Page 19 of The Highlander's Dare
Graham swallowed a laugh. Goodness, but Baston was wearing his feelings on his sleeve for all to see.
“Darling, where is your sense of charity?” Clara said, her words so coated with honey, Graham could feel their syrupy sweetness from across the table.
Begrudgingly Baston sat down, seemingly appeased by being called “darling,” the shallow idiot. He then held up his mug, demanding ale from whichever servant could get there first. Graham caught Clara’s eyes, and she flashed him a triumphant grin.
This was all a part of her plan.Grahamwas a part of her plan. She was using him right then and there to get under Baston’s skin, and it was working.
The Ross bastard downed his ale and demanded another, and then a massive belch ripped from his throat. He wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve, and heavily draped his arm around Clara’s shoulders, tugging her close against him. He might as well have beat his chest and said loudly over and over again, “Mine, mine, mine.”
The thing was, Clara’s plan was working on Graham, too. And that was unprecedented where he was concerned.
Frustrated at the jealous monster churning in his gut, Graham focused his attention on those in the great hall, spotting his brother with Lady Isolde. They both looked miserable. He was going to have to speak to his brother about his flirtation tactics.
“What do ye say, Graham?” Baston slammed his elbow on the table, offering Graham his hand as if he were proposing a challenge of strength.
Bloody hell, what had he missed?
He flicked his gaze to Clara, who looked uneasy, and mouthed silently, “Arm wrestle.”
What the devil? Was he serious? Baston was grinning like a vengeful fool, and the rest of those in their immediate vicinity appeared eager, anticipating the arm-wrestling match.
Graham forced himself not to grunt out an insult and placed his own elbow on the table. Baston gripped his hand, squeezing harder than was necessary, but Graham didn’t take the bait. The Ross rat might have been larger, he’d give him that, but he was not necessarily stronger. And for that matter, Graham was no wee lad himself.
“Prepare to be defeated,” Baston boasted with a smirk.
“I’ll be prepared, but defeat is no’ my purpose,” Graham responded, to which Baston narrowed his eyes, looking confused.
There was so much stone behind that bastard’s eyes—a bit too much rock to comprehend basic insults. Och, oh well.
Graham put all his strength into holding still. Baston pushed and pushed, and Graham would not budge. He wasn’t even trying to win yet; nay, he just wanted to tire the whoreson out, and damn, the idiot was falling for it. Perspiration startled to bead on Baston’s brow, and he was grimacing as if taking a giant shite. Graham found it hard not to laugh and resorted to biting his cheek to keep from making a single sound. When the first drop of sweat slid down the bridge of Baston’s nose, Graham went for it. Swift and unexpected, he applied a massive amount of pressure to Baston’s clammy paw and slammed it down onto the table in victory.
Baston let out a bellow and glowered at Graham, shock and anger on the man’s face at having been so soundly beaten.
Graham took the opportunity to wink at Clara as he stood. The lady blushed prettily and ducked her head, but not before he saw the pleasure in her smile. Ah, good. She was on his side.
Nay, not his side, her own side.
Ballocks.
Her plan was going accordingly.
With an exaggerated bow to those at the table and a silent “fuck ye” to all who’d thought Baston would win, Graham strolled from the great hall, head held high and a confident swagger in his step. He’d beaten Baston in every task set before him so far.
“I’ll see ye on the list field, tomorrow, noon. We shall joust to see who is truly victorious!” Baston called after him, but Graham didn’t respond. Hell, aye, he was going to see him on the jousting field, and damn if he was going to let that bastard win.
6
Clara sat nervously while her maid wove her hair into a long braid threaded with a light blue ribbon to match her gown, then topped her head with a veil and gold circlet. The gown was one of her finest, and the circlet was usually only worn in official settings. Today, since she was representing her family and would be sitting in the stands with the other nobles, it was necessary to wear.
She’d taken her breakfast in her chamber that morning, feeding most of her morning ham and biscuit to her hawk, who perched by her window. Her nerves were already on high alert after last night, and she did not want to see anyone this morning. After Graham had beat Baston in the arm-wrestling match, her disgusting betrothed had become all the more swollen-headed than he had been before, in his need to prove himself to be the best. It made no sense. He’d lost. One would think he’d cower. But not Baston.
The night had been filled with one boasting event after another. There was an ale-drinking contest to see who could down their mug the quickest. This was followed by an eating contest, in which he challenged every man at the table to finish their fare in record time, resulting in not only Clara gagging but several of the ladies.
His antics reached such a height of ridiculousness that when he stood and demanded she dance with him, he was practically swaying on his feet, and not in a good way. She’d bid him goodnight and started to retreat from the hall—only for him to follow her and stop her on the stairs. Clara’s heart had thudded in dread, for what could he possibly be after, stopping her on the way to her bedchamber?
He’d gotten down on his knees and begged her to forgive his rotten behavior, claiming that he was only trying to impress her. His actions were surprising, but that didn’t make Clara respect him. And in fact, she’d been so irritated at that point that she’d snapped at him, the memory of those words still ringing in her ears, along with the shock on his face ingrained behind her eyes.
“If you want to impress me, Sir Baston, you can stop acting like a fool, and start acting like a grown man.”
