Page 21 of The Highlander's Dare
Clara feared that knight would never be able to joust again.
Fear skidded along her spine. The horses did not have as good a footing, and men did not have as tight a grip on their lances. She glanced at Lord Yves, wondering if he would call off the remaining jousts, but he made no move to do so. Oh, God… She prayed that Graham would be all right.
At last, the two names she’d been waiting for were called.
On opposite sides of the list, they presented two entirely different men. Baston, with his flashy lion’s head helmet and his horse snorting and pawing the mud, looked as if he would eat anyone who came in the way of what he wanted. While on the other end, Graham sat his horse straight. His lance was steady in his arm, and his horse did not move, as if they were both assessing the opponent and how they would take him out.
Funny enough that Baston was attempting to exude dominance and put fear in the eyes of anyone who looked, while Graham simplywasthe fear. The way he appeared so calm and confident reminded her of how he’d been the night before when Baston forced him into the arm-wrestling match. He’d simply waited, knowing he would win. And he was doing the same thing right now.
A herald cried out the two men’s lineage and talents, and then the flag was dropped. Baston took off first. His horse charged forward in leaping gallops, mud splattering the squires behind him. Graham was only a second later. The elegance and strength of his steed was impressive, but more so was the control of the horse and the seeming lack of mud spatter. Where Baston’s horse thundered in a heavy lope, Graham’s mount merely glided with power.
Both of the men leaned forward, lances poised, and struck at the same time, the splintering of wood echoed by the thunder in the sky. Baston’s lance hit Graham in the shoulder, exploding on impact, but Graham barely moved, as if he’d pushed his body into the blow to take the impact. While at the same time, he thrust his lance into Baston’s gut. The sounds of the lance’s splintering and the thunder were almost as deafening as the crowd’s cheers.
Neither of the men fell from their horses. Squires ran forward to grab broken pieces of lances and to fit the knights with new ones for the next round. The second round went very much like the first, although this time, Baston hit Graham in the gut.
For the third and final round, Clara was fairly certain she was going to faint. She wanted so badly for Graham to win, but Baston did not appear to be budging at all. The cheers from the onlookers were mixed, nearly half shouting out for Baston and half for Graham. She could shout for neither. Already she’d done a major faux pas by fashioning her scarf to Graham’s lance when she was betrothed to Baston, but that was her plan, and given the very unchivalrous way in which Baston behaved, it could be explained away easily. It would be even better for her if he were to lose—then he would believe she, his lucky charm, had failed, and that was a great incentive to think he’d be unlucky wedding her.
The sheer force of their blows was deafening as wood splintered everywhere. Both men fell backwards, looking ready to tumble from their horses.
And Baston did, but at the last second, Graham caught himself, and slumped forward—the unmistakable victor. A cry pierced her lips, but she quickly clamped her mouth shut, fearing what those in the stands might think of her. Instead, she pinched herself.
It had worked! Graham had won!
Baston would be finished with jousting for the day, but Graham would move on to the second round. If she left the stands now, she risked running into Baston, an encounter she was terrified of and with good reason. He would blame her for his loss. But if she stayed, she also ran the risk of watching Graham fail or get hurt, not something she thought she’d be able to handle, and already her stomach twisted into knots.
If Graham ended up going against Sir Alexander de Mandeville, the fierce knight dubbed the Devil’s Blade, he would lose for certain.
But just then, the herald announced that Graham Sutherland had forfeited his next round, and she knew that was a call to action for her. She excused herself for a moment of privacy with no intentions of returning, and hurried down the stairs of the stands, keeping her eye out for Baston, but it was hard to see above the heads of everyone and the rain falling into her eyes.
Where was Graham? And a better question, where was Baston?
Clara bit her lip, trying to make the right judgment call. Should she try to find Graham, or hope that he found her?
Without an escort, it could be dangerous seeking him out among the dozens of knights who were enrolled in the joust. And it would be equally dangerous if she ran into Baston. Already he felt that he owned her—what if this latest loss pushed him over the edge? What if he meant to claim her for his own before they were wed?
Making up her mind to head back to the castle, she felt a nudge at her calf and turned to see the little mangy hound wagging his tail and panting up at her with a dog smile.
“Hello there,” she patted him on his wet head.
“He likes ye.” It was the same man whom she’d spoken to near the practice field and the same one who’d unknowingly saved her so she could steal Baston’s good luck token.
“He is very sweet.”
“I’ve got a message for ye.”
“Oh?”
“Sir Graham would like to speak with ye.” He nodded his head for her to follow.
Clara wanted very badly to speak with Graham, but could she trust this man? “How do I know you speak the truth?”
The man grinned and handed her the blue scarf. “He said if ye asked that to return this to ye.”
Clara stuffed the silk up her sleeve and nodded. “All right, sir, lead the way.”
“Name’s Alan,” he said to her. “Dog is Pip.”
“I’m Lady Clara.”
