The Highlander’s Dare

by Eliza Knight

  The former was true; she’d had to endure it all evening. However, the latter, she’d seen that Baston’s words hurt, or at the very least, angered Graham.

  “Besides,” Sir Graham continued, “I was speaking the truth. No offense, my lady. But I prefer to kick his arse on the battlefield.”

  Now it was her turn to laugh.

  “Do ye doubt it?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “Oh, nay, ’tis only that I’ve just come into acquaintance with the man myself, and I already wish to call him to the field for a battle to the death.” She pressed her hand to her lips. “I should not have said that out loud.”

  Graham chuckled. “As I said before, I wish ye luck in your future with him.”

  “What would you do, Sir Graham, if you were told to marry a man like Baston?”

  “Run.” He said it so quickly, without a single second of hesitation.

  Clara’s shoulders slumped, and she was glad for the shadows so he couldn’t see her dejection. “I wish I could.”

  “You can.”

  “’Tis easier for a man.” She let out a deep sigh. “I fear my only way out of a marriage to the Hog is to make him think he does not want me as much as he thinks he does.”

  “Have ye considered growing warts on your nose?” The suggestion was given the same way he might suggest she grab a cup of milk from the kitchens.

  “Honestly, I have,” Clara teased back. “But it will take a longer amount of time than I have for that idea to take hold.”

  “Ye could always find another to marry.”

  She stiffened, suddenly alert for treachery, reminding herself she didn’t know Graham Sutherland at all, really. “And let me guess, you think that I should marry you?”

  Graham laughed so hard she feared people would come searching for them in the shadows. “Oh, nay, my lady. I’m a second son and a man who enjoys tasting every biscuit in the basket if ye catch my meaning.”

  Oh, she caught it all right. A particularly loud and distinct laugh came from inside the great hall, and she groaned inwardly. “That man thinks so highly of himself.”

  “’Tis a miracle his head still fits on his thick neck.”

  They shared a laugh, and then Clara stopped, afraid she was going to cry.

  “How about I help ye?” Sir Graham offered in a surprising shift in the conversation.

  Clara had a hard time not letting her mouth fall open to her feet. “Nay, thank you. I do not think that would be a good idea. Besides, you’ve already said you do not want to marry me, not that I’ve even hinted at a desire in that direction. Rather arrogant of you.”

  “I was speaking the truth, lass, please dinna misunderstand. I dinna want to marry ye, but I think I can help ye get rid of that bonehead.”

  Clara raised a brow and bit her lip, because she’d been racking her brain for days, weeks even, on how to make good on the promise to herself, and still was empty-handed of an idea.

  With a slight nod, she said, “I have heard it said that two heads work better than one. What do you have in mind, sir?”

  A cheer came from the great hall as the beat of the music increased.

  Sir Graham bowed low, looking every bit as elegant as a courtier despite his large warrior’s body. He lifted his eyes to hers and said, “My lady, will ye do me the honor in allowing me to have this dance?”

  3

  Lady Clara stood silent in front of Graham, her fingers twisting before her. Her face was shifting back and forth from an expression of excitement and then to worry. He’d thought this would be an easy answer. All lasses wished to dance, did they not? Then again, as he was quickly learning, this lass was unlike any other.

  “Ye want to cause a disturbance between Baston Ross and yourself, nay?” He cocked his head. “This will do it.”

  Even in the shadows, he made out her subtle bite of her lip, and he wanted to replace her teeth with his own, blast it all.

  “Aye, but at what cost?” she finally said, her words rushed.

  “I’ll no’ fight the man in the center of the great hall if that’s what ye’re worried about.”

  “But he might knife you in the back.” Lady Clara sounded genuinely concerned. How charming.

  Graham grinned. “Och lass, I’m a warrior, and I’ve got eyes in the back of my head. There’s no need to worry for me. The man willna get close.”

  Lady Clara flashed him a tentative smile. “How about we pretend we’re going to dance and see what happens?”

  Graham shrugged. He’d agree to pretend, but he was also very much interested in putting his hands in hers, her body pulled close. Aye, he was a right cad, and he knew it. But what man wouldn’t want a chance to dance with such a beautiful lass?

  He offered his elbow, and she slid her fingers around the crook of his arm, singeing him right there on the spot. Graham looked down at his arm to see if she’d put a flame to him but found only her fingers resting there.

  “Are ye ready to begin the game of losing your betrothed?” he said with wiggled brows.

  A nervous laugh escaped her. “Aye.”

  “Good. Because I’m already having fun.” And that was not a lie.

  She eyed him warily. “What’s in it for you?”

  He never thought she’d ask. “I hate the bastard and would love to see him squirm.” Graham flashed her a jovial smile, so his words didn’t alarm her.

  “Good enough,” she said, surprising him a bit.

  They headed back into the great hall with Lady Isolde passing them on the way out. There was a frown marring her pretty features, and Graham wondered what had happened. Evidently, Cormac had been unsuccessful in wooing the lass. He’d have to talk to his brother about that later. This plan was only going to work if they were both on board.

  Inside the great hall, the tables had been pushed aside to allow more room for dancing. The closer Graham and Lady Clara drew to the crowded dance floor, the more eyes started to turn on them.

  Someone whispered as they passed, “I knew she was betrothed to a Scot, but I do not think that is he.”

  Graham grinned. Then, taking Lady Clara’s hand in his, he spun her in a delicate circle before settling his hand around her waist, their other hands clasped and held up in the air as was the custom.

  Just as they began to move, a hulking shadow pushed between them, and a meaty hand pressed to Graham’s chest.

  “What do ye think ye’re doing?” Baston was glowering down at Graham so fiercely that if he were a lesser man, he might have pissed himself.

  “Dancing with the lady.” He kept his tone neutral as if dancing with Lady Clara were nothing unusual, nothing to garner Baston’s ire, even though that was exactly his plan.

  “That is my lady. Get your own,” Baston snarled, reminding Graham of a dog snapping after his bone.

  Graham resisted the urge to kick Baston in the ballocks. On the other side of Baston, Clara’s expression had turned stony. He knew she had not respected her betrothed by the way she laughed and rolled her eyes at the table, but to see her expression now, he understood all the more how much she wanted to be out of this marriage. Perhaps his objective of stealing her away would be a blessing for her. She might be more amenable than he’d previously surmised, which would make his being successful all the easier.

  “Sir Baston, I am not cattle.” Lady Clara’s words were clipped with irritation, her lips pursed.

  Baston whipped his head toward her. “Who has dared call my betrothed a cow? Tell me, and I’ll challenge him right here and now. To the death!”

  Dear Lord, the oaf truly was as empty between the ears as Graham had guessed. Rather sad, really, in a pathetic sort of way.

  “Might I remind you, sir,” Clara said in a clear and calm voice, “that all challenges to the death have to be approved by Lord Yves, and besides, I doubt very much he would agree for you to do battle with yourself.”

  “With myself?” Baston scratched his head and looked between the two of them as if it were
just on the edges of his bloated brain to pick up on her meaning.

  Graham wanted to slap his forehead but refrained.

  “Never mind,” Lady Clara said. “The point is a fight to the death is unnecessary. I was simply having a dance with a knight who asked.”

  “Ye are betrothed to me, Lady Clara. Ye canna dance with anyone but me.” And with that, Baston took her by the hand and attempted to do the same delicate spin that Graham had perfected only a moment ago. This ended up sending Clara flying into Sir Giric de Beaumont, another of the Scots in attendance, and the lady he was dancing with.

  Graham started to reach for her but stopped when she righted herself and offered an apology to the two people.

  “Blast, ye’re a clumsy woman,” Baston was saying. “Ye’d better be more careful than that when we’re back in Scotland, or ye’re liable to take a tumble down the stairs.”

  Lady Clara pasted a smile on her lips, and though they’d only just met, Graham could already tell it was forced and filled with impatience.

  “For some reason, I doubt that it will be a problem.” The sarcasm in her tone was not missed by Graham but was wasted on Baston.

  “I think ye underestimate your footing.” Baston swung her again, but this time she seemed ready for it and remained on her feet, not bumping anyone.

  There was a strength and elegance about her body that mesmerized him. Though Baston had swung her hard, she’d been able to maintain control, and even turn what could have been a clumsy and wild move into something graceful.

  Graham was impressed. And then he was irritated. He wasn’t supposed to be impressed by her. Being captivated by her beauty and grace went against his plans. He was to gain her interest and woo her away. Emotions—being awed, respect, attraction—none of that was to play into his plan. Emotions and sentiments would only ruin a carefully constructed battle.

  Indeed, he needed to treat this as he would a battle, with concise and divisive action. With that said, he knew when to stand down, or should he say walk away victorious?

  For though Baston had interrupted a dance that had barely got started, dancing had not been Graham’s objective—well, mostly not his objective. Aye, he’d wanted to feel her body against his, clasp her fingers, stare into her pretty eyes. But, ideally, the objective had been to irritate the hell out of Baston, which he had. And neither had it been Clara’s purpose to dance with Graham. She’d wanted to cause a rift with her betrothed that would convince him to dissolve their betrothal eventually. And given the obvious show of jealousy displayed by the bonehead, they had both succeeded in their desires.

  That meant victory, did it not? At least for this night.

  The best way to go about dismantling her intended nuptials was to chip away at Baston slowly, and what they’d done had been enough to start for now. No point in getting the bull fully raging just yet. Besides, Graham liked the idea of having fun tormenting Baston and wooing Lady Clara for a little longer. He had an entire week at this blasted tourney; he wouldn’t want to have all his fun in one night and be bored the rest of the time.

  Graham grinned and gave a slight bow to Clara, who was looking at him over Baston’s shoulder with something akin to misery before being flung once more.

  Poor lass. Graham held in his laugh. This was going to be a lot more entertaining than he’d thought. A hell of a lot more.

  He chuckled as he left the great hall, moving outside into the packed bailey, and nodding to several knights and warriors as he passed. Where the hell had Cormac gone? They were due for a conversation on wooing.

  The sky overhead shined bright with a nearly full moon, and Graham was thankful the blasted rain that had pummeled them the whole of their trip had finally ceased.

  Graham made his way toward the tents, passing on an offer from a willing wench to warm his pallet. She was buxom and bonny to be sure, and by the look in her eye, she promised to be an enthusiastic bed partner, but he needed to keep his focus on the prize. Slaking his lust with someone else was a bad idea. He needed to be as full of desire as possible; it was what made his flirtation skills so potent. Graham fairly oozed desire. A talent that had gotten him many things in life, and he hoped got him through this tourney to the end with Lady Clara saying, “I do.”

  Even more tents had gone up since he and Cormac had left theirs to venture inside the great hall, and he found himself getting turned around. Finally, he found the right place and encountered his brother drinking a mug of ale with Alan the mercenary, sitting on stools they must have procured from somewhere. Pip the dog lay between the two of them, chewing on a bone.

  “Ale?” Cormac asked, holding out a jug.

  “Aye.” Graham unhooked his own mug from his belt and held it out for Cormac to fill. “Ye taking in strays?” He nodded at Alan and his dog.

  “Funny, lad,” Alan mused with a smirk.

  Cormac patted Pip awkwardly, then flicked a flea from his hand.

  “That thing is going to give us all a case of the crawlies,” Graham muttered, frowning. “We willna have much success wooing lasses if we’re itching like mad.”

  “I’ll give him a bath,” Alan muttered, tossing the rest of his ale down his throat and pushing to stand. The muttering continued as he went, causing both Graham and Cormac to laugh.

  “I hired the man,” Cormac said.

  “What? I thought ye were against it?”

  “I’m no’ hiring him for what he wants, but I need the dog.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “I fumbled with the lass and told her Pip was mine.”

  Both of Graham’s brows shot to his forehead. “Why the bloody hell would ye do that?”

  “I was at a loss for words! I practically asked the poor lady to show me her breasts.” Cormac poured another mug of ale for himself.

  “How in the hell did ye do that?”

  Cormac shook his head. “I’d rather no’ get into it again. Needless to say, I’m floundering. I’m no’ any good at this.” He slid his glance to Graham, shame turning his mouth downward. “How did your evening go? Ye’re back earlier than expected.”

  “First of all, brother, ye’re plenty good at it. Ye just need a wee bit of practice. First, let’s start with a smile. Lasses love a smile, and it rarely graces your face. Plus, we’re lucky.” Graham grinned widely and pointed to the dimple in his cheek. “We’ve got a secret weapon. This.”

  “How is that a secret weapon?”

  “Easy, the lasses fall head over heels for a dent in the cheek.”

  “‘Head over heels,’ ye say?” Cormac did not sound convinced.

  “Aye. I flashed my smile at a lass walking back here and had an instant invitation for bed sport.” Graham grabbed a handful of roasted nuts from the grain sack beside his brother.

  “That doesna count if she was a servant or a whore.”

  Graham shrugged, chewing around a devious grin. “Doesna matter to me as long as I’m sliding between silken thighs. But that’s beside the point.”

  “Nay, brother, ’tis exactly the point.” Cormac looked pained. “Were ye asked to join Lady Clara for a slide between her thighs?”

  “Nay, no’ yet, but she is letting me help her get rid of Baston Ross, and I call that a win for the night.”

  Cormac’s mouth fell wide. “She’s asked ye to help her murder him?”

  Graham nearly spat out his ale and chucked an almond at his brother’s head. “What in the bloody hell did I say that made ye think we were about murder?”

  “Ye said, ‘get rid of’ him.”

  Graham groaned. “Aye, as her betrothed, no’ to kill him. I mean, ’tis one thing to find him at the end of my lance on the jousting field, but quite another to plan murder.”

  “I agree, planning a murder canna be a part of our plans.”

  Graham narrowed his eyes, noting that his brother did not mention accidental murder. “Were ye thinking of murdering Brodie Ross?”

  “Nay, nay.” But the way Cormac said it had Graham
wondering. “No’ unless as ye said, I was to find him on the battlefield, and it was either him or me.”

  “That’s a given for any of these bastards.”

  “Aye.” Cormac let out a long-suffering sigh.

  “So, as I was saying, ye need to practice your smile. Hone your skills and make that cheek dent work for ye, brother. Lady Isolde will stumble at your feet and practically beg ye to take her. Let me see ye smile.”

  Cormac grimaced. “How’s this?”

  “Are ye jesting?” Graham frowned and chucked another almond. This time Cormac caught it and popped it in his mouth. “That’s no’ even close. Try again.”

  Cormac tried once more, his lips turning upward, but the grimace now had turned into a silent-looking scream.

  “Bloody fucking hell, brother. Ye’re terrible at this.” Graham shook his head. “Watch me.” He flashed a winsome smile and added a wink for good measure.

  Cormac clutched his chest and pretended to fall backward off the stool, his legs twitching dramatically. “Och, my heart. I canna take it.”

  “Try it,” Graham ordered, kicking his brother’s stool.

  Cormac snickered and righted himself.

  “Ye see,” Graham said, “Ye do know how to smile—ye just did so. But try no’ to make it so… condescending.”

  “I was definitely being condescending, brother. I was laughing at ye.”

  “Exactly, that willna work with a lass. Pretend I am Lady Isolde.” Graham feigned flipping long hair over his shoulder and batted his lashes at Cormac, offering a flirtatious grin.

  “This is stupid,” Cormac said.

  “This is war, brother. Now give me a damn smile.”

  Cormac set down his ale and took a deep breath as if he were about to act upon some massive feat of strength. He cracked his neck, his knuckles, and then with a quick turn of his head toward Graham, flashed a blinding smile that brought out the full force of the dent in his cheek.

  “Ah-ha! Aye, ye’ve done it!” Graham leapt up from where he’d been seated with his arms in the air, and his ale went flying out of his cup, managing to splash them both in the face.

  “Ye’re an idiot,” Cormac said, though he was grinning all the same.