Page 39 of The Highlander's Dare
More than once, she started to stand to leave, and more than once, she forced herself to sit back down. To watch to the end, to pray for Graham and his brother.
To pray for a Sutherland victory.
THE MELEE FIELDhad dwindled as the battle continued for what felt like hours. Graham heaved a breath, taking just a split second to recover before he was going to be attacked again. The Ross clan was relentless, but so were the Sutherlands.
A vision of Clara sang through Graham’s heart, and a burst of renewed energy filled him. He searched the lord’s platform, feeling as though he could make out her form, though it was hard to tell. A blue scarf waved from her hand, and he knew that she was watching. His heart leapt in his chest.
This was for her. For them both, so they might live life together. For his clan, his people. For his brother.
Bellowing his rage with newfound vigor, Graham beat back the Ross warriors, slamming one to the ground after another, not allowing them to overcome him as they swarmed. Duncan and Lachlan joined him, Cormac and Lord Easton no longer in sight. As he fought, catching pockets of the ground in his sight, Graham searched for his brother.
“Cormac!” he bellowed between blows.
“Gone to fetch Lord Easton,” Duncan said.
“He’ll be fine,” Lachlan agreed.
The three of them fought off the remaining Rosses, one notably gone—Brodie Ross.
“Where is your brother?” Graham growled at Baston as they parried.
“Where is yours?”
That was an answer enough.
Sweat dripped from Graham’s forehead and temple, beneath his armor, his gambeson, soaking through from exertion. They’d taken several of the Ross knights out of the game, but still, the others rallied.
A familiar figure appeared at his side, war hammer in hand—Alan. “Cormac and his bride head for Sutherland.”
Graham grinned. Those were the words he’d been waiting to hear. His brother was alive, had beaten Brodie, and was taking his prize back to Scotland. They’d won. This fight was over. Even if Graham laid down his weapon and allowed the bastard enemies to crush him right then and there, the Sutherlands would still reign victorious.
But he wasn’t going to let that happen. Because he had made a promise to Clara that he would come out of this alive. A little bruised, but alive. Graham had never given up on a promise. He was a man of his word.
And with that, he hollered a battle cry, echoed by his men, that seemed only to confuse the Ross warriors.
Graham swung his mace harder and harder, beating Baston back until the man showed signs of weariness, and despite trying to retaliate, dropped to his knees.
“Ye’ll kill me now?” Baston asked, hatred in his words as he glared up at Graham, who stood over him, mace poised to issue a crushing blow.
Graham scowled. “This is a melee, ye fucking bastard, not a battle. And I fight for Clara, for my people. She is mine, and ye will no longer hurt any of us.” And with that, Graham slammed the butt of his mace into the idiot’s head and watched him slump over. Injured, but not dead.
Let him live the rest of his days knowing he’d failed, that Graham had taken from him what he sought. Let him have a taste of defeat. Behind him, Duncan, Lachlan and Alan had seen to the rest of the Ross men, all lying and clutching wounds. All around them, bodies were strewn on the ground. Injured men groaned in pain, while some still fought. But Graham didn’t care who won, who was left standing, and who had to be dragged to the healer’s tents. He’d done what he came to do, and kicked Baston Ross’s arse.
Eyes on the stands, he shouted, “It is done!” not knowing if Clara would hear him.
“Let’s go,” he ordered his men, marching off the field, both exhausted and full of new aches, but the surge of victory propelling him forward.
At his tent, they stripped from their armor, splashed water on their faces. Cormac’s things were gone, and soon Graham’s would be as well. Preparing to dress so he could go in search of Clara, he’d only just pulled on his hose when the men around him grew silent
Graham turned to see Clara standing at the opening of the tent, and his men slipping outside. His heart lurched. She was a sight to behold, beautiful, ethereal. Pinkened cheeks, a smile mirroring his own relief and happiness, a beautiful rose-colored gown hugging her curves. His Clara was the balm he needed to soothe his wounded soul.
“Congratulations,” she said with a smile on her lips.
Graham approached her, needing to feel her against him, to tell her he loved her. “I did it for ye,” he said, sliding his hands around her waist and tugging her close.
“I’ve never had anyone fight for me.” Her arms came up around his shoulders, fingers threading into his wet hair.
Graham’s forehead fell to hers, and he drew in a deep breath, taking in her scent. “I would fight for ye over and over again.”
