field, Sir Lionel and the Earl of Millvale waited for Marvic’s challenge to end before their swords were raised against each other. She spared them nary a glance, and her brother Colin was not gentleman enough to keep his mouth shut about it.

“It’s obvious where yer loyalties lie, Sister dear.” His voice was low in her ear.

She batted him away. “Find someone else to harass. No wonder no woman will have ye.”

He made a scoffing noise. “I’ll have my pick when I am ready.”

Something in his tone made Isolde focus on him fully. “Why aren’t ye ready?”

“Because,” he said, his face suddenly melting into the boy’s she had known. “I will not tolerate what happened between Mother and Father.”

She fastened her fingers around his forearm. “Colin, no amount of waiting will keep that from happening.”

He gestured to the sword fight. “Yer man has his opponent on the ground.”

Isolde snapped her head around. Marvic’s boot was fixed on the man’s throat. His face was fierce, the bones burning through the flesh. The point of his sword hovered over the man’s chest.

“What did ye call me?” he asked, voice low and deadlier than his blade.

His opponent squirmed, mouth gulping.

Marvic removed his foot and stepped away. He nudged a lock of hair out of his eyes with the back of his hand, sending a ripple of déjà vu through Isolde. “That’s what I thought.”

The trumpet blared. Prince John’s voice boomed. Marvic thrust his sword into the air. His bright gaze latched on to Isolde until she felt the wetness begin to gather between her thighs, and when he turned away, she felt raw and shaken.