Page 16 of The Highlander's Dare
“’Tis the tip of my first training sword as a wee lad.”
Ah! Thank goodness, he was not a complete imbecile. “How did you manage to break off the tip?” Clara asked.
“’Twas fate, my dear.” He winked at her, and it was obvious he was trying his hand at flirting, but she was so disgusted by him already that it was hard not to gag at the thought of flirting back. And also, that wasn’t an answer to her question.
But rather than point that out, she had to remember her mission. A simpering idiot would believe indeed that fate had broken off the tip of his sword. “Oh my, that is so incredible,” she gushed, followed by an admiring sigh. “Can I touch it?”
“Of course. Ye’re my betrothed. I’ll let ye touch the tip of my sword any time ye wish.” The tone of his voice had changed drastically, and she supposed it was meant to be… lusty.
A few snickers went up from those at the table whose minds had gone to the chamber pot, but she pretended not to notice at all, and pinched the wood between her fingers, lifting it from his palm.
“Careful now, my lady, ’tis quite old.”
“How old is it?” Goodness, what was wrong with him? Perhaps he had been bashed on the head too many times.
“As old as myself. My father had the sword fashioned and presented on the night of my birth.”
Of course, the old Ross chieftain had been so certain that his wife would have a male heir first. Clara resisted the urge to roll her eyes. It would appear that the Ross clan arrogance did not fall far from the tree.
“’Tis extraordinary,” Clara whispered.
“Aye.”
She stared up at him wide-eyed. “Tell us of the most incredible victory you’ve had with this piece by your side.”
Baston resumed his propped position on the stool, ready to do his favorite thing—talk about himself. “It was me against eighteen other men.”
“Eighteen?” she gasped, clutching the wooden piece in her fist and pressing it to her heart. “Oh, how did you ever survive?”
“That piece ye hold so closely to your breast—I mean heart,” he blustered. “My dear, heart, that is how.”
He continued his story full of falsehoods and exaggerations, and with every word spoken, the crowd grew almost as enamored with Baston as he was with himself. Everyone except for her. She wasn’t buying one single word of his story. What she was doing, however, was tucking the piece of wood into her bodice and pretending it was still clutched in her hand.
No one appeared to be the wiser for it at all.
When he finished his story, he held out his hand. “My tip, please.”
Clara played silly and shook her head. “Oh, I haven’t any coin. But it was a marvelous story, and I am so very impressed with you, as I’m certain the rest of you are as well.” She nodded at those around the table, who nodded back, though they looked slightly confused as to what they were referring to.
She’d been waiting for a moment to jump up in mock surprise, but none had yet presented itself. How was she going to play it off as if she’d dropped the piece onto the floor if she wasn’t surprised enough to do it? Taking his token was part of her plan to throw him off his game, and to make him angry with her. Mess with his head, that was what Graham had said, and what better way to mess with a warrior’s head than to steal away his luck.
Baston had been buying quite a bit of what she was selling, but even she wasn’t talented enough to suddenly be fearful of nothing and pretend to drop his prize into the rushes strewn about the great hall floor.
“Thank ye, lass, for enjoying the true story of my greatest victory. ’Twas an honor to share it with such a captive audience. Now if ye will, please hand me back the tip of my—”
The great hall door banged open then, and the mangy mutt she’d seen with the man near the list field bounded across the floor with his master chasing after him. Though a little belatedly, Clara let out a scared, “Ohhh!” and threw her hands up in the air, tossing herself backward enough just to make it look like she’d fall off the bench, but not completely.
“Get that mutt out of here,” Baston demanded. He came around the table to help her sit upright, his gaze riveted on her empty hands. “Where is it?”
“Where is what? The hound? He’s right there.” Clara pointed to the dog who was being easily escorted from the great hall by his master. She clutched at his shirt, feigning fear, and hoping to make him even more irritated by pretending not to know what he was talking about.
It worked.
“Nay, ye daft—” Baston caught himself before fully insulting her in front of so many people he wanted to continue admiring him and plastered a forced smile onto his face. “Where is my token?”
Clara stared down at her hands, feigning shock and surprise. “Oh, no!” She leapt from the stool, dropped to her knees and started shoving at the rushes, scattering them, and putting them back into a pile before scattering again.
“I just had it! It was in my hands, and then the dog, and then I nearly fell and broke my neck.” Two people could exaggerate stories, couldn’t they? Everyone would believe they were perfect for each other. Mayhap, in that case, she should tone it down. “Where is it? Whereisit?”
