Chapter 39 #2
Gaspar could not afford to pace himself.
His best chance to draw Ross’ blood would be to do so while his strength was fresh.
So he attacked again. But the big man met his tempo with ease, never feinting, never retreating.
And Gaspar realized with a certain amount of dread that the man was toying with him as a cat toyed with a mouse until it was bored.
The least he could do was to keep the man entertained.
He waited for the right opportunity and tossed his blade into his left hand, then attempted a falso filo, slipping his blade beneath Ross’s and flicking the tip of the blade to cut the man’s hand.
For the first time, Ross stepped backward and corrected the angle of his sword, pointing it at Gaspar’s neck so, if he attempted the same again, he’d impale his neck on the tip of Ross’ blade.
They both broke the line and breathed deeply while they circled each other, taking half-hearted thrusts every few steps.
Ross watched for Gaspar to reverse hands again, so he might take advantage.
But he was soon to learn that the dragon was skilled with his left hand as well, and he attacked with force to test the strength of that arm.
“I have lived twelve years in Venice, my lord. We row a great many boats with heavy oars. I believe you will find me equal to the task.” He wasn’t going to divulge the fact that his servant rowed most of the time.
“Ye must have pitifully small boats, aye? Because ye seem to be flaggin’. Would ye like me to step back and give ye the chance to change hands? Seems yer right arm was a wee bit stronger.”
Gaspar laughed and shook his head. Then he dropped his smile to concentrate on defending a forceful attack.
He was honestly surprised his blade hadn’t shattered, so powerful were Ross’s blows.
And Gaspar’s arms felt as if he’d already rowed out to his island, and that he may not have the fortitude to row back.
The other man’s jaw clenched and he lunged forward, his blade aiming low toward Gaspar’s legs. He parried and jumped just beyond the Ross’ reach, but he doubted he could react so quickly a second time.
Without daggers, he felt safe to move close and stepped forward, his blade sliding against Ross’ blade until their crosses caught. He spoke in a low voice so the others would not hear him.
“Laird Ross, we both know how this will end, but I would beg a favor, before the coup de grace.”
For the first time since they began, the man frowned. “Aye?”
They separated with a hard push, then Ross attacked again. Gaspar deflected a blow and the swords slid together again.
Ross growled. “Speak.”
“Vow to me you will not allow Isobelle to follow me back. She will never be safe there.”
The man nodded once. “Aye. With or without a vow, I would never have allowed it.”
“I thank you just the same.”
They parted again and Gaspar fought against the pain of his breaking heart by attacking with all his might.
As he was pulling away, he twirled the end of his blade, attempting to cut the man again.
All he needed was to mark him! But Ross’ size did nothing to slow him.
His arms and feet moved as deftly as a thin lad being chased by chickens.
Four times he thought his blade would connect with flesh. Four times, he’d been wrong.
He growled in frustration. There was nothing for it. He was about to lose Isobelle. A dozen blows more. He could defend a dozen blows more, that was all.
Was this God’s punishment? Was he truly unworthy of her?
He shook his head. No. That could not be.
He might well be the only man who could love her as she deserved to be loved.
He understood her like no other man could.
What other man would understand the heart that beat inside Isobelle Ross—the woman who would sacrifice all for the sake of love alone, even if it was simply the love between two strangers?
No. He would not leave her. To love Isobelle was to stay at her side, no matter what the cost.
Gaspar had no choice but to use the weapon Lady Ross had placed in his hands. He thought himself above trickery, but he would sacrifice even his honor if he must. He couldn’t leave Isobelle. He couldn’t take her with him. So he simply would not go.
Gaspar found the strength to attack again—three blows, clang clang clang, then retreat, leaving Monty room to recover.
“Tell me, Laird Ross. Does yer wife have a brother?”
Ross delivered two powerful blows. Clang, clang. The second, Gaspar deflected.
“Nay,” the man growled. “Why do ye ask?”
Three more. Clang. Clang. Clang! Gaspar nearly dropped his weapon. He took a few deeps breaths, then was able to speak again.
“I wondered, if she’d had a brother…”
Two more blows. Clang, clang. He could defend two more, surely.
Ross frowned and lunged. Gaspar deflected and spun, but his foot caught and he fell to one knee. Clang.
One more. He had to stand and face just one more. But he couldn’t. He was barely able to raise his sword to point it at Ross. The big man slapped the blade away with his own.
Clang.
Gaspar could lift it no more.
“I wondered,” he panted, “what you might have told such a brother, once he learned you’d been holding Jillian prisoner in your castle?”
Monty’s sword hovered in the air, drawn halfway back to his shoulder.
His frown made Gaspar wonder if, in his current state of fatigue, he might have slipped into the Italian language.
He watched the long-sword, waiting for it to change direction and come for his head.
But the tip of it drooped to the ground and Ross straightened.
Then he sent a frown in Lady Ross’ direction, and Gaspar recognized the opening for what it was.
Hope alone lifted his own sword and he made a molinetto, a small circular cut, on Ross’s forearm. In reaction, the man’s sword jerked up and caught Gaspar on the chin. He stepped back quickly and offered a small bow of apology even while he was seething.
A small red spot bloomed on the big man’s flesh and he frowned at it for a moment before looking severely at his wife again.
Isobelle shrieked and jumped in the air with Morna and Juliet.
Lady Ross stood stark still and stared at her husband.
Eventually, she ducked through the center of the fence and started toward him, walking slowly, her strange green boots only slightly less disturbing than the fact she wore breeches.
Her fingers were tucked into strange little pockets that did not show, and her look of remorse would sway any judge.
Gaspar clamored to his feet and faced the man quickly, before the woman was close enough to speak.
“Blame me, Laird Ross. I begged your wife to give me some way to distract you. I would not relent until she gave up the tale. My actions were shameful. I withdraw the victory. Just do not punish the woman, I beseech you.”
“It’s a lie, Montgomery. Don’t listen to him.”
Surely it was dangerous to step so close to her angry husband, so Gaspar tried to pull her back and behind him.
The man growled. “If I will not allow ye to put yer hands on my sister, what makes ye believe I’d allow ye to touch my wife?” His voice had grown louder with each word.
Gaspar put his offending hand in the air and stepped to the side. Their audience laughed, but Gaspar could not see the reason.
“Did you hear him?” Ross asked his wife as he reached out and pulled her to him again, her rounded belly notwithstanding. “He was defending ye. And to me. Have ye ever heard such nonsense?”
The woman’s hands worked their way up the man’s arms and behind his neck, though he had to bend far forward to allow it.
“I did offer him a little advantage, husband.”
Monty smiled. Smiled! “Aye, because he was sorely disadvantaged.”
“As are we all,” she whispered. “As we should be, yer lairdship.”
It might have been Jillian’s exaggerated brogue, or the fact that she’d called him laird, but the big man lowered his mouth to his wife’s in spite of an attentive audience.
Since Gaspar was forgotten, he turned to take advantage, and had just enough time to open his arms before Isobelle flew into them.
“Gaspar, my love! Ye’ve beaten him!”
He held her tight a long moment, remembering all those days and nights when they’d had a cold metal wall between them. He reveled in the feel of her while he could, before he had to dash her hopes again.
“No, Isobelle,” he whispered. “Your brother has beaten me.”
She looked up and her lips parted when she noticed his chin. She shook her head frantically, pressed her head to his chest, and wrapped her arms securely around him.
“What is this?” Montgomery barked. “I’ll not take a victory that isna mine. Yer dragon looks a bit long in the tooth, Sister, but ye can keep him if ye still want him. He tried to defend my guilty wife. He’s a saint for all we ken.”
Gaspar remembered what Isobelle had told him in the beginning about the men she knew who treated their women well. Isobelle claimed Monty was not one of them, but she’d been wrong.
He bent to kiss Isobelle again, this time in the dizzying knowledge that they could truly be together.
There were no secrets left to bare, no other’s approval to seek.
Nothing to separate them—most especially 500 years.
Isobelle seemed to be celebrating the same as she met his passion with equal fervor.
In the distance, he heard the clearing of a throat or two and dredged up the will to at least pause for a breath.
He opened his eyes and was a little too pleased to find Isobelle was having a more difficult time opening hers. He also found that Lady Ross had been set aside and her husband was moving toward him. Gaspar had scarcely released his hold on Isobelle before he fell onto his backside. Again.
“Saint or no,” the man bellowed, “the next time ye kiss my sister will be after ye’re wed and not before.”
Gaspar got to his feet and fisted his hands, then leaned close to his would-be brother. “How far is the church? For I will be kissing her again, and soon.” He held a hand out to Isobelle and pulled her close again, ignoring her snorting brother. “Will you have me to husband, Isobella—Isobelle?”
She nodded and rose onto her toes to whisper close to his ear, sending delicious chills up his back. “Perhaps when we’re alone in the night, ye can call me Isobella.”
He thought that sounded like an exceptional idea and wished to reward such inspiration with a kiss, but he remembered the brother before he laid his lips on his beloveds once more.
He looked at Ross and asked permission with a raised brow.
The man rolled his eyes and nodded, and while Gaspar kissed his Isobelle, he realized the laird of the clan, the mighty Montgomery Ross, was all bluster when it came to matters of the heart.