by Eliza Knight
“Maybe so, but I promise, if ye smile at her as ye’ve done now, she’ll melt like butter in your hands.”
“Do I want her to melt like butter?”
“Och, brother, ye know ye do. Dinna pretend to be a virgin. Ye’ve had a woman before.”
Cormac suddenly looked serious. “Never a woman like Lady Isolde.”
They were twins in body, and twins in mind, for hadn’t Graham just been worried about this very same thing? Never had he had a woman like Lady Clara, either.
4
The sun had not woken by the time Clara did. She stared out the arrow-slitted window in her chamber at Rose Citadel. In the bailey below, she could just barely make out what looked to be a bunch of lumps on the ground. Bodies lying alone, bodies lying together. Bodies that had imbibed in entirely too much wine and ale and fallen into sleep where they sat or stood.
She shook her head. Tournaments were dangerous for more reasons than weapons—even if they were blunted—for the men could not be in the best shape after a night of drinking. And it didn’t take much for a seasoned, strong warrior to beat his opponent to death with a blunted weapon.
After dancing with Baston, she’d claimed tiredness and retired early to her chamber, realizing too late that she’d not made any more plans with Sir Graham in regard to breaking her betrothal. Perhaps that was all well and good if Baston was going to try to fight him to the death.
Having Sir Graham ask her to dance, even if it meant nothing and had just been part of his plan to aid her in her escape, had been a genius move. One twirl and his hand at her hip and their fingers entwined, and Baston had been on them both as a fly to honey. Poor simpleton. But it wasn’t worth Sir Graham’s death.
Still, she would call the night’s actions a victory, one step in a race to get rid of the Hog.
There was jealousy in Baston’s actions, but not because he wanted her for who she was, or because he loved her. That notion was laughable. Nay, he’d been treating her as if she were his property. His to drag home and toss into his treasury—for that’s what she was to him, the massive dowry that came with saying “I do.” If he were smarter, she might have taken his words about the stairs and tumbling as a threat, but quite honestly, she believed he was not going to be a harm to her person, but rather her soul.
And good Lord, maybe his clumsiness would be an added bonus. How had he gotten as far as he had when he could barely handle a small thing such as dancing?
Clara let out a small snort of disgust. Now Graham, his dancing, though interrupted, had not been as expected. She would have thought him sturdy, aye, but graceful? Nay. A man his size, a man so masculine, so muscular… how had he been able to move his body so agilely?
Oh, stop thinking like that!
Her mind was taking a turn down a path that was best left untouched. She didn’t want to marry anyone and would much rather return to Normandy. And Graham Sutherland had made it very clear he didn’t want to marry her, but instead wanted to torture Baston Ross, and that was fine with her.
Wasn’t it?
Aye, because she wanted to torture Baston Ross too.
Clara went to the mantle, striking the flint box and lighting a candle.
Her maid roused on the pallet that she’d slept on the night before at the foot of Clara’s bed. She’d told the woman she was perfectly fine sleeping on her own, but given she didn’t have a chaperone with her, the maid had insisted, as had Lord Yves.
“No need to rise just yet,” Clara whispered. “I can get myself ready.”
The maid started to protest but laid back down when Clara insisted. Clara took the candle behind the screen, washed and dressed, and then made her way downstairs to the great hall just as the sun was rising. She hoped to have breakfast before the men woke. Lucky for her, the great hall was mostly empty, and she was able to do just that. After finishing up a warm bowl of buttery porridge, she decided to get some fresh air and a short walk before she was forced to sit and watch hours of fighting.
Watching men bash each other in was definitely not going to be the highlight of her day, and certainly not her week. She found the tourney games to be ridiculous, a show of masculine bravado that was best left for true battles. It was also a chance for those not fighting, and sometimes those who were, to get drunk every night, and for everyone to act surprised when one knight was found in bed with a most unexpected lady. Clara rolled her eyes at that. Every tourney was always the same. And yet every time, people acted surprised.
She let out an audible sigh and then removed herself from the table.
Clara snuck outside the castle, stepping over still-prone bodies and ignoring others who were rising, and also avoiding the tents where she was sure to be inundated by knights. The possibility of coming across Baston was high. It was entirely too early in the morning to deal with him.
Mayhap it would be good to see where exactly she’d be sitting during the day. So, she wondered down toward the list fields. But that was apparently a mistake, for on the field were the two men she’d thought about all morning.
Baston Ross, looking big and dumb and deadly. Graham Sutherland, exuding strength, cunning and that same agility she’d been surprised at on the dance floor. Both of the men were handsome; she would give Baston that. He had a face chiseled from stone, reminiscent of the Greek gods, Zeus perhaps.
But Graham… there was something so ruggedly striking about him, that when she looked at him, her skin itched to slide over his. Where Baston was golden, Graham was dark, and she found herself drawn to his edginess, his sensuality.
Clara swallowed hard as her belly did a flip. Aye, Graham was dangerous in a different sort of way for her. For all she could think of was kissing him and letting him—Clara shook the thoughts from her head and focused on the two men on the field.
They held practice swords as they fought one another. Parry, duck, swivel, block, parry. They were both incredible fighters.
However ungraceful Baston had been on the dance floor, he made up for it on the field, though he lacked the footwork Graham had or the decisiveness. They moved as if they’d been practicing together for years. Perhaps they had. There seemed to be a lot of pent-up animosity between the two of them the night before.
She watched for a few minutes, her breath holding when it seemed one or the other of them would deal a winning blow. But then they just kept going, slamming the practice swords against one another.
Several others were also on the field practicing, one of whom looked an awful lot like Graham… Clara knew he had a brother, but she’d not realized how very much they looked the same. They had to be twins. Fascinating.
A dog nuzzled her leg, and she bent to pet him, offering a warm hello.
“Who ye betting on?” asked a man that looked eerily similar to the hound.
“I’m a lady. We do not place bets,” she teased.
The man chuckled. “If ye say so.” He whistled to the dog and kept on moving down toward the field.
“Strange man,” Clara mumbled and turned away from the two men who had so swiftly been thrust into her life. She needed to come up with more ways she could get Baston to break off their engagement and wishing that Graham would snap and bludgeon him to death was not one of them.
Graham had only half-heartedly agreed to train this morning, waving away Duncan and Lachlan, telling them to attend to their chieftain. It had been his entire intention to sneak away until he’d seen Baston Ross arrogantly walking onto the field. What he wouldn’t do to punch the bastard right in the nose to ruin the face he boasted about and give him a little prick to his pride.
Baston Ross was too conceited for his own good. He was also a huge arsehole. The way he’d treated Clara the evening before had been enough for Graham to want to take him down a notch. But just watching Baston walk arrogantly onto the field, insulting men left and right, filled Graham with a powerful need punish him all the more. Which was why he marched right up to him and grinned broadly.
“Are ye w
ell-rested, Ross?”
Baston sneered at him. “Get out of my way.”
Graham tossed him a practice sword. “How about a little exercise?”
Baston grinned then. Not a pleasant grin, but the smirk of a hungry cat about to pounce. As soon as their swords smashed together, Graham spotted Clara watching in the distance. She was hard to miss, even from afar. No other woman held herself the way she did, with confidence and poise all at once. Her long chestnut hair waved gently in the wind, and the gown she wore accentuated the curves he desperately wanted to push against. He pictured her standing up there, a pert little smile on her lips, and nearly groaned for the need to crush his mouth into hers.
It made him want to smother Baston in a massive pile of pig foul.
As they challenged one another, he had to hand it to Baston. The man had skill. Superior skill to most men, and right on par with Graham, though Baston’s technique was slightly different. When they inevitably faced each other on the battlefield, Graham was going to have to step up his tactics, which made it a good thing that he was practicing with Baston now and figuring out his skills and weaknesses.
Graham focused on his opponent, taking his peripheral vision for just a moment away from Clara, in which time she vanished.
Irritated that he’d missed her leaving, he dealt Baston a heavy blow that sent him sprawling. Well, Graham supposed, he’d found the man’s weakness.
Graham reached out a hand to help Baston up, but the bastard swung at him with the sword, which would have damaged Graham’s hand if he hadn’t snatched it back in time.
“Whoreson,” Graham muttered, kicking Baston’s boot. “I’ll see ye on the field.” He retreated, not willing to turn his back, especially when two of the Ross brothers had come up to watch them fight.
“Ye bloody well can count on it,” Baston growled, and just when Graham was almost out of earshot, the idiot shouted once more, “And stay away from what’s mine.”
Graham knew exactly just whom Baston was referring to, and because of that, he made it his singular purpose to find her, and be caught with her as many times as he could throughout the day, simply to mess with the arsehole. He searched the small crowd of onlookers, not finding her right away. Perhaps she’d gone back to the castle. Or to the market.
Well, he couldn’t look for her covered in sweat—that wasn’t likely to make a good impression—and Graham was very aware of the limited time he had to make her his.
Instead, he made his way to the washing area in the river beyond the camps, picking up a cold ale and hunk of bacon from the tavern along the way. After washing, he went back to his tent to dress for the coming parade, which he also did not want to participate in.
Evidence of his brother having been there was in the form of a pile of sweaty garments discarded on the center of their floor. Graham tossed his own, and then pulled out a fine new tunic and hose, one of several Cormac had insisted he bring and wear. It made sense to do so, even if he found the garments irritating. To be honest, he’d much rather run around naked than wear the stuff.
After yanking everything on with a scowl, Graham exited the tent, falling in line with a sea of knights headed for the parade. The horde of fighting men led into a mass of onlookers and nobles alike, the latter of who tried their best to put distance between those they deemed inferior.
Everyone was dressed to impress, even those in threadbare clothes. Skin was scrubbed of dirt, and the ladies all seemed to be in a competition of whose hood could be done the most intricately, or whose gown had more gems embedded on the extravagant fabrics.
Someone tried to point him in the direction of the list instead of the stands so that he could be a part of the parade, but Graham shook his head and marched his way toward where the ladies were funneling. This was his time to find Clara. He’d not been successful before, and he was determined to be successful now.
He searched the pointed hoods and veils. Followed the sound of feminine laughter, and still, he couldn’t find her. Just when he was about to give up, he heard someone say from behind, “Should you not be over there?”
He recognized her voice instantly. Graham slowly turned around, eyes sweeping over her. Lord help him. Her body was made to be worshipped. Her sky-blue gown that reminded him of summer clung to her curves, and he wanted to run his hands over every slope, followed by his mouth. A coy smile tugged at her pouty lips, and her gaze was teasing. Did she know he’d been looking for her?
Her glossy chestnut hair curled around her shoulders, and the hood she wore was elegant, but not ostentatious. She was beautiful. And he was reminded once more of the prize the woman offered to Baston not only in coin but in body.
Graham’s body tightened as he looked at her, desiring to take her into his arms. The way her eyes widened slightly, he feared he showed every bit of desire on his face and quickly shuttered those emotions.
“My lady,” he said, flashing her a winning smile and bowing.
“You need not be so chivalrous with me, Sir Graham. I…” Her voice trailed off, the tip of her pink tongue coming between her teeth. “We are friends, are we not?”
Friends.
That was not a word Graham had ever expected to feel a sting from. Why did it do so now? Oh, he knew why, because he did not want to be friends with Lady Clara—he wanted to be so much more than that.
“Aye, my lady. Friends.” Friends did not think of kissing each other, did they? Graham cleared his throat.
“Were you looking for me?” she asked. There was a little light of hope in her eyes he tried not to read too much into.
“Aye, in fact, I was. Our conversation last night was cut off abruptly.”
Her lip twitched, but she kept herself from laughing. “That is a very mild way of saying what happened.”
Graham chuckled. “If I were to explain it exactly, I’d say a wild boar barreled into us and sent you flying.”
Now she laughed, and a few heads turned in their direction.
“Will you be marching in the parade?” she asked.
“I would rather no’. Are ye going to be watching?”
“I would rather not,” she echoed his sentiment. “And if you would not mind, sir, there are plans that I need to make if you would be so kind as to help.”
Be so kind. He’d thought she’d never ask. “’Twould be my honor.”
“Then we must sneak away before anyone notices our absence.”
“Or sees us leave together,” he said. “Follow me, else anyone who is watching and takes an interest might think I am following ye and have unfriendly tendencies toward ye.”
“Do you have unfriendly tendencies toward me, Sir Graham?”
The way she said it, her eyes dancing with playful merriment as if she knew exactly what she was asking, and it had nothing to do with danger, but everything to do with desire. She had discerned his earlier expression then, and she still wanted to spend time with him.
The lass was a flirt, to be sure, and he was delighted.
Graham winked. “My lady, I canna say that your betrothed would approve at all of our conversation.”
Her grin widened. “Then, our plan is working. For the dance made him jealous, but it did not push him away.”
“My lady, we are pecking away a little piece of him at a time.”
“I like it.”
Oh, he hoped to make her like so much more than that. “I am leaving now.”
“I am following.”
Graham nodded and turned away from her, threading his way around the stands and away from the crowds. Behind the staggered platforms that started on the bottom at the height of a man, he found fewer people, and he was able to walk by unnoticed. If he went left, he’d be heading back to the castle, and if he went right, he’d be heading toward the horses.
Baston was more likely to be with the horses, which would be good for seeing Clara with him. But at the same time, it would be bad, because right now they were going to make plans and he was going to try not to
kiss her. And so, he went left, heading in the direction of the castle. Every so often, he glanced behind him to make certain she was still following, relieved to see that she was and that no one else seemed the wiser.
At the last second, though, before they passed by all the tents, he veered toward them. Being at the castle was just asking to be seen, and he didn’t want to risk an interruption or getting thrown out of the tournament for meeting with her alone. And so, he headed for his tent, weaving in and out. There was hardly a soul in sight with everyone having gone to the parade, and he slipped inside his tent, holding the flap partially open, so when she came by, he could grasp her arm and pull her inside.
A second later, she started to pass, and he thrust his hand out, encircling her delicate wrist.
She gasped and then laughed as he tugged her inside and let the flap drop.
“Smart, Sir Graham.”
“Listen, if we are to be making plans—if we are to be friends—then perhaps we should dispense of the ‘Sir Graham’ and ‘Lady Clara?’”
“And what would you have us go by instead? Code names? I would like to be Phoenix,” she said, rubbing her hands together and grinning mischievously. “And you can be Shield.”
“I thought we’d simply go by Graham and Clara, but if ye prefer the code names, Shield does have a nice ring to it.”
Clara turned in a circle, looking about his tent, eyes on the piles of discarded garments.
“We’ve no’ got a maid, lass, and our men that rode with us are no’ the cleaning up type.”
She laughed and turned back around. “Mind if I sit?” She pointed to his pallet.
Graham nodded. “Dinna, I beg ye.” If she sat there, he’d never get her scent out of his mind, and every night he went to bed, it would be with thoughts of her.
“Oh,” she pursed her lips, a little confused, but his reasoning was not one he was willing to shed light on. “Then, we shall stand.” She straightened her back and folded her hands in front of her.
