by Eliza Knight
Of course, it wasn’t ladylike for her to think this way, but neither was it ladylike of her to try and get out of the betrothal, which she wholeheartedly intended to attempt. Starting today.
All day long, she’d paced in her chamber, trying to come up with a viable plan. And all day long, she’d tossed each idea out the window and thought about pitching herself out too.
That hog was going to get a massive dowry from her father, given she was his only child. A veritable treasure that would raise up even the richest of nobles to infamy. And it was going to a man she’d never met, nor had she agreed to wed. The unfairness of that fact was infuriating. She growled at her fisted hands and then threw them up in the air.
“My lady?” Her maid raised a brow. “Are you unwell?”
That was a nice way of asking if her head was on straight. “I am fine.”
“Suppose ’tis time for you to head to dinner before your betrothed comes to find you.”
Clara resisted the retort prepared to roll off her tongue, and instead nodded. If Baston Ross came to claim her, she’d not have the chance to choose a seat at the feast well away from him. Even his name was stupid. Baston. So close to Bastard. Maybe that was what she’d call him by accident. Nay, nay. She was willing to work on getting rid of the boar, but not on insulting him so openly. Who knew what he might do, and she didn’t want to have to defend herself from him.
This entire tournament was just as stupid as Baston Ross. Men pounding at each other with weapons for a prize. Didn’t they have anything better to do? And at the end, she’d be tossed over a horse and dragged away to Scotland. Clara didn’t even want to get married. What she wouldn’t give to be back home in Normandy, practicing with her arrows, and laying in the field with her pets. She’d been forced to leave behind her four hounds, two sheep, three pet rabbits, a squirrel, two cats, and her entire coy pond.
The only pets her mother had allowed her to bring were her horse and her hawk. Those were considered regal and ladylike. Everything else was too much trouble, the countess had claimed.
And Clara had cried all the way to England. There wasn’t a way she’d be able to replace the irreplaceable. Her new husband wasn’t going to allow her to have them, of that much she was certain. Baston Ross would probably eat them!
Nay, not her new husband. She shook her head. She couldn’t think of him in such terms. Her soon-to-be-ex-betrothed.
“My lady?” Again, her maid interrupted her thoughts. “Are you ready? Every step outside has me jumping that it is he.”
That was enough to get Clara’s attention. She hurried to the door of her bedchamber, a special suite set up just for her, which would be the place she’d be mauled after the wedding if she wasn’t successful in getting rid of the Bastard Hog.
If only they would allow women to participate in the games. She might have had a chance at accidentally shooting him with her arrows. Now that would have been a real treat. She didn’t have to kill him, just maim him a little, and then he certainly wouldn’t want to marry her.
The idea had merit; however, she was fairly certain the outcome would only give her grief.
“How do I look?” she asked her maid.
“Beautiful, my lady.”
“Then perhaps we should mess up my hair or rip my skirts?” She lifted the hem of her green kirtle and gave her maid a teasing smile.
“I know what you’re about.”
“Do you?” Clara played innocent with a cock of her shoulder.
“I do not blame you.”
“You’d be the only one.” Clara stepped out into the hall, plastered on a bright smile and followed several other ladies to the scaffold—or rather to the great hall.
2
The great hall at the Rose Citadel was mass chaos. There was really no other way to describe it. Men and women took up more space than air, and what air there was had been filled with the sounds of music, cackling and the overly loud voices of those pressing to be heard. Pipes and strings fought against the din of humans, and Graham could swear even a few hounds were trying to get in on the action.
Alan, the mercenary, had loitered outside their tent while the twins dressed. Since he seemed desperate for work, Graham figured he could aid them at least for the night, as they were essentially working in the dark. They didn’t even know what the women looked like, and it wasn’t as though they’d be wearing labels. And so, Alan had agreed to lead them here, and the coin Graham gave him seemed to motivate the man as he searched the sea of faces for the two ladies in question. No need to search out the bloody Ross brothers. Baston was holding court at one table, his foot up on a bench as he waved his arms about madly, telling some great story that was no doubt a lie. He swung his dingy-looking blond hair out of his eyes in a move that was meant to woo ladies but only had Graham grimacing in disgust.
“There is Lady Clara Galveston. Daughter to the Norman Count de Evreux.” Alan’s voice was low as he pointed to a stunning lass at Baston’s table who was rolling her eyes with the woman who sat beside her, and though she laughed with everyone else, there was something about the way she did so that had Graham grinning. She wasn’t laughing with the vile Ross lad, but at him.
Graham couldn’t take his eyes off her. Her long chestnut hair had been pulled back at the temples but cascaded down her back in shining waves, and her green eyes flashed mirth. She sipped casually from a wine goblet with a tempting bow-shaped mouth that crooked into a smirk when she was finished. She had high cheekbones and an impertinent set to her shoulders. And her green kirtle, from this distance, hugged her curves.
The lady was not at all what Graham expected. His blood heated with interest.
Alan was pointing out Lady Isolde to Cormac, but Graham couldn’t even be bothered to look. He was mesmerized and terrified by Lady Clara all at once. The way she carried herself, so confident. And the way she plainly wasn’t falling for Baston’s charm was exciting.
Ballocks…
All those thoughts he’d had on their long journey to England, and not one of them had prepared him for the possibility that Lady Clara would be beautiful, enticing, and… cynical. Bloody hell, his heart beat faster. He wanted to walk over to her right now and ask her to dance, even though no dancing had started, and he didn’t even like dancing.
Cormac elbowed him. “Shall I take Lady Isolde?”
Damn right because his brother better not be trying to claim the cheeky Lady Clara. “And I’ll help myself to Lady Clara,” Graham hurried to say, with a wiggle of his brows at his brother, taking off in the lady’s direction before Cormac changed his mind.
Along the way, he grabbed a leg of fowl off a platter and tore into it, eating hurriedly before he approached the table. He discarded the bone to a dog sniffling about, then swiped a mug of cider and washed away the meat from his mouth. Swiped a serviette to wipe his face. All the while, observing the lady in her environment as she spoke with those in her vicinity, and the way she made side glances at the others. She laughed prettily but was, at the same time, quite observant. Smart. Calculated, even. Almost as if she were playing a part. Interesting. He ran his tongue over his teeth one more time to make certain they were clean, so he didn’t present himself to her with a big hunk of meat between them. Satisfied, he moved forward.
Just as he reached the table and her sly glance slid toward him, the room silenced, and a loud booming voice began speaking from the dais. Graham turned to see a man stand and welcome everyone to the castle. Had to be Lord Yves, the baron who was hosting the tournament.
Graham did not give a damn about one word the man had to say. So, as he made no attempt to listen, he backed toward Lady Clara’s table, wondering if when he got close enough, Baston would try to shove him off. Only the baron’s speech seemed to have silenced Baston’s booming, irritating voice.
At last, Graham was standing just behind her. He reached over her shoulder to grasp a jug of wine and then poured it gently into the half-empty pewter goblet she twisted in a cir
cle, surprising her.
Lady Clara looked over her shoulder, her green eyes wide.
He winked at her. “Ye looked as though ye needed a refill.”
“And you thought to do so yourself rather than allow one of the servants to help me?” One eyebrow lifted in a perfect arch as she managed to look down her nose at him.
He bowed slightly at the waist, feeling a tingle of excitement at how she obviously thought him inferior. Bloody hell, this was going to be fun. “I am always willing to help a beautiful lady in need.”
She rolled her eyes so far into the back of her head that the meaning could not have been clearer if she hadn’t just come out and told him to go to hell. Graham kept his smile at bay when he wanted to grin like a fool. This was almost as if he’d met his equal, but she had breasts. Mighty fine breasts too, that pushed plushily against the green gown.
“I’m afraid you’re barking up the wrong tree,” she said with a sniff.
He grinned then. “Are ye calling me a hound, my lady?”
“Better than a hog.” Her eyes twinkled and flicked toward Baston, and it was all Graham could do not to burst out into a booming laugh.
“And so, I shall take it as a compliment then.” He bowed once more, though this time it was much more mocking.
“I would not if I were you.” She took a sip of wine, staring at him over the brim of her cup.
“May I sit?” Graham pointed to the small amount of space beside her that was plainly not a seat, but he didn’t care—he only wanted to make it evident he was interested despite her saucy insults.
Lady Clara looked down at the spot, and her eyes slowly rose to meet his, a sardonic brow raised and a pert smile on her very kissable pink lips. “Are you daft, by chance? In case you did not notice, there’s barely enough space for a babe to sit, let alone a man as large as yourself.”
Graham grinned. “I’m flattered ye noticed, my lady.”
She gave a long blink and a sigh that sounded pained. The more irritated she was, the more he was starting to like her. At least she wasn’t a high and mighty thing, or a simpering fool. What would she do if he leaned in right now and said she was going to be his wife by the end of the week?
“Trust me, I am not noticing anything other than that I have no idea who you are.”
Graham bowed slightly. “Allow me to introduce myself then. I’m Sir Graham—”
“Sutherland, what the bloody hell are ye doing here?” Baston Ross’s voice rose above the din of music and chatter that had picked up right after Lord Yves’s speech ended. The obnoxiousness of his tone had more than a few eyes turning their way.
“I was in the neighborhood,” Graham said with a straight face. “Thought I’d stop in and say hello to a few friends.”
Baston put his meaty paw on Lady Clara’s shoulder. “She’s no’ your friend. And ye’d best no’ talk to her at all, else ye’ll find yourself in an early grave. No’ that ye willna already, given your idiot brother is starving his clan to death.”
Fire erupted in Graham’s belly, and he saw a murderous red before his eyes. It was one thing to insult him. But to offend Cormac, when all he’d tried to do since gaining leadership of their clan was keep as many alive as he could through droughts and bad crops, was quite another, especially when they’d come to the Rosses for aid and been denied. It only made Graham want to take Lady Clara away from him all the more.
He couldn’t even look at her, for fear of the pity he’d see in her eyes. Ballocks, but what had been getting off to a great start had quickly turned sour, and it was all this rotten bastard’s fault. What Graham wouldn’t give to pull his always-present dagger from his boot and shove it into Baston’s gut. It took every effort to restrain himself from doing just that.
Clara could not believe what she was hearing. She’d been a bit stunned from the moment the handsome Scotsman had leaned over her—with a devilish smile on his face, a dimple in his cheek that was making her melt, and a voice that had her sighing—and poured her wine, Of course, she couldn’t show him how much she was enjoying their conversation. Quite the opposite, in fact. She had to act tart and put out, if not just a tiny bit sarcastic, but underlying it all was a hearty curiosity and a bit of a mischief.
Lord, he was handsome.
For a moment, she’d pretended not to be next to Baston Ross, her dreaded betrothed, with his foot hiked up on the bench, so his nether region was inches from her face. Disgusting. She was fairly certain that had been a pre-planned move on his part, and one that made her want to punch his unmentionables repeatedly.
Now his thick and heavy-handed talons were possessively hooked on her shoulder, digging into the sensitive skin there, and she’d curled her fists into the skirt of her kirtle to keep from dealing him a blow he wouldn’t soon forget.
Sir Graham Sutherland was glaring daggers, his lips thinned, and he had a murderous look in his eyes. Baston deserved every bit of whatever retaliation this new stranger was planning. Still, if he were to go through with his dangerous plot, she would likely not see him again, and then the next week would continue to drag on interminably when she might have been able to sneak in a few fun conversations at the very least.
Should she intervene?
Nay, as much as she wanted to, that would be a terrible idea. For one thing, she didn’t really know Sir Graham Sutherland. He was just another warrior in a sea of warrior faces, though he had a nice smile, and she liked the way he teased. If she was to offer her support, Baston would believe her to know him more than she truly did and perhaps accuse her of something. That could be treacherous for them both, but what did she care about being accused if it got her away from Bastard Hog? Hmm…
In that case, maybe she should suggest they knew each other already. If Baston thought her already involved with another, maybe he would let her go?
Hah! That was a funny jest she was telling herself. Baston wasn’t wedding with her, for her. He wanted her dowry, the riches beyond riches of a Norman count, and the alliance he’d gain with Prince John from wedding with her.
What to do, what to do? Suddenly Sir Graham smiled, the dimple winking in his cheek. Baston stiffened behind her, his grip a little tighter at the unexpected gesture from his enemy. But she found herself staring harder at the Sutherland knight. If possible, he was even more handsome than before.
“I see no’ much has changed, Baston.” The way Graham said her betrothed’s name was just the way she thought of him in her own head as if every syllable were a bloody curse.
“Likewise,” Baston sneered.
“I say ’tis rather a good thing we are here then on similar terms. And I look forward to meeting ye out on the list fields where we might settle it like men who is the best of the two of us.” Graham said all of this with a charming smile that had the power to make a woman melt and forget that he was actually threatening a man.
He was incredible.
Clara let out the breath she’d been holding, not realizing how nervous she’d been that Sir Graham would slap Baston with his glove and demand a fight to the death. They’d have to get it approved by Lord Yves, but she doubted he’d deny them. Every man in this great hall was fairly foaming at the mouth for a chance to fight. To prove themselves more worthy than the next. Pathetic.
Admiration for Sir Graham’s tactic was soured by Baston’s demeanor. He kept his hand on her and snorted.
“That is no’ a contest, Sutherland. It is evident already.”
Sir Graham shrugged as if he didn’t have a care in the world, and then his gaze fell on her. He bowed slightly, and she wished to offer him her hand but worried Baston would growl and bite her if she did. Instead, she offered him the one thing she could, a smile of encouragement.
“’Twas a pleasure to make your acquaintance, my lady.”
“My regards, sir.” Though her speech was formal, she kept her face pleasant in hopes he would see some bit of comradery dancing in the depth of her gaze.
He gave a curt nod and
turned away from her, Baston and the entire table, and threaded his way through the crowd toward the exit.
A few moments later, when Baston was once more enthralling himself and his company with another brutish tale, his groin again near her face, Clara quietly excused herself and headed in the same direction as Graham.
What was she doing? Following him?
He had likely already gone back to his tent or the tavern, perhaps. This was foolish. She didn’t even know him, and she shouldn’t be trailing him, and yet her feet wouldn’t stop moving forward.
He hadn’t gone far. There was a slight hiss from the shadows when she ducked into the corridor, and his hand flicked out into the light. Without thinking, Clara took his offered grasp and was pulled into the shadows. His hand was large, rough, engulfing hers in a protective rather than possessive hold.
“Ye shouldna have allowed me to do that,” he pointed out.
She shrugged, their hands falling apart naturally, and she found she missed the subtle touch, which made her question her morals once more. “I should still be at the table with my betrothed.”
Graham gave a short laugh. “Why did ye leave?”
“I’m not entirely certain.” She chewed her lip, for this was true, and she really ought to go.
“So ye’re to marry that man?” Sir Graham said it casually as if he were asking if she was going to finish her plate.
“It has been decreed.” Clara couldn’t help the dejection in her tone. She feared it would never vacate as long as this was to be her fate. A fate she was desperately trying to change.
“I wish ye luck then.” The words themselves were meant to be dismissive, but the tone was quite different, intense and curious, perhaps.
She didn’t want him to push her away so fast. There were a lot of her own questions she wanted to ask, mainly, “Why did you allow him to speak to you that way?”
Graham grunted. “Baston Ross will speak however he wants. His words canna hurt me.”
