Page 20 of The Highlander's Dare
The words themselves were only mildly insulting, but it had been enough to make him mortified and angry all at once. She’d expected him to slap her. To toss her over his shoulder and find the closest dungeon. But instead, he’d stood and glowered down at her, growling that he was twice the man of any she’d ever met and that when they were wed, she’d know for certain just how much of a man he was.
The man was a fool with a loudmouth.
So, nay, the idea of breaking her fast with him possibly present, or anyone else who might have witnessed any of his antics, had not appealed. The idea of sitting with the nobles to watch the joust also did not appeal.
But she would have to make the most of it. She had no other choice but to feign illness, which would only likely draw Baston to her chamber door, and she wanted him well away from her.
Her morning ablutions complete, Clara left her chamber and went in search of the other ladies who would be attending the joust. Lady Annora greeted her and they made their way together to the list fields, accompanied by several of Lord Yves’s guards who carried long swaths of fabric tented over them to shield them from the rain.
Clara was too nervous to speak with any of the ladies as they walked, beyond murmuring a few ayes and nays and inserting a couple of carefully placed laughs. Hidden up her sleeve was a blue silk scarf that she’d embroidered her initials on. A favor for a worthy knight. This was the next move in her list of ways to drive Baston away.
So far, nothing was working, and every step she’d taken only seemed to pull him in closer. Or make him more determined to keep her if last’s night's antics were any indication.
She was not senseless enough to believe he wanted this betrothal because he liked her or loved her, however. The dowry alone would make any man rich as sin, and that was what Baston was after: coin.
Riches were an inevitable draw for any man she might marry, and if that were going to be the case, she wanted to at least have a part in picking him. If only her mother hadn’t been a part of the scheming. With her father being sick, her mother would have been her only ally. How sad that her mother had not wanted to help her. Oh, how Clara wished she could have stayed home! Could have avoided this entire situation. She missed her father, and this was just another reason she was eager to return to Normandy. Clara had barely had a chance to say goodbye, and soon it might be too late.
Tears sprung to her eyes. A daughter’s duty was to wed whom she was told, but Clara was weary of all that nonsense. She wanted to go homenow.
The trumpets blared, shocking her from her emotional moment. It drew her attention to the list field where the knights were parading down the line in their livery, their lances held high and their horses prancing proudly, despite the rain. Their surcoats were soaked, and mud was starting to churn in the fields. Why did they have to go on? Why not postpone? This kind of weather made a joust more dangerous.
Thunder cracked overhead as if to bolster her thoughts, but it seemed not to deter any of the knights, and Lord Yves started the competition as if nothing were amiss.
It wasn’t hard to spot Baston. His surcoat was red with yellow stars, and the helmet he wore had been fashioned to look like a lion’s head with water dripping off the sharpened teeth. Several horses back, she caught sight of Graham. He also wore a red surcoat, but his was dotted with white. Were those lion paws? His helmet was not as elaborate as Baston’s, and she found that to be endearing. Graham didn’t need to impress everyone with his garments and headgear. The strength that exuded from him, the way he sat his horse with such confidence, was enough to draw the eye, more so than any flashy helmet.
Baston Ross was all about having eyes on him, whereas Graham was perfectly happy just being himself, which had on many occasions in the past few days proven to be far superior.
The line of knights circled the list fields and then came toward the lord’s platform, pausing in lines to face Lord Yves, who began a long-winded speech that Clara had no interest whatsoever in listening to. Instead, she watched the knights. Baston wasn’t even looking at her but had his eyes concentrated on Lord Yves as if willing the man to call him the victor before the jousts had even begun.
And then her gaze settled on Graham, and even though he wore his helmet, she could see through the narrow eye slits that his regard was on her. Her belly did a flip at the realization; the intensity of his stare enough to make her palms start to sweat. All she could think about was the kiss they’d shared, and how she wanted to leap over the side of the platform and fall into his arms, begging him to kiss her again. To ride off with her to Scotland, where she’d never have to lay eyes on any of these people ever again.
The ladies were all atwitter about the handsome knights, and Clara wanted to pinch them into silence, for they were breaking her concentration on the one true man who mattered—Graham Sutherland.
Somehow over the past couple of days, he’d gotten under her skin. And to make matters direr, knowing that he didn’t want to wed her, that he was only helping her because he hated Baston Ross, made the ache of longing all the more potent. How was she going to be able to part with him in just a few days’ time when she headed back to Normandy? Or worse, when her plan failed and Baston dragged her by the hair back to his dark lair. That thought had a shudder passing through her.
At last, Lord Yves called for the knights to approach and gain their lady’s favor, and Clara was up for the task. Drawing in a deep breath, she steeled herself for what would happen next. She’d practiced the scene in her mind over and over again. But a plan in her mind was not always the same when executed.
She stared down the line of knights, counting those that came by, and stilled, a chill creeping up her spine. This might not work, for there was a big problem.
Baston was closer than Graham, though he’d not yet looked her way. It was possible he’d not seen her, didn’t know where she was sitting. Should she duck down, hide, pretend she’d dropped something and crawl around the platform until Baston gave up and passed on? Hope when she popped back up that it would be Graham settled before her, his lance raised? If she did so, she’d thoroughly soil her gown, given they’d all walked here in the mud-slicked grounds and the floor of the platform now evidenced that.
While she ruminated on the best course of action for her plan to work, Graham urged his horse forward, managing to get to her at the same time as Baston. The tips of their lances pointed toward her—men prostrating. A lion’s head and a simple knight. The choice was clear on her part, and she pulled the blue ribbon from her sleeve, the fabric waving in the wet breeze.
“Get the fuck out of here, ye bastard,” Baston growled, his harsh and vulgar words not lost on several of the ladies present, who gasped.
The simple helmet turned slowly toward the lion, and though she couldn’t see Graham’s expression, she could picture it. He would be looking down on Baston as though he were dung on the bottom of his shoe.
“That is no way to speak in present company,” Graham admonished, which had several of the ladies sighing and pressing their hands to their chests. He was winning all of the chivalry points right now, which would make what she was about to do all the more plausible. While Baston continued to hurtle insults, Graham let each one bounce off him like pebbles being tossed at a high wall.
Graham turned to face Clara, and she tied the blue silk to the tip of Graham’s sword, her heart squeezing.
Baston let out a low growl, but before he could utter another insulting word, Lord Yves called for the joust to begin, and for the knights to disperse. Graham gave her a subtle nod as he turned his horse away, and she felt that small gesture all the way to her toes.
“Oh my, Lady Clara,” said one of the ladies on her right. “I’d say your betrothed has a contender.”
Clara let out a nervous laugh and sat, smoothing her skirts with her sweat-soaked palms. She perched on the edge of her seat, feet bouncing as she waited through the jousts until it was time for Baston and Graham to go up against each other. Thunder continued to roll, along with the occasional flash of lightning, and she feared the streaks of light would hit Graham and wondered if it was a sin to hope they hit Baston.
There was one man who appeared to be dominating, Sir Julian. He fought fiercely against another when a sharp crack of thunder spooked their horses. The situation escalated quickly, with one horse rearing and landing on its rider.
