by Eliza Knight
“I’ll wait here until ’tis safe to exit. Ye go on now if ye’re ready.” Was it regret she heard in his tone?
She wasn’t ready, but she knew she’d never quite be ready to leave his side. One hint from him, and she’d leap back into his embrace. That was going to be the hardest part of all. In the end, when they were successful—for they had to be—Clara would have to bid Graham goodbye. Walk away forever and bring back to her homeland the memories of him, and nothing more.
8
Before the first round of combat was to begin, Clara steeled herself for what was to come.
Hysteria.
So foreign to her, and yet something she knew a man like Baston would not tolerate. At the feast the night before, she’d sat and watched him with his pals. He’d been boasting about how weakling Graham might have bested him on the list, but how he’d hurt him enough that Graham forfeited, propelling Baston forward into the next round.
He truly had no idea what he was talking about, and it was pathetic and mortifying all at once. She’d tried to point that out to him, but he cut her off at every turn. The glowers he tossed her should have silenced her, but what she’d learned was that though he might be a lot of bark, he didn’t appear actually to have a bite. Perhaps behind the bluster, Baston wasn’t a bad or violent man, and some other poor lass wouldn’t be as unhappy with him as Clara would.
He was self-indulgent, grandiose and an overgrown arrogant arse, but he wasn’t cruel unless it was where Graham was concerned. That didn’t mean she wanted to wed with him. Nay, she’d made the right choice and would continue down the path.
Her tiny veiled insults during the feast had gone completely over his head, or he was ignoring her jibes, even as those at the table picked up on them. He was oblivious, or he had a lot of bloody patience. Either way, that tactic had failed. So, hysteria, which he couldn’t ignore, was next on the menu.
With that, Clara found herself exiting Lord Yves’s platform and heading toward the crowd of knights awaiting their turn.
“Baston Ross!” she cried, an edge to her voice that bordered on piercing. When he didn’t immediately separate himself from those he was talking to, she shouted louder.
It was hard not to laugh when he peeled away from his friends with an obvious roll of his eyes. Oh, goodie, this was working.
Hands on her hips, foot tapping, she refused to walk forward, forcing him to come to her as she called out his name a little more frantically.
“What is it, woman?” he rumbled as he got closer. “I’m about to go into combat, and ye’re disturbing the peace of every other knight here.”
The latter wasn’t her intention, but she did like that she finally saw some irritation from him.
“I want you to refrain from combat.” She jutted her chin upward, appearing as obstinate as ever.
“What?” He looked genuinely puzzled, frowning down at her as though she’d said her hands were made of bread.
Clara shook her head vehemently. “No fighting. Stay out of the combat round. For me. I want you to come watch with me on the platform instead.”
“Ye’re mad, woman,” he bristled, looking back at his friends who were watching intently, listening to every single word.
They looked equally as confused, shaking their heads and muttering to each other. When Baston swung his glance back toward her, she could tell he was embarrassed and felt almost sorry for him having to deal with her like this.
“No fighting!” she said a bit more shrilly, hating herself the entire time. Clara did not ever raise her voice in public, especially being so ridiculous like this. This was perhaps more humiliating than being found with her skirts tossed up, which was on the plan next if he didn’t falter here. “I will not have a husband who is violent.”
“This is no’ about violence, but training and a test of skills, my lady. All knights must prove their worth, and in case ye’ve forgotten, I am a knight.”
“But you lost yesterday,” she said, overly loud. “You do not want to humiliate yourself again and risk injury.”
“Ye overstep,” he growled, blue eyes narrowing. He stepped closer to her, leaning down, his lips twisted in an angry scowl. “Keep your words to yourself. And how about ye try to give me your favor this time, instead of giving it to my enemy, since ye lost my token of luck.”
Clara scoffed, pretending not to notice his anger. “Lucky tokens are stupid, and so is this tournament. I demand you cease your part in it.”
Baston’s eyes widened in shock. She suspected no one had ever spoken to him this way before. “Ye demand of me?”
“Aye. My mother, when she made a demand, my father followed, and I will expect the same in my household.”
He snorted and shook his head at her as if she had truly gone mad. “Ye’ll be disappointed.”
Heaven help her, but the man wasn’t budging. Did she have to throw herself on the ground and start screaming? That was likely to get her tossed in her chamber with the door barred, and everyone believing she was either in her cups or destined to live a life sealed in a tower.
Oh well, she had to keep going now. There was a chance that he’d not take that route and might just give in, seeing her distress. Clara stomped her foot, squeezed her eyes shut, fisted her hands at her side, and shouted, “I will not have it! I will not! I demand you cease this at once.”
Baston took a step back from her. “What in the bloody hell is wrong with ye?” he hissed. “Quit this madness or else I’ll have ye locked in your chamber.”
Sigh, so he was going to go that way. Being confined would put a damper on all of her plans.
So, she did the next best thing—she pretended to burst into tears, wailing loudly. And Baston, bless his oafish heart, patted her awkwardly on the shoulder.
“There, there, lass. I know ’tis scary to watch your betrothed fight, but trust me, I will win. I won yesterday, though it didna seem so on the surface. I’ll no’ let a little thing like combat get in the way of our marriage.”
Blast and blast.
She nodded, swiping at her fake tears and feigning an overly exaggerated hiccup.
“Go back to the stands where ye can cheer me on,” he instructed, gaze still wearily upon her.
She glanced over his shoulder, where his friends were snickering at her antics. Why was this so hard? Why would he not just toss her aside? Was the coin so very important to him? Or was it something more? What other deal had her mother and aunt struck with him that would cause the man not to shake in the least?
“You only want me for my coin,” she whined.
“Is that no’ why any Scot marries a Sassenach?” He sneered as he turned away, pleased with himself for having the last insulting word.
So, the placating was only that: a show.
Well, fine then. She’d give him an even better show. Her eyes scanned the crowd of knights, and she thought she spotted Graham, only to take note that his dimple seemed to be on the opposite side of his face. His twin. Their identical looks were uncanny and unnerving. And this brother was watching her with a slight smile that quickly turned to a frown when he spotted her staring.
With a defeated sigh, she headed back for the lord’s platform to sit with the other ladies and watch the men bash each other about.
Graham shoved his way through the throngs of people trying to get to the list field. Alan had managed to locate him having his breakfast at the tavern in time to tell him that Cormac was fighting Edmund the Braw, the Ross clan’s champion, on the practice field in the name of Isolde’s honor. Tossing a few coins toward the vicinity of the table, Graham had taken off at a run, wishing he’d fully suited up this morning.
The only thing he had on him now was the dagger he kept in his boot. How could his brother be so foolish as to take on a man like Edmund the Braw without Graham at his side, and why had their men, Lachlan and Duncan, not come to find him to be his second? Likely because Cormac knew Graham would talk him out of fighting. Edmund the Braw might be the R
oss lads’ champion, but the Sutherland fight was not with Edmund—it was with Brodie and Baston Ross. Those cowardly bastards would use a champion instead of fighting their battles themselves, but plenty willing to get someone else killed in their stead.
And Edmund the Braw was a deadly bastard. A massive beast of a man, one who happened to be undefeated. If Edmund killed his brother…
Graham’s head was a jumble of violent thoughts heaped with a heavy helping of fear. Not Cormac! Not his beloved twin.
By the time he made it to the practice field, however, Cormac was sprawled on the ground. Graham prepared to launch into attack when Cormac made a sudden move and dealt Edmund the Braw a final blow, a deadly strike to the throat with a blade.
Graham swayed in relief, the rush of battle hot in his veins. Edmund collapsed, and Cormac shoved him off, climbing to his feet.
Graham turned to Alan. “Next time, find me sooner. If ye want to serve my brother, then ye’d best remember we fight together.” Graham marched away to their tent, prepared to speak with his brother about his choices and his seeming lack of common sense.
It was not often that Graham was the voice of reason, especially where Cormac was concerned. But in this, there appeared to be no other way.
Graham paused outside his tent to find Baston standing there, a few of his cronies behind him.
“I challenge ye to a fight in the melee tomorrow,” Baston said. “Ye and your brother Cormac against my brothers and me.”
Five against two—the odds were not in the Sutherlands’s favor. Of course. He expected nothing less of Baston. The only difference was, he knew they could take them all out with those numbers, but why not make it fair? Graham frowned. “Ye and Brodie against Cormac and me.”
Baston smirked. “As long as I’m the one running my blade through your ballocks, that’s fine with me,” Baston said.
“The melee is blunted weapons,” Graham reminded Baston. What was the bastard up to? Was this how he planned to get around the rule made by Lord Yves that all fights to the death had to be requested through him?
The man snorted. “Blunt as a witch’s tongue.”
A chill swept up Graham’s spine. “’Tis illegal to do battle to the death without the lord’s permission.”
“Who said anything about a battle to the death? I simply said I want to cut off your ballocks and shove them down your throat.” Baston was practically foaming at the mouth with rage. This was about more than Cormac having just killed the Ross champion.
Graham smiled. “This is about a woman.”
Red crept up Baston’s neck. “What the bloody hell are ye talking about?”
Aha! Graham was right. Why else would Baston—conceited, brutish Baston—be blushing?
“Ye’re jealous of me,” Graham taunted. “Which lass have I taken from ye?” He pretended not to know just which one. “And Cormac? Has he taken your woman too?”
Baston took a threatening step forward. “The both of ye came here intent to destroy our plans, dinna deny it.”
Incredible, the dunderhead had figured it out. How funny. Still, Graham would deny it to his dying day. “How would we know a damn thing about your plans?”
“Ye want revenge.”
“Revenge? About what?” Graham’s tone turned mocking. “Possibly that we asked ye for aid when our people were dying, and instead ye gave it to our enemies?”
“Exactly.” Baston nodded very seriously as if he’d figured everything out.
Graham tried not to laugh like a madman. “The whole Ross clan can rot for all I care. My brother and I will meet ye on the battlefield tomorrow, and we’ll see who walks off strong.”
“It willna be ye.”
Graham bared his teeth. “She’ll never be yours.”
“Ballocks.” Baston spat on the ground beside Graham’s foot. “I’ll see ye on the field.”
Baston shouldered past Graham. His men did the same, which only worked to fuel the anger storming through Graham. If one more bastard touched him…
Graham stormed into his tent, needing to fight something, someone, right then and there to get the rage out. Baston wanted to fight him to the death on the battlefield—a fight for Clara. Though her name had never been mentioned, it had been obvious all the same.
And Graham knew bloody well that he would fight for her any day of the bloody week.
She was his. He… cared for her.
Shite.
Graham needed to find her. To tell her what had happened between him and Baston. To tell her that she need not plan any more games, for the man was bloody well intent on thrusting his sword through Graham and ending his life instead of giving up Clara.
He searched the lord’s platform for her beautifully defiant face but did not see her. She was not in the marketplace, or the great hall of the castle, and the only thing he could conclude was that she was in her chamber. The other alternative was that Baston had tied her up and hidden her somewhere she couldn’t escape him. This of course had Graham marching toward the Ross tent, intent on seeing her, when Cormac grasped his arm, startling him from his trance.
“Where are ye going?” Cormac asked.
“To kill Baston,” Graham said with a slight hint at humor.
“I’ve something to discuss with ye. Come back to the tent.” Cormac looked grave. Of course, he always looked grim, but this time, there was something more to the edge of his voice, the grimness of his gaze.
Graham hesitated only a minute. But realizing that Clara was worth more alive to Baston than dead, he put his search for her on hold for just a moment. Graham followed his brother back to their tent. As soon as the flap had closed behind him, Graham was set on giving his brother an earful about his fight with Edmund the Braw, but Cormac cut him off.
“I’m going to marry Isolde tonight, in secret.”
Graham raised his brows. “Ye’ve done it. Bloody good job.”
Cormac nodded, still serious, but a small curl to his lip surprised Cormac. “Aye, the smiling worked. We’d have wed last night, but couldna find a priest.”
“Ye’d have wed without me?” Graham pressed his hand to his heart and feigned hurt, holding back a laugh when Cormac truly looked a little embarrassed.
“Och, it was a bit of the spur of the moment. After we… well…”
Graham had never seen Cormac look as flustered as he was right then and there, and so he attempted to put his mind at ease.
“Brother, I completely understand. I but jest. And tonight? Do ye want me by your side as a witness?”
Cormac nodded but looked pained all the same. “Ye know I do, but I also need ye here, pretending to be me should I get an invitation to the feast. I canna risk Brodie noticing I’m gone and coming in search of me. The wedding has to happen, not only for the coin but because I love her.”
Graham’s chest tightened at the words, a mirroring emotion in his own heart. “Aye, anything ye need.” Graham squeezed his brother’s shoulder. “Ye’ve saved the clan.”
“This doesna mean ye’re off the hook with Lady Clara.”
“I dinna plan to be, which is why I’m glad ye found me. We are to fight together, ye and I, tomorrow in the melee against the Ross brothers.”
Graham shook his head. “I canna. I’m leaving tomorrow morning, taking Isolde back to the Sutherland holding.”
“I need ye, brother. I canna fight them alone. And I canna turn away from the challenge, for it is over Lady Clara, and I… I am in love with her.” It was not only the first time he’d said the words aloud but the first time he’d let the words even spring into his consciousness, having thrust them aside every time they tried to surface before. And now he wanted to shout them from the rooftops.
Aye, he loved her. So damn much.
“I’ll no’ leave ye stranded,” Cormac said, gripping his brother’s arm. “By this time tomorrow, we’ll have defeated the Rosses and hopefully foiled any of their plans for the coup to overthrow King Richard.”
Gra
ham shook his head. “I wouldna put it past the bastards to continue. Ye’d best beware that Brodie willna stop until ye’re dead, and he’s made Isolde a widow only to wed her again.”
Cormac nodded. “Ye have a point, and I’d wager a guess it will be the same with Baston. The Ross lads are no’ used to losing, and especially no’ to men they deem inferior, such as ourselves.”
“We did it,” Graham said.
“So ye believe Clara will marry ye, then?”
“No’ quite, but ’tis coming.” He recalled the way she’d quivered in his arms the night before.
“Tell me ye have no’ bedded her yet,” Cormac groaned.
“I’ve no’, but I dinna think I can say the same for ye.” Graham raised a challenging brow. “I am so proud of ye, brother,” he teased.
Cormac slugged him in the arm, and Graham was about to return the favor when his brother reminded him of the blow that he’d taken not too many hours before on the field from Edmund the Braw.
“I’ve secured my end of the deal, brother. Now ye must go and convince Lady Clara to wed ye. The extra coin will keep our clan in good standing, feed our people, for generations to come.”
“I will,” Graham nodded.
“Ye’re certain she’ll agree?”
“The lass melts in my hands like butter.”
Cormac shook his head. “Ye’re no’ the only one who can melt butter.”
Graham chuckled. “Glad to see ye finally figured out women.”
“Those Ross bastards never could compete with us, and they didna even see us coming.”
9
Clara stood outside the tent listening to the tail end of a conversation she very much wished she’d heard the beginning of. Was Graham truly talking about her as though she were a piece of meat carved off a lamb to be served upon a platter to the hungriest man?
Bastard!
