by Eliza Knight
“’Tis just that—” He cut himself off before he could tell her exactly why he didn’t want her to sit. “If we need to make our escape quickly, standing will be easier.”
“Very true, good thinking.”
“Aye.” Graham stared at her, taking in the green of her eyes, the round of her shoulders, and the delicate collar bones that he wanted to run his fingers across.
They were all alone here. And if he were to kiss her, no one would be the wiser. If she wanted him to kiss her… His gaze fell to her lips, and a surge of desire, heated and potent, ran through him.
Graham shook his head.
“What is it?” Her voice had lowered an octave, and if he wasn’t mistaken, some of the desire running through him appeared to be mirrored in her own gaze.
“Nothing.” He tugged at his collar. “I was simply thinking of what the next step in your plan should be.”
She drew in a long breath and flashed him a smile. “I’m glad because I have wracked my brain for days, and all I keep coming up with is an image of myself running through the forest.”
Graham chuckled. “That would not help your situation.”
“Not in the least.” She shook her head and laughed.
Why did her laugh have to be so enticing? Graham worked hard to focus on the topic at hand. “This is what I’ve been thinking about: first, every warrior has a good luck charm. Ye’re going to destroy it.”
As Graham listed off the ways in which Clara was to destroy their mutual enemy, she was completely enthralled. Impressed with his ideas, for they were certain to work, but she was also mesmerized by the strength of him, the humor in him, and the way he couldn’t stop looking at her mouth.
Did he want to kiss her?
Now her mind was on kissing, and with every curve of his lips, with every syllable uttered, she imagined what it would feel like if he took her in his arms. Her body pressed to his, the heat between them curling around her limbs like a blanket. The strong desire she’d seen in his eyes as his gaze trailed over her face once more, and then he’d kiss her, and the world would disappear.
They were all alone. No one there to see. If she were just to take three steps forward, she’d close the distance between them, and she could claim her first kiss.
And what a kiss to be had it would be. The very best of kisses, and one she could take home with her to Normandy to savor all the rest of her days, or if their plan didn’t work, one she could recall every time Bloody Baston kissed her.
“Phoenix,” Graham was saying.
Aye, phoenix birds rising from the ashes. That would be her with his kiss ingrained in her memory.
“Phoenix,” he was saying it in a sing-song voice now and waving his hand before her eyes. “Have ye heard a word I was saying?”
Clara snapped back to attention, a nervous laugh escaping her. “I had quite forgotten that I named myself that.”
“Code names can only work if ye recall them,” Graham said with a taunting raise of his brow. “What were ye thinking about?”
Again, his gaze flicked to her lips. Goodness, but if he didn’t stop doing that, she was definitely going to kiss him. She licked her lips, and his eyes went a little wider. She’d only done it out of nerves, but it seemed to excite him.
And without thinking, she closed the distance between them, grabbed the front of his tunic and smashed her mouth to his.
In theory, the move should have been mind-blowingly epic.
In reality, her nose crushed painfully against his, their teeth clanked together, and she bit her tongue.
Backing up in pain, Clara held her fingers to her lips in confusion.
Graham was staring at her with brows narrowed, looking cross or stunned—she couldn’t decide—and heat flamed to her face. Oh, what mortification. His surprise disappeared, replaced by confusion, and then gentling into something altogether different.
“Lass, if ye wanted a kiss, all ye had to do was ask.” His fingers brushed her cheek, the soft burr of his voice stroking over her skin and making her tingle in places she hadn’t even known existed. “And I’d give it to ye properly.”
Her throat closed; her mouth went dry. Clara opened her mouth to say something, but there was no sound other than the blood running through her ears.
“Do ye want a proper kiss?”
Did she… did she ever!
“Aye,” she croaked.
“We will remain friends when ’tis done,” he said softly. “We’ve still a plan to put in place.”
She nodded. “Friends.”
“Come to me, Phoenix.”
She obeyed instantly, stepping forward, and his hand went to her waist and then around the small of her back. With gentle pressure, he edged her closer until her body was flush with his, and she could no longer breathe for it. His body was all hard muscle and strength, a solid pillar to her curves and her legs that felt like mush, her knees that were growing weaker by the second.
Slowly, Graham lowered his face to hers, their eyes locked together, a slight smile curing his devilish mouth. And then his lips brushed hers, his eyelids dipping closed, and hers following suit as she let out a sigh that she’d seemed to be holding in all the days of her life.
There was no crunching of her nose, no smash of teeth, no painful sting of her biting her tongue. There was only warmth and softness and… pleasure. Clara circled her arms around his neck as he kissed her. He smelled of fresh herbs and the outdoors, and she inhaled deeply, committing his scent to memory.
The softness of his hair tickled the back of her hand, and she curled a tendril around her finger as she clung to him. Wet heat slid over her lips, sending a shockwave of pleasure and excitement through her. Was that his tongue? Graham slid the velvet heat of his tongue over her lips, and then between, coaxing her mouth open, and she tentatively did as he asked, allowing the slickness inside.
He touched his tongue to hers, and she gasped, pulling back from him to stare wide-eyed into his blue gaze, her eyes heavily lidded.
“Phoenix, I think that is enough kissing for today,” he murmured, reaching up to remove her hands where they clasped in his hair.
Enough kissing for today… that left room for more kissing tomorrow, which made her belly flip because she wanted to kiss him again, now. And she wanted him to put his tongue back into her mouth.
“That was… That was lovely,” she said.
“Was it your first?” He passed her a lop-sided grin that fairly said the words, “I know.”
“How did you know?” Her face heated and she pretended to smooth her skirts so he wouldn’t notice how red her cheeks had become.
Graham shrugged. “Something about the way we started.”
Clara couldn’t help but giggle. “I am sorry about that.”
“Dinna be sorry.” Suddenly, he was frowning. “We’ve been gone long enough. No one will miss seeing me, but ye, my lady, are Prince John’s niece, a guest of Lord Yves. Ye’d best return to the stands.”
“I have no interest in the parade,” she pouted.
“I assume ye also have no interest in your nuptials being moved up if ye were to be caught with me.”
She’d not thought of that. Such would be a devastation. “That is very true.”
“Go on then. I’ll be right behind ye to make certain ye arrive safely back.”
“And our plan?”
“We are set to begin tomorrow, aye? Baston does no’ fight in the joust until the day after, which gives ye plenty of time to mess with his head. To put a damper on something he cares about, destroy something he holds dear. Ye’ll know it when he presents it; the man is very eager to tell everyone everything.”
“When is your first entry?”
“I’m working on joining Baston’s joust.” Clara grinned. “I will report the success of the mission to you on the morrow at some point then. Perhaps I can gain you an invitation to the feast tomorrow night.”
“My thanks, my lady.” He bowed. “Until then, I wish ye well in tauntin
g our mutual nemesis.”
Clara ducked out of the tent before it was too late, and she was asking him for just one more kiss. There was something about Graham that drew her in. He was intoxicating—that was the best way to say it. But that made him dangerous.
She would need to avoid him the rest of the day, and keep her mind on the mission ahead, for tomorrow she was going to have to ruin Baston’s arrogant mood.
5
“Sir Baston, I’ve heard that so many men have a specific token they take into a battle as a good luck charm. Have you something like this?” Clara batted her lashes at the great brute preening in front of her.
They had been eating breakfast in the great hall. Though she’d risen early, it had not been early enough, for Baston was once again holding court at the table. Clara found herself on more than one occasion staring at the people surrounding him and wondering what in the world they saw that was so enchanting as to have them practically drooling over every word he uttered. No longer did he sit at the table, but stood with a foot propped up where his arse had been, his forearm on his knee as he leaned forward to regal those surrounding them with a story that seemed more fabrication than truth. This seemed to be his preferred position for reigning over his admirers, and she wondered if she just shoved him the tiniest bit off balance if he would tumble or catch himself.
Baston’s blue eyes slid to hers, an arrogant smile and a grunt from his throat. “Of course I do.”
The poor Scot was falling right into her trap.
Clara thrust her chest out, pressing her palm to her breasts, a little gasp coming from her throat, mouth forming an “O.” How she hated herself at that moment for her antics, but they seemed to enthrall Baston, who was currently ogling her breasts, his grin growing wider.
So, she kept going. “Oh, would you let us see what has aided you in becoming such a triumph among knights?” She smiled and nodded to those at the table who also joined her in the request.
Baston eyed her a moment, as though trying to decipher out her words and meaning. Was it a bit too much, this act she was putting on? Would he think her up to something and accuse her?
“Please?” She pouted and fluttered her eyelashes again, arching her back just a smidge more. “I would know what my betrothed holds so dear.”
A chorus of agreement went up from those at the table and using that particular word with the unsung promise that soon her breasts would be his seemed to do the trick.
Unable to deny her, and seemingly excited given the way his grin widened at the prospect of being called her betrothed before everyone present, he raised to his full height and puffed out his chest.
He reached into the pouch at his hip and pulled out a small chunk of worn wood, about the size of the tip of his thumb. It was not carved into any particular shape. In fact, if she took her dagger and chipped off a piece of the table, it would be very similar to this particular piece of wood he was presenting her with. This was his token?
Clara eyed the piece and then Baston to see if he was serious, for this had to be a jest, but he was staring down at the piece of wood as if it had been handed to him by God himself.
He was serious.
Holy Mary Mother of God, the man was as dense as she thought.
Clara cocked her head to the side, feigning awe. “Oh, wow. That is a treasure. Where did it come from? What is its meaning?”
Please tell me this little chunk of rubbish actually has a meaning.
“’Tis the tip of my first training sword as a wee lad.”
Ah! Thank goodness, he was not a complete imbecile. “How did you manage to break off the tip?” Clara asked.
“’Twas fate, my dear.” He winked at her, and it was obvious he was trying his hand at flirting, but she was so disgusted by him already that it was hard not to gag at the thought of flirting back. And also, that wasn’t an answer to her question.
But rather than point that out, she had to remember her mission. A simpering idiot would believe indeed that fate had broken off the tip of his sword. “Oh my, that is so incredible,” she gushed, followed by an admiring sigh. “Can I touch it?”
“Of course. Ye’re my betrothed. I’ll let ye touch the tip of my sword any time ye wish.” The tone of his voice had changed drastically, and she supposed it was meant to be… lusty.
A few snickers went up from those at the table whose minds had gone to the chamber pot, but she pretended not to notice at all, and pinched the wood between her fingers, lifting it from his palm.
“Careful now, my lady, ’tis quite old.”
“How old is it?” Goodness, what was wrong with him? Perhaps he had been bashed on the head too many times.
“As old as myself. My father had the sword fashioned and presented on the night of my birth.”
Of course, the old Ross chieftain had been so certain that his wife would have a male heir first. Clara resisted the urge to roll her eyes. It would appear that the Ross clan arrogance did not fall far from the tree.
“’Tis extraordinary,” Clara whispered.
“Aye.”
She stared up at him wide-eyed. “Tell us of the most incredible victory you’ve had with this piece by your side.”
Baston resumed his propped position on the stool, ready to do his favorite thing—talk about himself. “It was me against eighteen other men.”
“Eighteen?” she gasped, clutching the wooden piece in her fist and pressing it to her heart. “Oh, how did you ever survive?”
“That piece ye hold so closely to your breast—I mean heart,” he blustered. “My dear, heart, that is how.”
He continued his story full of falsehoods and exaggerations, and with every word spoken, the crowd grew almost as enamored with Baston as he was with himself. Everyone except for her. She wasn’t buying one single word of his story. What she was doing, however, was tucking the piece of wood into her bodice and pretending it was still clutched in her hand.
No one appeared to be the wiser for it at all.
When he finished his story, he held out his hand. “My tip, please.”
Clara played silly and shook her head. “Oh, I haven’t any coin. But it was a marvelous story, and I am so very impressed with you, as I’m certain the rest of you are as well.” She nodded at those around the table, who nodded back, though they looked slightly confused as to what they were referring to.
She’d been waiting for a moment to jump up in mock surprise, but none had yet presented itself. How was she going to play it off as if she’d dropped the piece onto the floor if she wasn’t surprised enough to do it? Taking his token was part of her plan to throw him off his game, and to make him angry with her. Mess with his head, that was what Graham had said, and what better way to mess with a warrior’s head than to steal away his luck.
Baston had been buying quite a bit of what she was selling, but even she wasn’t talented enough to suddenly be fearful of nothing and pretend to drop his prize into the rushes strewn about the great hall floor.
“Thank ye, lass, for enjoying the true story of my greatest victory. ’Twas an honor to share it with such a captive audience. Now if ye will, please hand me back the tip of my—”
The great hall door banged open then, and the mangy mutt she’d seen with the man near the list field bounded across the floor with his master chasing after him. Though a little belatedly, Clara let out a scared, “Ohhh!” and threw her hands up in the air, tossing herself backward enough just to make it look like she’d fall off the bench, but not completely.
“Get that mutt out of here,” Baston demanded. He came around the table to help her sit upright, his gaze riveted on her empty hands. “Where is it?”
“Where is what? The hound? He’s right there.” Clara pointed to the dog who was being easily escorted from the great hall by his master. She clutched at his shirt, feigning fear, and hoping to make him even more irritated by pretending not to know what he was talking about.
It worked.
“Nay, ye daf
t—” Baston caught himself before fully insulting her in front of so many people he wanted to continue admiring him and plastered a forced smile onto his face. “Where is my token?”
Clara stared down at her hands, feigning shock and surprise. “Oh, no!” She leapt from the stool, dropped to her knees and started shoving at the rushes, scattering them, and putting them back into a pile before scattering again.
“I just had it! It was in my hands, and then the dog, and then I nearly fell and broke my neck.” Two people could exaggerate stories, couldn’t they? Everyone would believe they were perfect for each other. Mayhap, in that case, she should tone it down. “Where is it? Where is it?”
“Ye dropped it?” Voice a higher octave than usual, and audibly panicked, Baston dropped to all fours beside her, sifting through the rushes.
Clara turned in a circle, creating more of a mess, all the while feeling the wooden piece burn into her chest and being fairly certain she was going to hell. This was a cruel trick she was playing. The poor buffoon was likely going to get himself killed now that she’d stolen the talisman that he believed made him a success.
That was a lot of pressure to live with. Pressure she didn’t want or need.
It was on the very edge of her nerves to simply pull the wooden piece from her bodice and present it back to him, and come up with another plan all together, when Baston hissed, “Ye stupid wee fool, how could ye do this?”
The guilt magically disappeared with his words. How interesting.
Clara sat back on her heels, pressed her hands to her face, covered her eyes and pretended to cry. “I’m sorry,” she wailed. “I’m so clumsy. And now you will likely die in battle, and I shall be left a widow all the days of my life.”
Her words caused him to still, and instead of issuing more insults, he surprised her by taking her hands in his and kissing her knuckles one at a time—she worked hard not to cringe. This was not how this moment was supposed to go.
“Och, my dear, dinna fash yourself over it. ’Tis just a tiny piece of wood. Perhaps now Fate has led me to a new token of good luck—ye.”