The Highlander's Lady Knight (Midsummer Knights #2) - Madeline Martin Page 0,3
of the vial into the flagon. It was such a small amount, it made almost no sound as it married into the fine wine and the pale brown extract blended into the rich red without issue. She pretended to almost drop the flagon in an effort to churn the liquid together.
“You should have let your maid do it,” Gilbert muttered.
“’Tis fine.” Isolde splashed a hefty amount of wine into his goblet and carried both over to his desk, handing him the one with poison.
“To our mother.” Isolde lifted her chalice.
“To our mother,” Gilbert echoed. “And your impending nuptials.”
Any regret Isolde may have harbored for what she was doing dissipated at that moment. She drank from her chalice as her brother swallowed down his wine with his usual zeal. No doubt it was nearly empty.
She watched his face carefully, fearing he might notice the sharp aftertaste of the purgative.
Gilbert drained his chalice without issue and got to his feet. “I’ve arranged for your belongings to be packed while we are at the tournament.”
“Have you?” Isolde asked in a pleasant tone. After all, he would realize the futility of his plans within the hour. Perhaps sooner.
He fetched the flagon from the table and poured another helping. “Within a fortnight, you will be part of the Ross clan, dear sister, and we will have a strong ally in Scotland.”
“Why do we need an ally in Scotland?” Isolde pulled her gaze from the wine in her brother’s hand. The more he talked, the more he drank. And the more he drank, the more he talked.
And the sooner he’d consumed it all…
Gilbert scoffed at her as if she were too lacking to understand the reason. “The reason for an alliance with the Rosses is nothing for you to concern yourself over.” He tilted the goblet back, as well as his head, while his neck flexed in a greedy swallow. His stare flicked to her goblet, and she knew he feared she might request more wine.
He had played right into her hands, predictably merciless against his vice.
She set her goblet on the edge of the desk. “I shall leave you to the rest of the wine.” She smiled sweetly. “I want to ensure I have rested well before we travel to the Rose Citadel on the morrow.”
Gilbert’s shoulders relaxed, and he nodded. As though she needed his permission to leave. She departed without another word and made her way to her own chamber, where she found Matilda waiting. Their eyes met, and Isolde nodded in quiet conveyance that it had been done.
They passed the time together, finalizing their plans in whispered voices—the intent to leave in the middle of the night, taking everything Gilbert had packed for himself. He was just vain enough to remain home if he did not have his newly sewn fine clothes to wear. His armor would be coming with them as well, though it was not part of the plan to prevent him from following them.
Footsteps came from the solar below, frantic with the urgency of one’s bowels about to erupt. Matilda and Isolde smothered their mirth as his bellows of exclamation filled the castle.
Nay, the armor was for Isolde. For if Gilbert refused to defend her honor, she would do it herself.
2
Travel from Scotland to England was a grueling journey spanning long, rain-soaked days that left Cormac in a terrible mood. At least finding the Rose Citadel had been relatively easy with all the ribbons and streamers dancing in the wind from the turrets like maypoles.
The brothers and two trusted clansmen, Duncan and Lachlan, dismounted amid the sea of tents and went about setting theirs among the others. Lucky for them, they’d all had the foresight to wrap their bags in the wax-coated linen tents to prevent everything they brought from being thoroughly soaked. They set up the tents with haste, eager to scour the travel from their skin and hair and wear dry clothes once more.
Duncan and Lachlan went to fetch some water for washing while Cormac and Graham tightened the last of the ropes. They were just finishing when a lanky man with messy brown hair approached. A medium-sized dog trotted at his side, its hair as matted and mud-colored as its owner’s.
“Are you looking for a mercenary?” the man asked.
Cormac pulled the rope taut. “Nay.”
The man rushed to secure the rope before Graham could help. Cormac exchanged a glance with his brother before turning to the mercenary. “We’re no’ going to hire ye.”