the brilliance of the agony. Brodie grabbed her and flipped her onto her back. Her helm rocked back against the ground, rattling in her ears.
The slit of her vision faced up to a cloudy gray sky, rendering her blind to her opponent. His weight pushed down on her like a crushing millstone. She gasped, but her chest struggled to fill with air against the press of his body. Her right hand buzzed with pain and clenched around nothing.
She had lost her sword.
The helm tilted as though being pried from her face.
She would be found out.
A rush of energy surged through her, exploding with a power of which she had not thought herself capable. Nearly blind from her limited visibility, she arched her hips up, throwing him off her. In a single move, she leapt atop him, whipped out her dagger with her left hand and held it to his throat.
“Concede,” she gasped in whatever imitation of Gilbert’s voice she could muster from her rasping throat.
“Aye,” Brodie snarled. “I concede.”
She pushed off of him and strumbled backward. Only then did she adjust her helm to bring the narrow line of her vision correctly over her eyes. Brodie lumbered to his feet, his face dark with rage.
She had won.
The realization dawned on her like a beam of sunshine.
She had won.
Her freedom.
Her honor.
She—a woman, valued as little more than chattel to those who would trade her like property—had defeated a Scottish warrior. When no man would stand up for her, she had defended her own honor.
And she had won.
Brodie stalked toward her, his breath coming out in growling huffs. “Ye dinna win that easily, my lord.” He said the last two words with a sneer of condemnation.
He ripped the gauntlet off one hairy hand and threw it at her feet. She bent over to see it through her helm. There it lay, glittering metal in the muted sunlight against the battered grass. A counterchallenge.
A ball of frustration tightened in her throat.
Tears welled in her eyes beneath the protective barrier of her helm.
Nay. It was too unfair. She had won. She had won.
She swallowed, incapable of summoning any kind of reply.
“This time, I’m challenging yer honor and yer inability to comply with our arrangement,” Brodie said in a low, menacing tone. “But I willna fight ye myself. Prepare to battle my da’s best champion.”
Isolde didn’t know who his champion was, but she knew well that tone. She’d heard it before when he’d pinned her against the wall and pushed up her skirts. She’d heard it again outside the stands at the start of the joust. And now it sent a shiver of panic skittering down her spine.
“Yer sister will be mine, ye shite.” Brodie shoved past her, leaving his gauntlet behind, lying lifeless in the grass like an omen.
Her body was battered from the battle, but it hadn’t mattered. None of it did.
Brodie would find a way to win. And once more, she was a helpless victim to the ways of men.
No one in the surrounding band of people moved after Brodie’s departure. The battle had been brutal. At one point, Cormac was certain the Earl of Easton had lost.
Judging by the sag of the smaller man’s shoulders, he still considered his victory a loss regardless. And indeed, it was.
Pip shifted from one paw to the other, where he stood anxiously between Alan and Cormac.
“What’s wrong with yer dog?” Cormac demanded.
Alan frowned down at his pet. “I’ve never seen him like this.”
Lord Easton turned from the practice field toward the castle, his back straight despite cradling his arm.
Pip whimpered and strode forward several steps.
“Pip, stay,” Alan demanded.
The dog didn’t listen. He broke into a run toward Lord Easton and nudged the earl’s leg with his nose. His sharp whines carried on the breeze back toward them.
Alan cast a confused glance at Cormac. “I don’t understand…”
But Cormac did. The only time Pip reacted with such excitement to anyone other than Alan was with Lady Isolde. Regarding the fair lady herself, it had not escaped Cormac’s notice that she had not been in attendance for Lord Easton’s fight.
If one’s brother would stand against a great foe in defense of his sister’s honor, it was a great disservice for her not to have even shown to display her support.
“Did ye ever notice Lady Isolde and the Earl of Easton are never in the same location at the same time?” Cormac muttered to Alan.
The mercenary’s forehead puckered, and his jaw unhinged with shock. “You’re right.” He shook his