gaze shifted towards the right, where he could just make
out the Cameron warrior’s profile. He could feel the burn of his opponent’s
dark eyes boring holes into the side of his head. Turning ever so slightly to
show the Cameron that he would not be intimidated, Tristan’s bold gaze
challenged his opponent.
Rogan Cameron’s
face possessed a steadfast, hungry look of determination. His brown eyes
glinted wildly and the small muscle in his jaw twitched as he noticed that
Tristan was looking at him.
Tristan stood
erect with his muscles tense, his tightly clenched jaw the only indication that
he had heard the muttered insult from the man standing next to him. He did not
lower himself to responding to Rogan Cameron’s comment. Tristan knew that weak
men uttered insults under their breath, especially when they were intimidated
by an opponent. He hoped to Hell that this was the situation with Cameron.
The Cameron was the son of Clan McLaughlin’s war chief and was known across the
Highlands as a fearsome warrior.
The other men,
highborn sons of neighboring Lairds and Nobles posed no threat to Tristan. He
wondered how many of their swords had been crafted by his own hand. Tristan was
confident of his superior swordsmanship, having been trained for battle his
whole life.
Yes, Cameron would
be the only one of the men that would pose a challenge. Rogan Cameron did not
fight honorably or fairly. He fought to win.
Tristan felt the
burn of his opponent’s dark eyes once again. Tristan allowed the corner of his
mouth to turn up into an arrogant smile and he turned to acknowledge Cameron
only briefly before returning his attention to Hodges. Tristan had long ago
tuned out the steady stream of rules for engagement that Hodges spewed from a
lengthy list. Much care had been taken to ensure that the tournament was
governed appropriately and that more importantly, the results of the tournament
would be most official.
“The field shall
be narrowed to two men, men whose strength, cunning and victories have outshone
all other contestants. From these two men, Lady Isobel shall choose her
preferred husband,” Hodges announced, his voice ringing loudly above the crowd.
Tristan allowed
his eyes to glance at where Isobel stood next to Hodges. She stood regally,
spine erect and chin held high as she looked over the crowd that had gathered
for the spectacle. He could tell that she was terrified, but she was strong
and hid her emotions well.
Tristan slid his
fingers beneath the metal of his breastplate, pulling the heated metal out
slightly from his chest and shrugging his shoulders. The oppressive heat of
the unnecessary garment was a burden than he had borne solely for the purpose
of formality. He had suspected that the other contenders would come dressed in
their finery and given his current station as a blacksmith, Tristan had worn
the breastplate to claim his rightful place as their equal. He had never grown
accustomed to wearing the silly garment, had never found use for the meager
protection that the scrap of polished metal provided. He much preferred to
fight with his arms and chest free of restraint so that he might exercise his
full range of motion. He tugged at the hot metal again and silently vowed that
this would be the only time that he wore the damned thing.
Shifting his eyes
to focus on Isobel made him forget all about the bloody breastplate. The same
afternoon sun that had made him unpleasantly hot blurred the lines of the great
McLaughlin keep, sending waves of heat upward around Isobel, cloaking her as if
she was a fallen angel. She stood as still and picturesque as a statue. She
was the epitome of grace and virtue.
Tristan knew at
once that the men beside him were not here only to claim the Lairdship as
Isobel believed. There was no man alive that could resist Isobel’s beauty.
The men beside him wanted Isobel as well as the Lairdship to which she held
out the Cameron warrior’s profile. He could feel the burn of his opponent’s
dark eyes boring holes into the side of his head. Turning ever so slightly to
show the Cameron that he would not be intimidated, Tristan’s bold gaze
challenged his opponent.
Rogan Cameron’s
face possessed a steadfast, hungry look of determination. His brown eyes
glinted wildly and the small muscle in his jaw twitched as he noticed that
Tristan was looking at him.
Tristan stood
erect with his muscles tense, his tightly clenched jaw the only indication that
he had heard the muttered insult from the man standing next to him. He did not
lower himself to responding to Rogan Cameron’s comment. Tristan knew that weak
men uttered insults under their breath, especially when they were intimidated
by an opponent. He hoped to Hell that this was the situation with Cameron.
The Cameron was the son of Clan McLaughlin’s war chief and was known across the
Highlands as a fearsome warrior.
The other men,
highborn sons of neighboring Lairds and Nobles posed no threat to Tristan. He
wondered how many of their swords had been crafted by his own hand. Tristan was
confident of his superior swordsmanship, having been trained for battle his
whole life.
Yes, Cameron would
be the only one of the men that would pose a challenge. Rogan Cameron did not
fight honorably or fairly. He fought to win.
Tristan felt the
burn of his opponent’s dark eyes once again. Tristan allowed the corner of his
mouth to turn up into an arrogant smile and he turned to acknowledge Cameron
only briefly before returning his attention to Hodges. Tristan had long ago
tuned out the steady stream of rules for engagement that Hodges spewed from a
lengthy list. Much care had been taken to ensure that the tournament was
governed appropriately and that more importantly, the results of the tournament
would be most official.
“The field shall
be narrowed to two men, men whose strength, cunning and victories have outshone
all other contestants. From these two men, Lady Isobel shall choose her
preferred husband,” Hodges announced, his voice ringing loudly above the crowd.
Tristan allowed
his eyes to glance at where Isobel stood next to Hodges. She stood regally,
spine erect and chin held high as she looked over the crowd that had gathered
for the spectacle. He could tell that she was terrified, but she was strong
and hid her emotions well.
Tristan slid his
fingers beneath the metal of his breastplate, pulling the heated metal out
slightly from his chest and shrugging his shoulders. The oppressive heat of
the unnecessary garment was a burden than he had borne solely for the purpose
of formality. He had suspected that the other contenders would come dressed in
their finery and given his current station as a blacksmith, Tristan had worn
the breastplate to claim his rightful place as their equal. He had never grown
accustomed to wearing the silly garment, had never found use for the meager
protection that the scrap of polished metal provided. He much preferred to
fight with his arms and chest free of restraint so that he might exercise his
full range of motion. He tugged at the hot metal again and silently vowed that
this would be the only time that he wore the damned thing.
Shifting his eyes
to focus on Isobel made him forget all about the bloody breastplate. The same
afternoon sun that had made him unpleasantly hot blurred the lines of the great
McLaughlin keep, sending waves of heat upward around Isobel, cloaking her as if
she was a fallen angel. She stood as still and picturesque as a statue. She
was the epitome of grace and virtue.
Tristan knew at
once that the men beside him were not here only to claim the Lairdship as
Isobel believed. There was no man alive that could resist Isobel’s beauty.
The men beside him wanted Isobel as well as the Lairdship to which she held
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