shifted in his seat. “I must be honest with ye, my lady. Edmund the Braw is one of the largest men in Scotland. He’s verra powerful and skilled.”
The muscles along her back knotted at his wary tone. She gave a terse nod for him to continue.
“I believe if yer brother were to fight Edmund, he wouldna fare well.” Sutherland watched her carefully as he spoke.
She looked into his green eyes, drawing strength from the impenetrable man before her. It was one of the reasons she’d longed to see him. His confidence and the power he carried with such ease. She had need of it, of him.
She was struck once more with the desire to ease against his hard body, to lay her head to his chest and let his arms curl around her in an embrace. Had she ever had such protective comfort?
Not from her brother, nor their father. From her mother, aye. But her mother’s arms, though tender, had been frail and delicate. And there had been love, so much love that it caused an ache to form at the back of her throat.
Isolde wanted love of a different form now, and comfort. But she also wanted someone whose strength she could share. A man like Sutherland.
“I dinna mean to make ye cry.” He reached a hand toward her face as though he meant to brush away a tear and stopped abruptly.
The way he caught himself reminded her where they were: in the middle of a feast, surrounded by courtiers, with Brodie hovering somewhere in the near distance. Such stark realizations made her want to cry more. The entire effort of her ruse, the fight she had endured, the risk she had taken—all of it had been futile.
She hastily swiped the tear from her cheek.
“I know ye’re close with yer brother,” Sutherland said gently.
Isolde almost gave a sardonic bark of laughter. He had no idea exactly how close she and Gilbert had become at the tournament.
“Do ye think Lord Easton will change his mind and allow me to fight Edmund the Braw in his stead?” Sutherland asked.
She recalled Sutherland’s offer—one she’d declined out of bravado. Now though, she took his suggestion with more consideration.
She had barely survived her victory with Brodie and hadn’t emerged unscathed. Sutherland was not a man for dramatic statements. He had sparred with her, and if he deemed her skills against Edmund the Braw would be inadequate, she knew he spoke in earnest.
If there was a possibility of her mayhap being killed, then there was a possibility that Cormac could die as well. He was the chieftain of a clan who relied on him, and she was simply a woman who had little foothold in the world, save noble birth and wealth.
She could not allow him to die in her stead. Not when it was her honor, and her decisions, which took them down this path.
She shook her head, her mind made up. “He would not allow you to fight in his stead.” She folded her hands in her lap and stared hard at her interlaced fingers.
Coming to the feast had been a mistake. Seeing Sutherland again had been a mistake. It had all been indulgent and foolish.
“I canna allow Lord Easton to go into a fight that he canna survive,” Sutherland said.
The serving girl approached with a flagon of wine and tipped more of the dark-red liquid into Isolde’s goblet. Isolde waited for the woman to leave before replying, “You have people depending on you, Sutherland.”
“Does yer brother no’ have people relying on him as well?”
He had a point. Isolde lifted the goblet with her left hand to avoid the bruise on her right arm from showing again. She let the rich wine wash down her throat in a burning swallow that roiled in her stomach. After this goblet, she decided, she would have another and mayhap another.
Anything to slow the churn of her mind and warm the creeping chill of fear in her veins.
“Lady Isolde.” Sutherland’s voice was gentle with his Scottish burr, the tone low and intimate. “I want to help ye.”
She finished off her goblet and nudged it toward the edge of the table so the serving wench might see it more readily. She returned her attention to Sutherland, and the protest died on her lips.
His mouth was fuller than she’d noticed before, appearing soft and pink compared to the bristle of his hard, whiskered jaw. She had the sudden urge to kiss him. Her palms tingled, longing for the rasp