The Highlander's Lady Knight (Midsummer Knights #2) - Madeline Martin Page 0,2
they needed. Especially when so many others had so little.
“You know why this must happen.” Gilbert’s statement took on a nasal condescension. “Your tattered reputation has need of salvaging.”
Anger licked at her patience and heat simmered through her veins. “I did nothing wrong.”
He gave a sharp bark of laughter. “If allowing a man liberties with your person and then refusing them marriage is not wrong, dear sister, I am uncertain what is.”
She squeezed the vial in her hand. “I told you I was tricked.”
“I know what you said.” He steepled his long, slender fingers together. “And I know what I saw.”
Isolde pressed her lips together. There was no use in arguing how she’d been found with Brodie in the hall, his body pinning her against the wall, her skirts pushed up to her thighs. Her cheeks burned now to even think of how exposed she’d been, how easily she’d been fooled. She’d been disgustingly naive.
Never again would she allow herself to be misled.
“You saw what he wanted you to,” Isolde countered. “He feigned confusion as to where the Great Hall was located, bade me lead him there and then he pushed me against the stonework and hefted up my skirt so it would appear that…” Her words caught in her throat. She couldn’t even speak of something so vile.
Her stomach writhed at the memory. He’d shoved her so hard that she’d smacked the back of her head on the whitewashed stones. She’d been too surprised to fight him off. By then, it was too late. Footsteps were headed in their direction, and his rough, callused hands were pushing up her skirt.
He hadn’t actually touched her, thanks be to God. But the evidence of her naked leg, along with their improper proximity, had been enough to condemn her.
Her brother issued a flat smile. “Is that all, Isolde?”
The ire in Isolde’s body made her blood as hot as boiling oil. “You told Mother you would look after me.”
“Aye, but she’s dead now.” He narrowed his eyes. “And I made the promise before realizing you were such a slattern.”
Isolde jerked back as though she’d been slapped. Indeed, she had been struck—deep in her chest and by the person who should care most for her in this world.
“I want you to cancel the arrangement for my union and instead fight Brodie to defend my honor.” By some miracle, she was able to keep a quaver from her voice.
Gilbert cast his eyes to the ceiling with impatience. “Nay. We leave for the Rose Citadel in the morning.”
All at once, she was glad she had found the courage to seek out the healer and procure the small vial. The potion wouldn’t be enough to kill him. Isolde did not want him dead.
She did, however, need him to be unable to travel.
A night violently evacuating his bowels, and possibly the following day as well would leave him weak and in need of rest. Or so she’d been promised.
“Very well,” Isolde said. “I’ll be prepared.”
It seemed like compliance, but in truth, they were the words she’d told her maid, Matilda, to listen for.
Gilbert did not notice that Isolde spoke slightly louder; he was simply eager for her acquiescence. His irritation melted away, and once more, he was her beautiful brother with a face that reminded her so fondly of her mother that it made her heart ache.
The door opened and Matilda entered with a flagon of wine and two chalices.
“I asked you to bring that a while ago,” Isolde scolded. Though she and Matilda had planned the exchange, Isolde still loathed speaking so poorly to her trusted lady’s maid.
“Forgive me, my lady.” Matilda lowered her head in chastisement with such conviction that it made Isolde’s chest squeeze.
She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from apologizing to her maid. “Leave the wine. I’ll pour it.”
“Aye, my lady.” Matilda set the wine on a table across the room where Isolde would have to put her back to Gilbert to pour. With that, the maid bobbed a curtsey and quit the room.
“I apologize for the delay.” Isolde indicated the flagon of wine. “Would you care for some wine before I go?”
Gilbert’s gaze drifted to the table, and he licked his lips. “Aye.”
His response had been expected. Gilbert never could resist the lure of wine. Just like their father. It turned him into the same man the late earl had been as well: impatient and ill-tempered.
Isolde faced the table and first poured herself a measure, then swiftly dumped the contents