The lonely kiss

Without giving her time to process what 'making his claim' exactly meant, Tristan strode to the tavern's open court and settled at the knight's table. Isolde' eyes barely had time to take in the layout and the different mops of curls – or shaved heads – of the knights before he swept her legs and pulled her into his lap. Whistles erupted from the other side of the table – his brothers in arms, probably. Shocked by the expense of body that now touched hers, Isolde gulped and buried her face in the crook of his neck, cheeks flaming red.

The respectable lady in her – raised with manners and a strong sense of dignity – was bleeding on the floor, eyes wide with shame, while her inner self couldn't help but feel the warmth, the strength seeping from his tall frame. And his scent, a mix between olive soap and something more masculine, lurking behind the scented oils of the bathhouse, surrounded her, asking for surrender.

And surrender she did.

The choke hold slightly loosened as she breathed out, realising the intelligence of the scout's action. Her outrage abated somehow; if Tristan had warned her, she would have recoiled. She might have sat by his side, all noble and Roman looking – thank God her mother was an Irish lady – and not one of this rowdy crowd would have bought the act.

If they wanted this scheme to succeed, she couldn't afford to act coy but damn … she wasn't a tavern wench and it took all her will power, and the assault to her senses, to tame the reflex to push the scout away and run. It went against everything she had been raised… But when she managed to calm her racing heart, Isolde realised that the contact wasn't as uncomfortable as she thought.

The memory of his smelly coat surrounding them, on the road, was still fresh; it wasn't the first time she and the scout shared such close quarters. His body against her side wasn't unfamiliar; it was reassuring. Like a sturdy rock, supporting her.

Many words were exchanged around the table, some Latin, some Briton, and some in a language she didn't understand. Sarmatian, maybe? Another one she would learn if she wanted to blend in at the fort.

Tristan didn't participate, his body slightly moving as he lifted an arm to signal a tavern wench for food. She was grateful for the time he gave her to come to terms with this … ploy. When at last, Isolde found the courage to lift her face, the scout stilled. His whole body tensed, muscles flexing against hers, his clean shirt opening slightly to reveal dark curls upon his chest. His hand came to rest upon her upper back, seeping warmth and reassurance. And when he spoke, his deep voice caused his brothers to settle, their voices dying.

— "My little lady is shy. Mind your tongue"

There, the claim was made, and met with unearthly silence. Then the knights started talking all at once, some lifting their mugs in her direction, others eyeing her suspiciously. Tristan's hold tightened around her, his hands careful not to grope any uncomfortable part – that man had honour, at least! His contact brought solace, just like he had after saving her from … rape.

Repressing a shudder, Isolde eventually started to study the other knights sitting at the table. They were only four of them, not a thousand like the noise suggested. A bald man, barrel chested with a very loud mouth, a young one with wild dark curls, a tawny-haired knight with hair longer than hers and a kind face seated on their right. The last one shared common traits with some Romans she'd met, except that he sported a dark goatee and dark curls, his eyes twinkling with mischief.

— "Lancelot."

Tristan's whisper caressed her ear, startling her. How did the scout know her eyes were set on the dark knight in front of them? Did anything escape him at all? Angling her head, she searched the scout's eyes for further explanation. The intensity of his smouldering gaze caused her breath to hitch; she had forgotten his face would be so close to hers.

Never before had she sat on another man's lap … not even her father as a child such was her loathing of the man. But here it seemed that tavern wenches took turns trying men's laps. Whores or girlfriends with little manners? Was she supposed to impersonate such a girl?

From there, she could distinguish the streaks of gold into Tristan's light brown gaze. Flustered, she couldn't detach her attention from him, her breath fanning upon his face. The scout's eyes slightly tightened in the corner, as if he was inwardly laughing, before his calloussed fingers brushed a stray strand of her hair aside.

The gesture was tender, his hand so warm that she closed her eyes in rapture. Slowly, he followed the reddish curl with his fingers, brushing her back from shoulder to waist before his hand settled at her hip. Isolde barely refrained a moan, slowly melting against the knight whose contact caused her skin to tingle.

Damn, the man certainly knew how to put on a show!

— "Be wary, he's a womaniser."

His voice caressed her senses, sending her in another world altogether until his hand retreated, leaving a trail of fire in its wake. Isolde opened her eyes.

— "Uh?"

— "Lancelot"

Realisation dawned. Right, the dark knight across the table was Lancelot, and Tristan was warning her to stay away – as if she would greet a knight of her own volition ! Isolde almost wished he wouldn't be so very distracting while doing so but the scout was doing a very good job at convincing people. Fortunately, a red-haired woman, also known as Vanora, settled two bowls of stew and mugs of ale in front of them. Her quiet thanks earned her a very curious look before the woman was whisked away in the busy tavern.

— "Vanora, she is Bors' lover."

— "And the mother of his ten children," added the blond knight with long tawny hair. "I'm Gawain, it is nice to meet a woman crazy enough to accept our scout,"

Isolde smiled, nodding to the gentle-looking knight without a word. What could she possibly answer to that? If even Tristan's brothers demeaned him … well, she felt bad for the man who had saved her life, and went out of his way to ensure her safety now. Ignoring Gawain's comment, Tristan dislodged her from his lap rather abruptly so that they could partake in their meal.

Was he angry? Or just naturally brusque? The change caught her off guard, as well as the sudden loss of contact. Not a word was exchanged between them as they ate, Isolde' ears picking jokes and theories about their meeting. Tristan seemed impervious to teasing; yet she could see the whitening of his knuckles on the wooden spoon once in a while. Ill at ease, she ate the clear stew without much gusto, awaiting for the moment when she could retreat back to her tiny cot in the seamstress's shop.

The arrival of two other knights, a cheerful redhead and a giant whose piercing eyes sent Isolde' eyes back into her stew, changed the mood anew. The giant rumbling voice echoed across the table as he introduced himself, his companion settling beside Galahad.

— "I am Dagonet, and this is Percival. I am pleased to meet Tristan's lady."

The title sent warmth to her chest and red to her cheeks; there was something noble in the idea to be a knight's lady. And albeit Dagonet's manners were gentle, his clear blue eyes settled on the scout with a loaded look. Had he seen through the scheme? Perhaps they should have awaited for the knights to be more inebriated; Galahad – the curly youngster – seemed much into his cups already. But not the giant.

Dagonet didn't keep conversation flowing either, settling on Isolde' other side and ordering his own dinner. With such a frame, Isolde wondered how much ale, or wine would be needed to get this knight drunk. Did Tristan ever get drunk? He didn't seem like a man who would enjoy losing control, but you never knew. Appearance could be deceptive… The first time she'd seen her father inebriated, she had not recognised him at all. Those horrid memories … she hoped they would fade with time.

Isolde observed the scout by her side, silently eating as she fended off questions about their meeting, or their courting. She tried to dodge them but Lancelot, in particular was relentless in his harassment, arguing that a pretty little thing like her would be much better suited to adorn his knees than the gruff scout's.

Isolde reined her tongue, using her quiet manners and shyness as an excuse, leaving the talking to Tristan who provided just the right amount of information to render it plausible. They had met in the forest near her village, she was now the seamstress's apprentice whuch caused them to renew their acquaintance.

Period.

But Lancelot didn't relent, and thus caused Isolde' ire to rise. Men like him, thinking women only existed to embellish their life, made her itch for a knife. Perhaps a well-aimed knee to the balls could fend him off…

— "I thank you for your compliments, kind sir, but I am not interested in any other man than the one I have," she eventually told him icily.

A laugh greeted her words, Galahad's drunken state causing him to find amusement in her irritated retort. But not Tristan. Perhaps her wording was too refined, the sentence too convoluted for the tavern. Had she stupidly sold herself? Was he angry that she had called him 'her man '?

The loud bang of a cup hitting the table startled the knights and many tables around them, all merriment dying instantly. Tristan stood, his fist tightly woven around his mug. His glare, directed at Lancelot, sent shivers down Isolde' spine. Had she been his spouse, the young woman might have tried to soothe the scout and smooth the other knight's feathers. As it was, she was rather unsure of how far her part was supposed to go. How would the untamable scout react to her interference? Better not to try in case he became violent.

— "When our service is over, we are to be married. I don't want to hear another word about it, understood?"

Air left Isolde's lungs with a whoosh. For a ploy, it felt very, very real.

Galahad nodded vehemently, his eyes closing as the world probably started spinning around him. Gawain's clear 'Aye' was seconded by Bors, and Dagonet remained silent. The waves of anger that oozed out of the scout's still form were frightening. The staring contest between Tristan and Lancelot went on for a moment more until the dark knight relented.

— "Fine, fine! I was only jesting."

The scout released the mug on the table and whirled around, grasping Isolde's neck so swiftly that a squeak escaped her. His fingers curled at her nape, pulling her upright with a controlled move. There was no warning whatsoever before his full lips captured hers in an intense and angry kiss. All sense left her as her knees weakened, her hands grasping his leather vest tightly. His hot breath, laden with ale, barely concealed the taste of him – a delight! – as his tongue brushed her lips away, ravishing her mouth the moment she granted entrance.

Stunned, Isolde could barely respond to his ministrations; her toes curled, her muscles tensed, a million sensations shooting through her veins. How could such a crude contact be so confusing? He invaded her entirely, his sensual lips massaging hers, tongue swirling, caressing, coaxing… A whimper escaped her as her fingers tightened in a vice grip over his shirt; a desperate attempt to ground her essence. Her mind barely registered that his large hands held her so close, that her whole body was flush against him… wanting more closeness. Begging.

Then, before she could even react, the kiss ended, leaving her as bereft as a sinking ship at sea. Breath short, eyes wide, she let him lead her out of the tavern in a haze. Behind them, whoops and whistles had invaded the place, but Tristan's quiet voice covered them easily.

— "The Romans have noted, as have the Britons. Go home now, little lady"

Isolde bit her lip, finding it swollen and strangely … lonely. Her feelings were all over the place, the reality of her situation crashing down upon her. Fleeing, being beaten and almost raped, rescued and kissed senseless by a man whose reputation made shopkeeper trembling in their boots.

Being left alone now of all time, flustered in this unknown place with no idea about the future was a mighty blow to her countenance. Her wide emerald eyes begged him for his protection and Tristan gave her a levelled stare, searching her face. Then he sighed, relenting. This was the man whom people talked about, spreading tales of massacres and sadism?

As he offered his arm to take her home, the giant knight suddenly appeared by their side.

— "What happened?" he asked, clear blue eyes watching them both.

Tristan cocked his head aside like a little animal considering his options before answering.

— "She needs protection," he simply said.

And Dagonet nodded as they departed, the young woman clinging to his brother's arm so tightly that he feared for the scout's appendage. This little conversation meant everything or nothing at all, but Dagonet caught the meaning well enough. This is how Isolde learnt that he was the only other knight the scout trusted.

Days passed, months even. Since Tristan never responded to the teasing, his brothers eventually got bored and stopped asking questions about his lady. Its novelty wore off, and even Lancelot, who never got a rise of Isolde, decided that teasing Bors and Vanora was much nicer.

The scout still came to the seamstress every few weeks, inviting her to partake lunch, or breakfast at the tavern's table to keep up the pretence. Sometimes, they talked at the market at the apple's stall. By then, Isolde had got used to sitting in the knight's lap. Despite her earlier misgivings that she was not THAT kind of woman – a tavern wench – she had come to accept and enjoy the contact of Tristan's body against hers. Somehow, it felt a little unfair that everybody thought they slept together when, in fact, this was the boldest move they had ever shared.

And sadly, he never felt the need to kiss her again.