Page 10 of The Highlander's Dare
Cormac set down his ale and took a deep breath as if he were about to act upon some massive feat of strength. He cracked his neck, his knuckles, and then with a quick turn of his head toward Graham, flashed a blinding smile that brought out the full force of the dent in his cheek.
“Ah-ha! Aye, ye’ve done it!” Graham leapt up from where he’d been seated with his arms in the air, and his ale went flying out of his cup, managing to splash them both in the face.
“Ye’re an idiot,” Cormac said, though he was grinning all the same.
“Maybe so, but I promise, if ye smile at her as ye’ve done now, she’ll melt like butter in your hands.”
“Do I want her to melt like butter?”
“Och, brother, ye know ye do. Dinna pretend to be a virgin. Ye’ve had a woman before.”
Cormac suddenly looked serious. “Never a woman like Lady Isolde.”
They were twins in body, and twins in mind, for hadn’t Graham just been worried about this very same thing? Never had he had a woman like Lady Clara, either.
4
The sun had not woken by the time Clara did. She stared out the arrow-slitted window in her chamber at Rose Citadel. In the bailey below, she could just barely make out what looked to be a bunch of lumps on the ground. Bodies lying alone, bodies lying together. Bodies that had imbibed in entirely too much wine and ale and fallen into sleep where they sat or stood.
She shook her head. Tournaments were dangerous for more reasons than weapons—even if they were blunted—for the men could not be in the best shape after a night of drinking. And it didn’t take much for a seasoned, strong warrior to beat his opponent to death with a blunted weapon.
After dancing with Baston, she’d claimed tiredness and retired early to her chamber, realizing too late that she’d not made any more plans with Sir Graham in regard to breaking her betrothal. Perhaps that was all well and good if Baston was going to try to fight him to the death.
Having Sir Graham ask her to dance, even if it meant nothing and had just been part of his plan to aid her in her escape, had been a genius move. One twirl and his hand at her hip and their fingers entwined, and Baston had been on them both as a fly to honey. Poor simpleton. But it wasn’t worth Sir Graham’s death.
Still, she would call the night’s actions a victory, one step in a race to get rid of the Hog.
There was jealousy in Baston’s actions, but not because he wanted her for who she was, or because he loved her. That notion was laughable. Nay, he’d been treating her as if she were his property. His to drag home and toss into his treasury—for that’s what she was to him, the massive dowry that came with saying “I do.” If he were smarter, she might have taken his words about the stairs and tumbling as a threat, but quite honestly, she believed he was not going to be a harm to her person, but rather her soul.
And good Lord, maybe his clumsiness would be an added bonus. How had he gotten as far as he had when he could barely handle a small thing such as dancing?
Clara let out a small snort of disgust. Now Graham, his dancing, though interrupted, had not been as expected. She would have thought him sturdy, aye, but graceful? Nay. A man his size, a man so masculine, so muscular… how had he been able to move his body so agilely?
Oh, stop thinking like that!
Her mind was taking a turn down a path that was best left untouched. She didn’t want to marry anyone and would much rather return to Normandy. And Graham Sutherland had made it very clear he didn’t want to marry her, but instead wanted to torture Baston Ross, and that was fine with her.
Wasn’t it?
Aye, because she wanted to torture Baston Ross too.
Clara went to the mantle, striking the flint box and lighting a candle.
Her maid roused on the pallet that she’d slept on the night before at the foot of Clara’s bed. She’d told the woman she was perfectly fine sleeping on her own, but given she didn’t have a chaperone with her, the maid had insisted, as had Lord Yves.
“No need to rise just yet,” Clara whispered. “I can get myself ready.”
The maid started to protest but laid back down when Clara insisted. Clara took the candle behind the screen, washed and dressed, and then made her way downstairs to the great hall just as the sun was rising. She hoped to have breakfast before the men woke. Lucky for her, the great hall was mostly empty, and she was able to do just that. After finishing up a warm bowl of buttery porridge, she decided to get some fresh air and a short walk before she was forced to sit and watch hours of fighting.
Watching men bash each other in was definitely not going to be the highlight of her day, and certainly not her week. She found the tourney games to be ridiculous, a show of masculine bravado that was best left for true battles. It was also a chance for those not fighting, and sometimes those who were, to get drunk every night, and for everyone to act surprised when one knight was found in bed with a most unexpected lady. Clara rolled her eyes at that. Every tourney was always the same. And yet every time, people acted surprised.
She let out an audible sigh and then removed herself from the table.
Clara snuck outside the castle, stepping over still-prone bodies and ignoring others who were rising, and also avoiding the tents where she was sure to be inundated by knights. The possibility of coming across Baston was high. It was entirely too early in the morning to deal with him.
Mayhap it would be good to see where exactly she’d be sitting during the day. So, she wondered down toward the list fields. But that was apparently a mistake, for on the field were the two men she’d thought about all morning.
Baston Ross, looking big and dumb and deadly. Graham Sutherland, exuding strength, cunning and that same agility she’d been surprised at on the dance floor. Both of the men were handsome; she would give Baston that. He had a face chiseled from stone, reminiscent of the Greek gods, Zeus perhaps.
