Tournament of Hearts (9 page)

..oo      Chapter Eleven     oo..

“The first
challenge shall be one of archery,” Hodges bellowed from where he stood on the
small podium that had been constructed for the occasion of the tournament.  His
words were formal as he addressed the contenders and the crowd of clansmen that
had gathered to watch the spectacle.

Archery! 
Isobel’s
heart leapt.  Tristan had a good chance of winning this challenge!  Her blood
raced through her veins and she said a quick prayer of gratitude for the
unexpected stroke of good fortune.

Isobel worked hard
to repress the smile that threatened to reveal itself at her lips. Her fingers
toyed with the fabric of the silk gown that she wore.  She suddenly felt too
hot, too confined by the copious folds of the heavy silk.  Thinking it best not
to look at Tristan, she turned her head slightly sideways towards Hodges and
made every attempt to focus her attention upon his words.

Hodges was a quiet
man, not given to speaking in public.  Isobel was seated in a high-backed chair
next to where Hodges stood.  She knew that his role as Master of the Tournament
was not one that suited him comfortably.  His face was ruddy and his hands were
clasped together in front of him to minimize fidgeting.  Hodges was doing his
absolute best to run the tournament in a manner befitting of her father’s
memory.  Rudy McLaughlin would have been proud of his soft spoken friend.

“Each man shall
have one arrow.  The target will be placed two hundred paces out to field. 
Each man shall draw a straw that will designate the order in which he will
shoot,” Hodges said loudly.  He cleared his throat as was his nervous gesture
and tugged at the confining collar of his shirt.  “The man whose arrow lies
furthest from the target shall be eliminated from the tournament.  The man
whose arrow is nearest the target shall win the honor of sitting next to Lady
Isobel at the evening meal.  May your aim be true,” Hodges said as he regarded
the contestants.  He turned from the crowd and took his seat next to Isobel
with visible relief.

Hodges motioned to
his steward, who sprang into motion and jogged towards the contenders.  In his
hands was a small burlap sack, which he extended to the first man, Rabbie
MacFarland.  Rabbie reached into the sack and withdrew a straight wooden stick
of medium length.  He looked at the stick in his hand and shrugged, eliciting a
muffled laugh of amusement from the crowd.

Isobel’s heart
raced in her chest.  Tristan would win.  He had to win.  And if he won, they
would be allowed to sit next to each other at the evening meal.  She thought
that her heart might beat right out of her chest at the prospect of being
allowed to sit next to Tristan.  Would that he could win!

The steward worked
his way down the line of warriors, having each man repeat the process of
reaching into the sack and withdrawing a stick.

Rogan Cameron made
a spectacle of digging in the sack until he had found the stick that he
wanted.  His lips curled into a smile as he withdrew the shortest stick.  He
raised the short nub of a stick high over his head and let out a victorious
growl, which elicited a cheer from the crowd.  He smirked as he lowered his
fist.  Rogan had been trained as an archer under his father’s watch.  His
reputation of skill and accuracy was well known across the Highlands.

Rogan was a crowd
favorite.  His father was well respected within the clan, having been Rudy
McLaughlin’s trusted war chief for two decades.  Rogan had fought along side
the McLaughlin warriors and had proven himself as both a warrior and a leader. 
Many McLaughlin clansmen would be eager to accept Rogan as Laird should he win.

Tristan drew
next.  He reached into the sack and pulled out the first stick that his fingers
touched.  In his mind, it did not matter if he shot first or last.  Archery was
a skill that he would not be bested at.

“What did ye draw,
Finnegan?” Rogan asked as he craned his neck to see the stick clasped in
Tristan’s fist.

Tristan ignored
Rogan and looked straight ahead.

“Looks as though
ye will be able to watch and learn.  I’ll be sure to show ye how it’s done,”
Rogan said with an arrogant chuckle.

After the last
warrior had drawn his stick, the contenders lined up in order from the shortest
stick to the longest.  Rogan Cameron was pleased to be first in line and made a
pompous display of stretching his muscles for the crowd, eliciting a roaring
cheer from the onlookers.

Tristan was
surprised to find that he had drawn the longest stick, giving him the grace of
shooting last.  He took his place at the back of the line of men gratefully and
stole a quick glance at Isobel.  His pulse quickened when he discovered that
she had been watching him already. 

A faint smile
graced her lips and Tristan knew that it was just for him.

It appeared that
luck was on his side this afternoon.  Shooting last was a weighty advantage. 
He would be given the opportunity to quell his nerves and gauge the skill of
his competitors.  Such an opportunity could provide him with valuable
information for further events.  He needed to learn all that he could about his
opponents if he was to best them in the tournament.

Wasting no time,
Rogan took the proffered bow from the steward and took his mark at the line.  The
crowd applauded, shouting words of encouragement at Rogan as he readied
himself.  He was a showy fighter and made further display of loosening his
muscles and stretching his fingers before choosing an arrow from the small
velvet draped table and fitting it into the bow.

 He drew the
string of the bow taut and stilled his breathing.  The crowd fell silent as
Rogan took his aim upon the red painted circle of the target.  He pulled back
the string a little further and then loosed his arrow.

The crowd released
a collective cheer when the arrow was true, striking within the red target but
just slightly to the left of center.  Rogan spun on his heel and made an
elegant bow towards Isobel, winking before dropping his head into the
formality.

“Milady,” he said
regally as he straightened himself and handed the bow back to the steward.

One by one, the
other men chose their arrows.  Much to Isobel’s dismay, none of their efforts were
closer to the center of the target than Rogan Cameron’s.  Only Tristan remained
now and as he walked forward to take his shot, Isobel dug her fingers nervously
into the silk folds of her gown.

Tristan dared not
look up to where Isobel sat on the podium.  Although he was confident in his
skill with a bow, he dared not make the mistake of over confidence.  His heart
beat a steady rhythm, beating the drum of hope within the confines of his
chest.

He strode up to
the line and took the bow from the steward.  The last arrow lie on the small
velvet draped table next to the line.  Tristan reached for it.  He ran his
fingers experimentally over the feathers that flanked the arrow, gauging how
the arrow had been crafted so that he could estimate how true it would fly.

Taking his place
at the line, he dug his boot into the earth, moving his toe from side to side
as he took an active stance.  His hazel eyes flitted up towards the distant
target.

Six arrows had
met their mark.  Mine shall be the seventh.

Rogan’s arrow, the
first of the tournament, was still closest to the target.

Tristan pushed
this knowledge from his mind, forcing himself to clear his thoughts as he
fitted the hilt of the arrow into the bow string and drew it back.  His breathing
was still and he could hear his pulse thumping in his ears.  He drew his hand back
next to his face as he closed his left eye and focused on the target.

Tristan had made
similar shots thousands of times.  He said a silent prayer that his aim would
be true, for his own sake as well as for Isobel’s.  He visualized the arrow
striking the direct center of the target and closed his eyes.  In the same
instant, he loosed the arrow.  It whizzed as it passed right next to his face,
whistling through the air. 

The crowd gasped
and then erupted into applause.

The arrow had
found its mark, striking dead center of the target.

Tristan breathed a
sigh of relief and glanced towards Isobel.  He could tell that she was working
hard to repress the full thrill of her excitement.  But he could also tell from
the attractive flush that had spread over her cheeks that she was happy.  Very
happy.  And right now, that happiness was enough.

Handing the bow to
the steward, Tristan strode towards the podium.  The corner of his mouth tugged
up into the faintest hint of a smile.

“Milady,” he said
as he winked playfully and dropped into a formal bow.  His hazel eyes locked
with Isobel’s and he watched appreciatively as her face flushed crimson.

Tristan spun on
his heel and stalked past Rogan.

“Thank you for the
lesson.  It was most informative,” he said underneath his breath as he passed
the stunned warrior.

..ooOoo..

 “Milady,” Tristan
said with a smile in his voice as he pulled out the high-backed chair so that
Isobel could sit.  His hand brushed lightly against her back and sent
shockwaves down her spine.

His deep voice had
startled her for she had not known that he was behind her in the great hall. 
Tristan’s presence was a welcome surprise as the flood of clansmen entered the
hall and took their places for dinner.  Isobel’s heart thrummed with anticipation
of sitting next to Tristan at the evening meal. 

“Blacksmith,” she
said coyly as she took her seat.

Her eyes flitted
towards Tristan as he sat in the chair to her left.  She could barely contain
her excitement over the fact that they could spend the evening together publicly. 
They would need to be careful, ever so cautious in their interactions this
evening.  The other suitors would most certainly be watching.

Tristan’s hair was
still damp from his recent bath and Isobel thought that he looked especially
attractive tonight.  They were seated close to the hearth and the glow of the
warm firelight cast a mesmerizing shadow on Tristan’s masculine features.  The
firelight danced over the stubble that dotted his jaw line, lending him the
faintest shadow of a beard.  His sandy blonde hair was pulled back at the nape
of his neck, being tethered there with a strip of thin leather.  He wore a
billowing white linen shirt underneath the crimson Finnegan plaid, which he
wore proudly now secured with a ruby brooch at his shoulder.  Isobel thought
that he was the picture of masculine perfection.

She suddenly found
herself remembering what it had felt like when he had kissed her.  She thought
of how delicious his firm body had felt pressed against her own.  She tore her
eyes away from Tristan and took a sip of water in an effort to cool her
thoughts.

“Why do you always
call me that?” she asked, still holding the mug of water suspended in her hand.

“Call you what, milady?”
Tristan drawled as he smiled innocently at her.

Isobel could not
look away from his charming smile.  It bewitched her.  She was sure that there
was a hint of devilment in Tristan’s smile.

“Milady.  You may
call me Isobel,” she said as she felt a blush color her cheeks.

“I ken full well
that I may call ye Isobel,” Tristan said with a lop-sided grin.  “But I prefer
to call you milady because that is what you are. 
My
lady,” he said with
a heated look.

Tristan’s
possessive words made Isobel’s heart go wild in her chest.

“Do you feel their
eyes upon us?” Tristan asked as he leaned back against the high leather back of
his chair.  His eyes scanned the great hall over the rim of his ale mug.  He
was working diligently to look casual and collected, but the constant
observation of his fellow suitors made his possessive nature flare almost
beyond the power of his fragile control.

“Aye,” Isobel said
as she looked around the room.  Some of the younger suitors looked away when
her blue eyes met theirs; acting as though they had simply been surveying the
room.  Others were bolder with their stares and held her gaze, refusing to look
away despite having been caught.  Rogan Cameron was one of these men, and the
way that he looked at Isobel made her most nervous indeed.  After holding his
gaze for a split-second, she glanced down at her plate, eager to look at
anything other that his imposing dark eyes.

“They are jealous,
ken?” Tristan said.  He flashed Isobel an arrogant yet playful smile when her
eyes lifted to meet his.

“I suppose that
they are,” she said shyly.  It was difficult becoming accustomed to being a
prize.  She said a silent prayer in gratitude for the fact that Tristan had won
the first challenge.  She was so thankful that he was sitting beside her
tonight and she decided to push aside her thoughts and worries and enjoy their
time together.

“I was so nervous
when you sighted your arrow.  I think that I stopped breathing altogether!” she
confessed.

“Ye didn’t think I
would win?  Even after…” Tristan’s words tapered off when he realized the
danger of discussing their private archery tournament in the forest.

“I was very
pleased when your aim was true,” Isobel said whole heartedly.

Tristan smiled
wryly and turned his attention to the food that the maids had laid before
them.  He tore off a hunk of bread for Isobel and then one for himself.  Taking
a hearty bite, he resigned to keep his eyes on his food, for he knew that every
time he looked at Isobel, he risked betraying their secret. 

Being seated so
close to her was both a blessing and a curse.  Suspecting that any man who
caught him looking at her would see his desires written plainly on his face,
Tristan knew that it was only safe to slip Isobel a glance every now and then. 
He would have to be more careful.