by Eliza Knight
Instead, Cormac remained gruff and complained about not having seen him in the last day or so, and then asked hopefully if he was having success with Clara. Success? They were friends, which Graham kept telling her over and over because he didn’t want to push her away by her thinking that he was like Baston, after her father’s coin.
But he didn’t want to be friends.
He wanted to… What? Obviously, win her and take her to wife, but now the idea was more than just his duty. He wanted her in his arms. He wanted to… care for her. But just now, she’d pulled away on her own, and he didn’t know what that was about. He mentioned this much to Cormac, who grew concerned.
Instead of worrying his brother more, Graham tried for an indulgent smirk and said, “I’m rather having fun with it all.”
That only earned him another rebuke about taking this seriously. If only his brother knew just how seriously he was taking it. Too seriously, for Graham feared he might be falling for the feisty chit.
Graham turned the tables on his brother, asking after Lady Isolde, not surprised at all when Cormac told him it wasn’t going as well as he’d thought.
They talked some more about Isolde, and Graham offered his brother advice, but then Cormac nodded toward the tavern. “Let’s get out of this rain and get an ale. I’ve something to tell ye that I overheard.”
The rain falling, soaking them wouldn’t have normally bothered Graham, but today it did, only making his mood sourer. He nodded, following his brother into the crowded, dimly lit tavern. They found the last isolated table in the corner. Once their ale was procured, Cormac leaned close over the worn tabletop.
“I had Alan spy on the Rosses for me. They are involved in some sort of coup with Prince John.”
“To overthrow King Richard?”
King Richard of England was currently being held captive by the Holy Roman Emperor, though Henry VI claimed he was a guest. But a guest who couldn’t leave was no guest at all. And in fact, the emperor was demanding a ransom—150,000 marks. A staggering amount that seemed unachievable.
Prince John, the king’s brother, had decided that he wanted the power for himself and claimed Richard had died—that it was simply a rumor that he’d been captured on his way home from the crusade, but fortunately, no one believed him. The poor bastard prince had aligned himself to France and attempted earlier in the year to take control, but there had been quite a lot of upheaval over it, and so he’d agreed to a truce.
But that didn’t stop his scheming. The man was still attempting to undermine his brother’s rule even now, with the French still, and many of the Scots.
“Aye. Alan heard one of the noble’s squires mention that 150,000 marks would be impossible to raise and that the prince is keeping the extra taxes he’s collecting for himself.”
Graham frowned. “Clara is related to Prince John through marriage. Her mother is the sister of Prince John’s wife.”
“Is it possible then that she is also a part of the coup?”
Graham shook his head, not wanting to believe that could be true. “I dinna think so. She wants out of the marriage. But maybe she knows more than she’s told me. Perhaps it is one of the reasons why she wants to get away from Baston, besides the fact that he’s an utter arsehole.”
Cormac nodded and took a long pull of his ale. “How do ye feel about asking her?”
Graham ran a hand through his hair. Before her hasty exit from the tent, he would have said just fine, but there was something deeper going through the lass’s head, and he had to get to the bottom of it. “I will speak with her.”
Brooding back in the tent that evening, Graham hoped for an invitation to the feast, but none came. So, he made his way toward the castle anyway, dressed in his finery, pretending he was supposed to be there. Even if he had to sneak in and hide in a corner until she passed, he intended to speak with Clara tonight.
Though most of the English knights ignored him as he walked through the crowded camp and castle bailey, the Scots were another matter. He waved to Giric de Beaumont and a few others. With his back straight, head high, he marched right up to the castle and swerved to the right as several guards stood outside the door to make sure that no one entered without an invitation. Around the back of the castle, however, things were a bit different.
Just as at home, Graham had made fast friends with the castle’s kitchen staff and servants. Not because the kitchen lasses all wanted him, though that was a factor, but because he offered them things like a warning on which of the lords were going to be prissy, which would be downright rude, and which were bottom pinchers. It was a game he’d often played with those on Sutherland lands. He scratched their back, and they scratched his, usually with information or extra tarts.
The day before he’d managed to swipe a nice jug of whisky from one of the Ross brothers who left it just a moment too long unwatched and passed it on to Cook, who’d been having trouble with a tooth and the spirits helped to ease his pain. It also made Graham feel better to take something from the bastards who’d taken practically everything from him and his clan.
Tonight was no different as he entered the kitchens, and one of the older kitchen women pretended to swat at him with a spoon.
“Just making my way through.” He held up his hands and flashed a winning smile.
“Is this about the lady?” one of the scullions said.
“What lady?”
The maid with the heavy spoon pointed at him. “You know the one.”
Graham pressed his hand to his heart. “I’m no’ the sort of knight who kisses and tells.”
“Do you want us to put something a little extra in her betrothed’s soup?” Cook said with a glint in his eye. “He was none too pleased with his supper last night. I wouldn’t mind giving him a complaint.”
Graham laughed. “Ye all do me proud, but ’tis no’ necessary. I plan to give him enough to complain about myself.” He swiped an empty tray from a passing servant and then rushed from the kitchen, using the tray to block his face as he skirted the great hall looking for an empty, private alcove. Just how was he going to get her attention?
Finally, he found one, and to a passing serving lad, he gave a coin and a message to be privately delivered.
It felt like hours that he waited, and mayhap it was. The feasting was going on, all the smells making Graham’s belly growl since he’d not had anything to eat since the apple in the market. He still ached from the joust. Though he’d beaten Baston, the man had a powerful blow that would have surely defeated him had he not practiced hours on end day after day, year after year.
The feasting ended, and the dancing began, and still, she’d not appeared.
Graham was about to find the lad and demand his coin back when a slim hand cut through the veiled fabric enclosing the alcove. Clara’s face, momentarily lit from the chandeliers in the great hall, was visible before being cloaked in shadow once more. Her scent surrounded him in essences of floral and cinnamon and made him ache all the way to his toes to have her in his arms again. It took every ounce of willpower he had not to tug her close and kiss her senseless.
“Sir Graham,” she whispered. “What are you doing?”
Going mad. “I needed to speak with ye.”
“Baston could have seen you.” There was a rustle of fabric in front of him, as she shifted deeper into the alcove.
Her profile was made out in black, and he wanted to run his fingertips along her jaw and dip his lips to hers. The urge to kiss her was so strong, it strangled his words in his throat.
“Well? What is it? What did you need to say that couldn’t wait?” There was an urgency in her voice, but he sensed none of the irritation her chosen words were meant to convey. Instead, there seemed to be something else entirely—a bit of curiosity and an underlying need.
Any of the words he’d thought about saying dried up. Besides, verses were nothing compared to action. However, acting was dangerous for both of them. Especially right here, where all the
world only had to whip back the curtain to reveal them both. This was dangerous. This was stupid. And yet, he was here, and so was she, and they had unfinished business to attend to.
He reached forward in the dark, his fingers tracing her jaw just as he’d wanted to, and her gasp was audible, sending a shiver of desire racing up his spine.
“I wanted to make certain ye were all right,” he said, and that was the truth.
“I am. Why would I not be?”
“The last time we spoke, ye were worried about Baston’s retaliation. Ye think I’m going to just sit back in the comforts of my makeshift tent and drink the night away when ye might need help? We are friends, are we no’? Friends dinna let friends suffer.” He leaned in now, inhaling deeply of her scent.
Lord, was he suffering without his lips on hers.
She let out a shuddering breath and eased nearer to him, close enough he felt her heat and sense the shape of her body only inches from his.
“I told you that you need not worry.” She didn’t sound as convinced as she had at his tent.
“I tried,” he murmured. “Good God, did I try.”
And then, he couldn’t hold back anymore.
He dipped low, capturing her lips in a searing kiss that stole away his breath and hers. Hands to her cheeks, he resisted the urge to thread them in her hair, to unravel the ribbons coiling her locks, to run them all over her body.
Mouth to mouth, a kiss was all he could take from her. All he should take. Clara sighed into his mouth, followed by a whimper when his tongue slid between her lips to dance over hers. Delicate hands touched his waist, tugged at his tunic, encircled to his back, pulling him flush against her.
Graham walked her back toward the arrow-slitted wall, pressing her against it, shielding her should anyone open the curtain, and caging her in at the same time. If she wanted to leave, he’d let her, but God, he hoped she didn’t want to.
He wanted her there with him always. Touching, kissing, gasping. No woman had made him feel the intensity of desire that burst in his veins. And certainly, he’d not chased a woman the way he had her. Taken the risks he did with her. This was not about coin or revenge any longer, but something deeper, more terrifying. Graham was becoming emotionally involved—emotions that were foreign. Aye, he’d experienced desire before, want, need, but there was more at stake here.
He cared about Clara. He cared about what happened to her, and he was damned jealous that right now, there was a contract cleaving her to another man. It didn’t matter that the man was his enemy. It could have been any man, and he’d be ready to call them out on the field. He wanted the barrier of Baston gone; he wanted her for himself.
The realization was stark and startling. Shocking enough that Graham leapt backward, breaking the kiss suddenly enough that they both groaned in torment.
“What’s wrong?” Panic edged her voice.
“No one has come,” he said, quickly assuring her, but how could he tell her the fear was all from the inside?
She sighed audibly in relief. “Then why did you…stop?”
“I shouldna be kissing ye.”
“Ye keep saying that.”
“Because ’tis true.”
“Then why do you keep doing it?” He could hear the other question in her voice, though she didn’t ask it—why do I keep letting you?
“I canna help myself. Whenever I’m around ye, all I can do is think of kissing ye. Of touching ye, of having ye close to me.”
There was a sharp intake of breath from her, and it only made him want to press his body, his mouth, back on hers, to taste every inch of her skin and hear that gasp over and over, until she was crying out his name and no other.
Clara couldn’t speak. His words echoed in her mind over and over again. All I can do is think of kissing… And she wanted to shout, “Me too,” and “Do not stop.” But her throat wasn’t working, and she couldn’t form words. She reached out a dozen times to pull him back against her, each time letting her hand drop back down. They were both panting, the heat of their breath, their want, filling the tiny space until she was certain it was going to steal away any capacity she had left to think.
Was it possible that Graham felt the way she did? That he wanted her for much more than friends? That he was battling the same internal voices that told him to kiss her and to run away at the same time? Because she couldn’t decipher which voice was louder. Clara knew what she wanted, and it warred in stark contrast with what she should do.
Doing what she wanted was a new concept she’d started in England—started with Graham. For getting rid of Baston as her betrothed was what she wanted. And she also wanted to kiss Graham until the sun came up. Perhaps now she could keep indulging in the latter as if England were a hotbed of claiming her own desires. Making memories that she could take back with her to Normandy.
With those thoughts in mind, she reached forward, gripping his tunic and tugging him back to her. Graham let out a low groan as their bodies collided, their mouths crashing together in delicious relief. Before, his kiss had been enough to make her shiver, but now it made her toes curl. His hands at her waist rose up until he was cupping her breasts, and instantly her nipples hardened, a shiver of potent pleasure coursing through her veins. Clara arched her back, wanting more of his touch, and moaning when his thumbs brushed over the taut peaks.
Goodness, was it supposed to feel so… good? Nipples were supposed to be functional. Women had them to feed their children, yet right now they seemed for an entirely different purpose no one had ever told her about. Rapture…
Graham stroked her until she could barely breathe. Even concentrating on his kiss was difficult, and her head fell back, a heady gasp escaped her lips. He kissed her neck, slid his tongue along the column of her throat, dipping the tip into the little hollow at the base.
Clara shoved her fingers into his hair, pushed and tugged at the same time. He kissed his way over her chest, the heat of his breath going through the fabric of her gown near her breast. Was he going to…? Oh, he did. His mouth clamped over her nipple, and she wanted to tear away her gown to give in to the feel of his wicked tongue on her bare skin.
He slid back up her body, mouth on hers, and a rigid part of him pressed against the crux of her thighs. Clara’s desire ramped up, and she felt her hips push forward, wanting more of that breathtaking hardness.
“I want ye,” he whispered against her mouth.
Clara whimpered at his words, feeling the ache of longing from the top of her head down to her toes. She wanted to wrap her body around him and never let go. To scream her assent and let him take her higher. But there was so much more beyond this private alcove, this little bit of space they’d stolen as their own. So much at stake.
“But I know I canna have ye.” He slapped the wall and broke their kiss once more.
Clara opened her eyes, making out the shadows of his body. His arms caged her in, a hand pressed to the wall by each of her shoulders, his solid body flush to hers. Both of them were panting. Her heart slammed against her chest, and her lips were tingly and swollen from his kiss.
Though their kiss had ended, they were both so filled with desire, passion, that all it would take was the tiniest bit of encouragement and she knew they’d be kissing, touching again. That if they kept doing that, they were both so close to the point of no return, that she’d be compromised right here. Where anyone could discover them.
A tiny part of her wished they would, and that Baston would discover them with Graham’s mouth at her breast, her legs wrapped around his hips.
“Ye canna,” she whispered. Wanted to add, Not yet. But she also knew what he’d told her from the beginning. He would not marry her, didn’t want to be married.
Wanting her body, wanting to lie with her, wanting to kiss her, caress her—all of those things were so much different than wanting to spend the rest of his life with her. That was a fantasy. And so was this, as rousing foray it had been. She needed to remember what was real an
d what was not.
Clara touched her lips, her hair, smoothed her skirts. She’d have to exit this alcove without looking like she’d been deliciously ravaged, which seemed an impossibility.
Graham slid his hands down the wall and pushed away from her, every inch of distance between them a painful reminder of reality.
“I am still your servant, my lady, however ye need me,” he said, and she wanted to cling to that.
“Then, we are on tomorrow for the next steps.”
“Which are?”
“I plan to become a wee bit hysterical, but if that does not work, then I think we shall have to go the way we’ve been practicing.” The last of her words were said on a heady breath.
“And that is?”
She drew in a deep breath. “I am prepared to lose my reputation.”
Graham was silent, so quiet that if she’d not seen his shadow in front of her, she might have thought he’d left the alcove already.
“What if I’m no’ willing to risk it?”
“My reputation is not yours to wield.”
“And yet ye ask me to ruin it.”
“I’m asking you to set me free, Graham. There is a difference. If I choose to give up my… body, that is my choice.”
“Then let us hope your hysteria is enough.”
“I am running out of time.” There was a desperation in her voice she hated, but she couldn’t pull it back. There were less than a handful of days left in the week before her fate was permanently sealed.
“As I said before, I am your servant, lass. Whatever ye might need from me, I will happily provide.”
“I thought for you, this was about revenge,” she reminded him.
“Aye, ’tis.”
“If you want to stop…”
“I dinna want to stop.” Why did it sound like he was talking about something else… about kissing?
Clara shook her head to clear her mind of these thoughts. This was silly. She was asking too much, and just when she was about to push him away as she’d tried to do earlier in the day, he spoke once more.
