Page 11 of The Highlander's Dare
But Graham… there was something so ruggedly striking about him, that when she looked at him, her skin itched to slide over his. Where Baston was golden, Graham was dark, and she found herself drawn to his edginess, his sensuality.
Clara swallowed hard as her belly did a flip. Aye, Graham was dangerous in a different sort of way for her. For all she could think of was kissing him and letting him—Clara shook the thoughts from her head and focused on the two men on the field.
They held practice swords as they fought one another. Parry, duck, swivel, block, parry. They were both incredible fighters.
However ungraceful Baston had been on the dance floor, he made up for it on the field, though he lacked the footwork Graham had or the decisiveness. They moved as if they’d been practicing together for years. Perhaps they had. There seemed to be a lot of pent-up animosity between the two of them the night before.
She watched for a few minutes, her breath holding when it seemed one or the other of them would deal a winning blow. But then they just kept going, slamming the practice swords against one another.
Several others were also on the field practicing, one of whom looked an awful lot like Graham… Clara knew he had a brother, but she’d not realized how very much they looked the same. They had to be twins. Fascinating.
A dog nuzzled her leg, and she bent to pet him, offering a warm hello.
“Who ye betting on?” asked a man that looked eerily similar to the hound.
“I’m a lady. We do not place bets,” she teased.
The man chuckled. “If ye say so.” He whistled to the dog and kept on moving down toward the field.
“Strange man,” Clara mumbled and turned away from the two men who had so swiftly been thrust into her life. She needed to come up with more ways she could get Baston to break off their engagement and wishing that Graham would snap and bludgeon him to death was not one of them.
GRAHAM HADonly half-heartedly agreed to train this morning, waving away Duncan and Lachlan, telling them to attend to their chieftain. It had been his entire intention to sneak away until he’d seen Baston Ross arrogantly walking onto the field. What he wouldn’t do to punch the bastard right in the nose to ruin the face he boasted about and give him a little prick to his pride.
Baston Ross was too conceited for his own good. He was also a huge arsehole. The way he’d treated Clara the evening before had been enough for Graham to want to take him down a notch. But just watching Baston walk arrogantly onto the field, insulting men left and right, filled Graham with a powerful need punish him all the more. Which was why he marched right up to him and grinned broadly.
“Are ye well-rested, Ross?”
Baston sneered at him. “Get out of my way.”
Graham tossed him a practice sword. “How about a little exercise?”
Baston grinned then. Not a pleasant grin, but the smirk of a hungry cat about to pounce. As soon as their swords smashed together, Graham spotted Clara watching in the distance. She was hard to miss, even from afar. No other woman held herself the way she did, with confidence and poise all at once. Her long chestnut hair waved gently in the wind, and the gown she wore accentuated the curves he desperately wanted to push against. He pictured her standing up there, a pert little smile on her lips, and nearly groaned for the need to crush his mouth into hers.
It made him want to smother Baston in a massive pile of pig foul.
As they challenged one another, he had to hand it to Baston. The man had skill. Superior skill to most men, and right on par with Graham, though Baston’s technique was slightly different. When they inevitably faced each other on the battlefield, Graham was going to have to step up his tactics, which made it a good thing that he was practicing with Baston now and figuring out his skills and weaknesses.
Graham focused on his opponent, taking his peripheral vision for just a moment away from Clara, in which time she vanished.
Irritated that he’d missed her leaving, he dealt Baston a heavy blow that sent him sprawling. Well, Graham supposed, he’d found the man’s weakness.
Graham reached out a hand to help Baston up, but the bastard swung at him with the sword, which would have damaged Graham’s hand if he hadn’t snatched it back in time.
“Whoreson,” Graham muttered, kicking Baston’s boot. “I’ll see ye on the field.” He retreated, not willing to turn his back, especially when two of the Ross brothers had come up to watch them fight.
“Ye bloody well can count on it,” Baston growled, and just when Graham was almost out of earshot, the idiot shouted once more, “And stay away from what’s mine.”
Graham knew exactly just whom Baston was referring to, and because of that, he made it his singular purpose to find her, and be caught with her as many times as he could throughout the day, simply to mess with the arsehole. He searched the small crowd of onlookers, not finding her right away. Perhaps she’d gone back to the castle. Or to the market.
Well, he couldn’t look for her covered in sweat—that wasn’t likely to make a good impression—and Graham was very aware of the limited time he had to make her his.
Instead, he made his way to the washing area in the river beyond the camps, picking up a cold ale and hunk of bacon from the tavern along the way. After washing, he went back to his tent to dress for the coming parade, which he also did not want to participate in.
Evidence of his brother having been there was in the form of a pile of sweaty garments discarded on the center of their floor. Graham tossed his own, and then pulled out a fine new tunic and hose, one of several Cormac had insisted he bring and wear. It made sense to do so, even if he found the garments irritating. To be honest, he’d much rather run around naked than wear the stuff.
After yanking everything on with a scowl, Graham exited the tent, falling in line with a sea of knights headed for the parade. The horde of fighting men led into a mass of onlookers and nobles alike, the latter of who tried their best to put distance between those they deemed inferior.
Everyone was dressed to impress, even those in threadbare clothes. Skin was scrubbed of dirt, and the ladies all seemed to be in a competition of whose hood could be done the most intricately, or whose gown had more gems embedded on the extravagant fabrics.
