“What say ye?” she cried out, earning the irritated attention of several of the men watching the sparring.
“Graham demoted Broch from captain this morning, and Broch has protested the demotion. To have it removed, he must prove he is still worthy of the position by defeating Graham in battle.”
“What?” Disbelief nearly choked her. “Why did Graham demote him?”
Cameron shrugged. “I dunnae ken, but Broch seemed to. Apparently something happened between the two of them last night. Perchance Broch was disrespectful. He can be hot-tempered.”
“Nay,” Isobel choked out. “This is nae because of Broch’s temper, I fear. I believe it’s because he danced with me.”
“Ah,” Cameron said with a nod. “That explains much.”
“Cameron, please, ye must stop the fight.”
“Nay,” he replied flatly. “Broch must learn a lesson.”
“And what if yer brother is injured in the teaching?” she persisted, though Cameron had already turned his attention back to the fight, so she knew her pleas fell on deaf ears.
Broch launched a series of blows at Graham that drove him backward, causing the men on the far side to widen the circle. She began to shake as fearful images flashed in her mind. Graham stabbed in the gut, the heart, the neck. She squeezed her eyes shut on a moan, and when she opened them again, Graham was the one attacking.
He moved his sword in a dizzying blur above his head and down, over and over. Broch met each blow with his own sword, but his arms trembled as he held Graham back on the last blow. The men stood locked, face-to-face, their swords overhead, each fighting to rid the other of his weapon. As Broch started to gain ground, Isobel could hardly stand still for fear that Broch would lose control and the man would not pull his sword back at the last moment.
Graham’s arms were taut, and his jaw was clenched with effort. Panic for Graham rioted within her. The beat of her heart drowned out all other noise, and as Broch made a final push with his sword, she was sure Graham’s arms would give and Broch would injure him. Driven by blinding fear, she raced toward Graham and Broch.
“Cease this!” she cried out, catching her foot on the edge of a rock and stumbling forward into Broch’s back. In a blur, he swung toward her, his sword coming down from the arc to meet the enemy behind him. Her heart froze as a scream tore from her lips, but louder than her own scream was the guttural cry that came from Graham.
“Pull back!” he roared.
Graham’s furious command rung in her ears as Broch’s sword whispered by her nose, missed her chin, grazed the material of her gown between her breasts, and then sliced her skirts from her thighs to her feet. Astonishment and stark fear made her immobile, and then a violent shudder ripped through her body and her legs buckled.
The next thing she knew, she was being held up by Graham, and Broch was gaining his feet to get up from the ground. She had no idea how he had gotten there. Graham brought a hand frantically to her face, slid it over her chest, and her stomach, then he bent over while holding her upright, and slid it up one of her exposed legs and down the other.
Taut silence surrounded them, and she became acutely aware of all the eyes upon them and of the long gash in her gown. When Graham stood and his gaze met hers, she gasped at the torture she saw there.
“A Dia.”His raw voice sent another shudder through her. “By Christ, ye were almost killed,” he choked out, the throbbing in his voice increasing but his eyes growing cold with fury.
Isobel immediately tried to step away from Graham to block him from hurting Broch, who was now standing and looking between her and Graham with a horrified expression on his face. “Graham,” Isobel pleaded when he tugged her back and tightened his hold on her arm. “Please. Broch did nae mean to cut my gown.”
“I am nae vexed with Broch,” Graham replied, his voice so frigid she felt as if a wintery blast of wind had hit her. “Ye need nae fash for him. Save that for yerself, Isobel. Ye’ll need it.” With that, Graham released her, and without another word, he strode away, leaving her embarrassed, mortified, and surrounded by his men.
Chapter Sixteen
It was not until Graham reached his bedchamber that he could think beyond anything other than the fear of seeing Isobel almost killed and the anger that she foolishly ran into his battle with Broch. He jerked a hand through his hair as he paced the length of his room. No,theirroom. At least, he had intended to make it their room, to bring her in to sleep by his side, but now…
He glanced at the rumpled bed where his wife had willingly and trustingly given her body to him, and he knew deep in his gut she had taken something from him, too. The wall he had built between himself and feeling things was gone. He felt so much in this moment he thought he might go mad. His temples pounded, as did his heart. Tightness gripped his chest and his throat, and his lungs felt too small, as if they could not hold enough air.
Continuing to pace, he clenched his teeth, struggling for control, fighting against the fear, and battling the tide of longing that was threatening to make him weak. He breathed in and out, slowly and methodically, until his heartbeat calmed, and he could think once more. No longer needing to pace, he sat on the edge of the bed and Isobel’s scent wafted to his nose. He was immediately reminded of how she had felt in his arms last night, and how she had felt not long ago, so fragile and afraid from her near greeting with death. What was she thinking to intercede like that? Worse, though, what hadhebeen thinking to allow his jealousy to fuel him to demote a good commander and then agree to a battle with him?
He growled into the mocking silence of the room. He had not been thinking properly, just as he had spent years not thinking with his head but his emotions when it came to his jealousy of Lachlan. Emotions were ruling him now, despite how fiercely he fought it, and Isobel was the cause.
He pressed his forehead into his palms and breathed deeply. More than anything, he feared losing control and then losing the ability to think logically as he once had. The only way to maintain the control he needed was to erect a barrier between himself and Isobel, and keep it there. His gut twisted at the thought of hurting her, but it had to be this way to protect them both. He had proven to himself today that when he lost control, he once more became the jealous, clot-heid he had been most of his life. He’d not accept that.
The door was thrown open and banged against the wall. Isobel had returned, and he was guessing she was livid. He lifted his head and met her blazing gaze. When she opened her mouth to speak he held up a hand for silence, half expecting her to argue or ignore his command, yet she clamped her jaw shut, plunked her hands on her hips, and began to tap her foot.
The sudden desire to laugh filled him, and he allowed a chuckle to rumble from his chest. He knew in this moment, looking at his wife, who was much smaller than he yet matched him in boldness, that he was in grave danger of caring far more than he had admitted to her or even to himself. She possessed all the things he admired: bravery, honor, and determination.
In his anger down at the shore, he had punished her by leaving her behind, knowing it would humiliate her, and he could see by the trembling of her lips and the splotches of red on her cheeks that his arrow had struck the mark. He had never been more ashamed of himself in his life.
He sighed and motioned to her. “Come sit, so that we may talk.”
