The Highlander’s Dare

by Eliza Knight

  Graham swung again, this time catching Baston on the shoulder, hitting him at such an angle that Baston was unhorsed. From the ground, Baston retaliated, swinging his weapon. The blow landed at Graham’s hip, jolting pain down his leg. But pain was part of the game, wasn’t it? Shaking off the blow and resituating on his horse, he retaliated, thwarting the next crack of Baston’s hammer, and circling him. Bloody hell, but he wanted to slam his mace into the lion’s maw.

  Three Ross men came from behind Baston, almost as if he’d shite them out of his armor, and Baston stilled, allowing his henchmen to come at Graham swinging. Graham had anticipated something like this in advance and took it all in stride. Swinging two-handed with his mace first into one man’s head and then the next, he knocked them both unconscious and took a swipe from the third man in his gut.

  Thrown backward by the hit, Graham tried to stay seated on his horse, but it was to no avail. The mace had slammed into him too hard. He landed on the ground, quickly getting to his feet, backing up a pace to catch his breath. Baston laughed and took that opportunity to attack him, hammer overhead. The third Ross man turned his hammer on Duncan, who’d rushed him from the side to help. But that man underestimated Duncan, who easily caught him in the chest with his pike, pushing him back.

  Graham waited until the last possible moment and then launched his body forward, surprising Baston when he tackled him around the middle, causing what would have been a massive blow from the war hammer to be a mere tap against Graham’s back as they fell to the ground. Graham was quick to jump to his feet, giving Baston a swift and mighty kick to the ballocks.

  From somewhere in the clash of bodies and bellows, Graham recognized his brother’s deep, guttural bellow of anguish. A glance up saw Lord Easton storming toward them, and a shudder of fear went through Graham. Nay…

  Brodie Ross saw what was happening and ordered a man to fight Lord Easton. Bounding to his feet, Baston seemed filled with renewed energy and a determination to keep Graham from going to his brother’s aid. Ross men on foot swarmed around him like flies, while the other brothers launched themselves at Cormac and Lord Easton.

  “I’ll bloody kill ye,” Graham threatened, swinging repeated blows at Baston and his men as they attempted to overwhelm him. Every bash of his was met by a whack from Baston. Every bellow had an answering cry. What was supposed to be an easy victory was more and more looking like an outnumbered ambush.

  The distance between Cormac and Graham grew until Graham felt it like a physical ache, as though the Rosses had managed to amputate a limb or cut him in half. There were too many of them. They were not prepared. And he was too far away from Cormac to offer his brother any help.

  Clara sat in the stands; her fingers numb from clutching them so hard. She was surrounded by cheering onlookers who took the melee in stride, enjoying every bloody moment and calling out for the knights they wished to win. No one seemed at all disturbed by the display, as emotionally involved as she was. Was she overreacting? Were they all hiding their true feelings? For how could this melee be seen as anything other than a disaster?

  The joust had been a mild dance compared to the melee, which was all-out violent chaos. Men were not supposed to kill each other according to the rules, but from what it looked like to her, blood was all the knights were after as they hacked at one another with weapons that were supposed to be blunted but drew blood all the same. Unhorsed men were being dragged off the field and held for ransom while others were being beaten until they submitted, fell into unconsciousness, or God forbid, died.

  How was this supposed to be a game? How was this supposed to be for sport? It was madness.

  This was the bloodiest, most violent form of entertainment that Clara had ever seen, and she’d be mightily pleased to never see it again. Ever.

  Those in the stands cheered, the sounds deafening, and only outnumbered by the thuds of men beating each other, and the answering shouts of pain. She tried to keep track of the Sutherlands and Rosses, tried to make out their forms on the field, but the rush and movements of the bodies made it hard to see who was who and what was happening, other than the repeated rise and fall of weapons, the buckling of knees.

  Lord Yves had made a mistake in allowing a melee. Especially when bringing together so many knights with vendettas. It would have been one thing, perhaps, if it were all English men, all men on King Richard’s side. But bringing into the mix men of Scotland, Ireland, France, men of King Richard’s and Prince John’s opposing factions, was only asking for trouble. Made the entire tournament undignified and ruthless.

  More than once, she started to stand to leave, and more than once, she forced herself to sit back down. To watch to the end, to pray for Graham and his brother.

  To pray for a Sutherland victory.

  The melee field had dwindled as the battle continued for what felt like hours. Graham heaved a breath, taking just a split second to recover before he was going to be attacked again. The Ross clan was relentless, but so were the Sutherlands.

  A vision of Clara sang through Graham’s heart, and a burst of renewed energy filled him. He searched the lord’s platform, feeling as though he could make out her form, though it was hard to tell. A blue scarf waved from her hand, and he knew that she was watching. His heart leapt in his chest.

  This was for her. For them both, so they might live life together. For his clan, his people. For his brother.

  Bellowing his rage with newfound vigor, Graham beat back the Ross warriors, slamming one to the ground after another, not allowing them to overcome him as they swarmed. Duncan and Lachlan joined him, Cormac and Lord Easton no longer in sight. As he fought, catching pockets of the ground in his sight, Graham searched for his brother.

  “Cormac!” he bellowed between blows.

  “Gone to fetch Lord Easton,” Duncan said.

  “He’ll be fine,” Lachlan agreed.

  The three of them fought off the remaining Rosses, one notably gone—Brodie Ross.

  “Where is your brother?” Graham growled at Baston as they parried.

  “Where is yours?”

  That was an answer enough.

  Sweat dripped from Graham’s forehead and temple, beneath his armor, his gambeson, soaking through from exertion. They’d taken several of the Ross knights out of the game, but still, the others rallied.

  A familiar figure appeared at his side, war hammer in hand—Alan. “Cormac and his bride head for Sutherland.”

  Graham grinned. Those were the words he’d been waiting to hear. His brother was alive, had beaten Brodie, and was taking his prize back to Scotland. They’d won. This fight was over. Even if Graham laid down his weapon and allowed the bastard enemies to crush him right then and there, the Sutherlands would still reign victorious.

  But he wasn’t going to let that happen. Because he had made a promise to Clara that he would come out of this alive. A little bruised, but alive. Graham had never given up on a promise. He was a man of his word.

  And with that, he hollered a battle cry, echoed by his men, that seemed only to confuse the Ross warriors.

  Graham swung his mace harder and harder, beating Baston back until the man showed signs of weariness, and despite trying to retaliate, dropped to his knees.

  “Ye’ll kill me now?” Baston asked, hatred in his words as he glared up at Graham, who stood over him, mace poised to issue a crushing blow.

  Graham scowled. “This is a melee, ye fucking bastard, not a battle. And I fight for Clara, for my people. She is mine, and ye will no longer hurt any of us.” And with that, Graham slammed the butt of his mace into the idiot’s head and watched him slump over. Injured, but not dead.

  Let him live the rest of his days knowing he’d failed, that Graham had taken from him what he sought. Let him have a taste of defeat. Behind him, Duncan, Lachlan and Alan had seen to the rest of the Ross men, all lying and clutching wounds. All around them, bodies were strewn on the ground. Injured men groaned in pain, while some still fought. But
Graham didn’t care who won, who was left standing, and who had to be dragged to the healer’s tents. He’d done what he came to do, and kicked Baston Ross’s arse.

  Eyes on the stands, he shouted, “It is done!” not knowing if Clara would hear him.

  “Let’s go,” he ordered his men, marching off the field, both exhausted and full of new aches, but the surge of victory propelling him forward.

  At his tent, they stripped from their armor, splashed water on their faces. Cormac’s things were gone, and soon Graham’s would be as well. Preparing to dress so he could go in search of Clara, he’d only just pulled on his hose when the men around him grew silent

  Graham turned to see Clara standing at the opening of the tent, and his men slipping outside. His heart lurched. She was a sight to behold, beautiful, ethereal. Pinkened cheeks, a smile mirroring his own relief and happiness, a beautiful rose-colored gown hugging her curves. His Clara was the balm he needed to soothe his wounded soul.

  “Congratulations,” she said with a smile on her lips.

  Graham approached her, needing to feel her against him, to tell her he loved her. “I did it for ye,” he said, sliding his hands around her waist and tugging her close.

  “I’ve never had anyone fight for me.” Her arms came up around his shoulders, fingers threading into his wet hair.

  Graham’s forehead fell to hers, and he drew in a deep breath, taking in her scent. “I would fight for ye over and over again.”

  “Take me to Scotland,” she whispered.

  “Aye, I will.”

  “Today?”

  “Aye, today.” The sooner they left, the better since Cormac had already gone. Graham was not yet certain what had happened with Brodie Ross, but Baston was going to be in a murderous mood when he woke. Best if they were already well away from here when it happened. He pressed his lips to hers, murmuring against their velvet softness, “I love ye.”

  “I love you, too.” Clara leaned up on her tiptoes to kiss him back. Her hands slid over his bare shoulders and back. He loved the way she touched him, the way his skin felt scorched. Desire rushed through his veins, more potent than even the lust of battle.

  Oh, how he wanted to make love to her. To lay her out right then and there on his pallet, and to show her just how much he needed her, loved her, worshipped her.

  “I’m already packed and ready to leave when you say so,” she murmured, her hand pressed to his heart.

  Graham nodded, teasing her mouth with a little nip. “I dinna want ye to leave my side. I’ll send Alan to fetch your things, and then we shall be off.”

  Clara smiled up at him. “I cannot wait to be free of this place.”

  She sank against him, her head to his chest, and he felt a surge of warmth fill him, as well as a deep instinct to protect her. What had started off as a game had changed him completely. This woman had changed him. Made him whole somehow.

  Lord, if someone had told him a mere sennight ago that he’d be embracing the woman he loved, willing to die to protect her, Graham would have laughed in their face.

  But now, he just wanted to hold her closer. He pressed his lips to her soft hair, breathing in her familiar scent and sighing with contentment.

  “If I were to have it my way, we’d never have to see another Ross face ever again,” he said.

  “A dream that I pray becomes a reality.”

  12

  Leaving Rose Citadel and Lord Yves’s domain was a lot easier than Clara would have ever imagined. Alan gathered her things, including her hawk. Her maid was paid well to pretend Clara was ill in bed and couldn’t come to the feast, and off they went with Alan, Lachlan and Duncan on horseback.

  The three men with them had also managed to procure a few extra provisions for the Sutherland clan, which were being transported on three additional horses. How they came by the horses and provisions, Clara wasn’t certain, and she didn’t want to ask, for she was convinced whoever woke up tomorrow and found their things gone might just chase after them.

  They rode hard and for a long distance, leaving Clara sore from never having to do so before, and quite often, she found herself in Graham’s lap, which was perfectly fine with her. Her hawk proudly took over her seat each time she vacated the saddle. Though they’d yet to say their vows before a priest, they were in mind and body already united. If Baston Ross, or God forbid Clara’s mother, came for her, they could argue their marriage was already consummated.

  However, they had also decided that when they reached Sutherland lands, they would officially declare before one and all in Graham’s birthplace their eternal commitment.

  The journey north took nearly two weeks. Several days they’d had to take up the hospitality of clans along the way because of rain, and in those moments when they’d stopped, she and Graham had claimed to be husband and wife, and then were given a room together where they made love until they both passed into a deep sleep.

  Clara had been nervous about traveling so far up into the Highlands, simply from the stories she’d heard of Highlanders and warriors being complete savages—not only from when she was a child, but from whispers at the tournament too. But for her part, every Scot besides the Rosses that she’d come into contact with had been perfectly charming.

  And so, she was pleasantly surprised to find they had no trouble on their journey. It was obvious that Graham and his brother were well respected; or else, he’d only taken them on a path through clan lands that were on their side. That made more sense. Graham was not an idiot and had said many times that he would protect her with his dying breath.

  Of course, she prayed it didn’t come to that. She’d much rather they both live to be old with their grandchildren running amuck around them. The very thought of that made her smile, and she snuggled closer on Graham’s lap, the temperature in the Highlands having sunk several degrees from what it had been in England.

  “We’re almost home,” he whispered against her ear.

  Home…

  Clara perked up, excited to see the place where Graham had roamed as a child and grown into a man. “Do you think they will… like me?” She felt silly for asking the question, but she couldn’t not ask.

  She was an outsider, infiltrating a tightly knit, struggling clan, and here she was bringing in riches. That wouldn’t exactly make people act genuinely toward her at first, a notion that upset her greatly. She wanted to befriend Graham’s people, embrace them as her own. “I do not want them to think me snobbish.”

  Graham chuckled. “No one who ever meets ye will think ye snobbish. They will all love ye as I do.” He sounded so confident.

  “Are ye certain?”

  “Aye, and if anyone wishes to challenge me on it, I will welcome the fight.”

  Clara turned around to look at him, stricken at the idea of him fighting over her anymore. “Oh, nay, do not fight on my account.”

  “Ye’re to be my wife. I’ll fight for ye every day for the rest of our lives.”

  She pressed her palm to his cheek. “My champion, but nay, I will not allow it. I shall challenge them myself.”

  “To a battle of wits? They will surely lose.” He winked.

  Clara shook her head. “I am also good with an arrow.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Aye. We can have a competition, you and me.” The very idea sent a thrill of excitement through her. This was a dream she’d had often as a child: one day, she’d challenge a handsome knight to a contest of skills. But how much more wonderful it was that the man captured her heart and that when they were done, they could kiss and make love.

  “I fear already ye have beat me.”

  She laughed. “How is that?”

  “Ye beat me at wits, and I fell for ye when ye rolled your eyes and practically called me a dog. How am I to go up against ye with weapons? Besides, I’ll be too busy staring at your breasts and wondering when I can take ye back to our chamber and make ye swoon.”

  Clara playfully swatted at him. “I dare you and
you cannot back away from a dare, sir. Do I need to take off my glove formally?”

  “Take everything off,” he growled wickedly into her ear. “Every single stitch, and we shall do this battle naked.”

  “Ye know we can hear ye?” Duncan said, sarcasm dripping from his words.

  Graham chuckled and urged his mount ahead. “Stay back there,” he called over his shoulder.

  The howling laughter of the men followed them as they put distance between them. Heat suffused Clara’s face, and though she was embarrassed that their conversation had been overheard, all she wanted to do was kiss Graham, no matter who saw.

  “Now, what was I saying?” Graham teased.

  “Something about being naked.”

  “Ah, aye, I canna wait to have ye in my bed, naked.”

  “Morning, noon and night.”

  Some hours later, Graham nudged Clara awake. “We’re here.”

  She rubbed the sleep from her eyes, sitting up on their shared mount as they passed through a small village and down a long winding road with a keep at the end. The salty scent of the sea blew on the breeze, and she breathed in deep.

  “I’d not realized you were by the sea,” she said.

  “Aye. I’ll take ye down to the beach later if ye like. And our chambers overlook the water, so ye’ll be able to see it anytime ye like.”

  “I should like that very much. In Normandy, we were several hours’ ride from the sea.”

  As their horses trekked down the road, people came out of houses, workshops, and in from the fields, their eyes scanning the group, some with worried expressions, others with joy. Clara’s heart went out to them all for the tragedy they’d suffered throughout the years.

  “Where is your brother?” someone called out.