The Highlander’s Dare

by Eliza Knight

  What?

  This was not the road she’d expected he’d take, and certainly not the one she wanted. Clara worked hard to keep the horror from showing on her face.

  “Everything is ruined.” She shook her head vigorously. “You shall lose your joust tomorrow, and it will be all my fault.”

  “Nay, I shall win because I will have ye by my side, lass. Ye will be watching me, your eyes on my every move, and I will feel the energy of that pull in my bones. Your gaze, your power will guide me in my movements, will direct my lance, my horse’s hooves.”

  Clara shook her head, trying not to stare at him as though he’d grown a second head. “That is too much. Too much pressure. I cannot possibly do any of that.” And she was deadly serious. She did not want to be to blame if he should lose. Especially if he should lose to Graham, whom she’d kissed the day before and been unable to get out of her mind since.

  Heat raced to her cheeks, and Baston took the blush as a compliment. Lord, what would he think if he knew she’d been thinking about kissing another man?

  “Och, but ye’re bonnie when ye blush.”

  “I’m so sorry. I’m so mortified.”

  “Dinna be, lass. We shall fix this, and ye shall be my new token of good luck.” He leaned close, and she shot back, afraid he was going to try to kiss her.

  When this was over, she was going to give him back the wooden tip, because she would feel entirely too much guilt if he placed his luck in battle on her when she was going to leave him stranded.

  Aye, he was an utter cad, and she was growing to despise him more with each day that passed, her conviction in being rid of him fortified with nearly every utterance from his mouth. He had just now, however, been kind to her. Though he’d called her a stupid fool, he’d also done his own clumsy attempt to make her feel better, and for that, she would not put his life at risk by causing him to doubt himself for too long.

  There were a lot of sighs and cooing coming from those witnessing them, hands clasped, kneeling on the floor, and Clara wanted to laugh. She wanted to laugh until she was doubled over, and tears were coming from her eyes. Where was Graham, anyhow? He was certain to enjoy a scene like this, to be sure.

  Alas, he would only be in the great hall if invited, and so she couldn’t expect to see him this morning, not unless she sought him out, or he managed to climb up the castle walls to her chamber window.

  “Kneeling on the floor with Baston Ross?” Graham snarled. He’d paid Alan a pretty penny to chase his dog into the great hall of the castle to spy on Lady Clara.

  “Aye. Looked to be a lovers’ quarrel and then a make up.”

  A lover’s quarrel… A make up.

  Was she playing with him this entire time? A ruse? Was it possible that she was on Baston’s side, and planned to go through with the wedding, but the two of them had come up with an elaborate plan of their own to humiliate Graham?

  It had been Clara who’d kissed him the day before, and blast, but it had been a marvelous kiss. One which he would not forget.

  Graham brooded on the matter all through the day as he trained with the men and tried to catch glimpses of Clara, but she was nowhere to be found. Not even a rousing game of knucklebone and three ales at the tavern with some of the other Scots warriors was enough to get his mind off of her and their current situation.

  And then the next move he was to make came, in the form of a servant ducking between people and calling his name.

  “I’m Graham Sutherland.”

  The servant rushed forward, bobbing his head. “Sir, and invitation, from Lord Yves to join the feast in the great hall this evening.”

  Graham nodded, working hard not to grin like a cat who’d finally caught the mouse. The little minx had gotten him invited as she’d said she would. Wasn’t that impressive?

  Throughout the day, he’d begun to doubt his earlier worries about whose side she was on. There was no way someone could fake that kiss and the way she’d smashed into him first—her eagerness, the passion, the mortification following—that had all been real. And so, had the way she’d kissed him after, the desire he’d seen lurking in her eyes. Those powerful primal reactions would be hard to imitate, even for a talented actress, which clearly, she was. If Alan believed that she was playing nice with her betrothed, that was plenty of proof there. Whatever plan she’d put into place to destroy Baston’s good luck charm had to be working, else his invitation would not have come for she’d have nothing to report.

  What exactly had she been doing on the floor of the great hall? He couldn’t wait to find out.

  Graham made his way back to his tent to clean himself up before the feast. He’d have to wear a fine tunic and shave the stubble from his face. Cormac was nowhere to be seen, as usual, the evidence of his having been there before left behind.

  Upon entering through the gate of the castle, Graham glanced up at the ramparts, spotting Lady Isolde’s piercing glower. But before he could decipher the meaning behind it, Clara brushed his side, and he smiled down at her, the tension in his body releasing. Just like that, with her beside him, he instantly felt better. What was that all about?

  “For a moment, I did not recognize you, sir,” she teased.

  “And why’s that?”

  “You’ve shaved the stubble from your face. I thought you were your brother.”

  Graham chuckled. “I too own a shaving blade. Have ye seen Cormac?” He glanced around at the knights in the bailey. If Lady Isolde was atop the tower, where was his brother? What progress was he making?

  She shook her head. “Not just now.”

  “Thank ye for the invitation to the feast.” His stomach growled as they entered the great hall, and the scents of hearty fare attacked his senses. Lord, but he was starving.

  “I had to. Before Baston sees us together and directs one, or both of us, to different tables. Let us sit.” Clara led him to the same table she’d dined at the first night he’d seen her and pointed for him to sit across from her. “The plan worked.”

  “Did it?”

  “Aye. Well, sort of. There are a few kinks I need to work out.” She beamed, then looked about surreptitiously. “Hold out your hand under the table.”

  Graham narrowed his eyes but did as she directed and stuck his hand under the table. Nothing happened.

  “We are not close enough,” she murmured. “I’m trying to hand you something.” Her face brightened when she saw the serving wench pouring wine for a few people down the table. “Oh, I know.”

  She passed him her wine goblet. “Will ye have her pour me some more wine?”

  Graham frowned into the cup, seeing a tiny piece of worn wood.

  “Take that out,” she whispered. “Put it in your pouch.”

  Graham did as she asked and then handed the wench the cup of wine. Before he could ask what the meaning of the piece was, Baston smashed through the doors of the great hall and announced his presence to everyone.

  “What are ye doing here?” he asked Graham, his irritation palatable when he reached the table.

  Graham smirked up at the bastard. “I was invited.”

  “By whom?” Baston immediately looked at Clara, which Graham found very interesting.

  “Lord Yves.”

  Baston looked back at Graham, a little surprised. “And why are ye sitting at this table?” The arsehole’s eyes slid toward Clara, his jealousy and lack of confidence evident in a flash that was briefly there and gone.

  Now Graham was going to put Lady Clara to the test. “The lady invited me to sit.”

  Baston snapped his head in Clara’s direction; this time, his confusion was wiped clean and replaced by jealousy full on. She smiled up at her betrothed with not a trace of worry in her features.

  “Oh, I remembered that the two of you knew each other, and I thought it would be good for you to catch up.” She fluttered her eyelashes and flashed a vapid smile.

  Graham wanted to applaud the show. She was truly that good.

&nbs
p; “Catch up?” Baston nearly bellowed. “I loathe this man, and I dinna want him at my table.”

  Graham swallowed a laugh. Goodness, but Baston was wearing his feelings on his sleeve for all to see.

  “Darling, where is your sense of charity?” Clara said, her words so coated with honey, Graham could feel their syrupy sweetness from across the table.

  Begrudgingly Baston sat down, seemingly appeased by being called “darling,” the shallow idiot. He then held up his mug, demanding ale from whichever servant could get there first. Graham caught Clara’s eyes, and she flashed him a triumphant grin.

  This was all a part of her plan. Graham was a part of her plan. She was using him right then and there to get under Baston’s skin, and it was working.

  The Ross bastard downed his ale and demanded another, and then a massive belch ripped from his throat. He wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve, and heavily draped his arm around Clara’s shoulders, tugging her close against him. He might as well have beat his chest and said loudly over and over again, “Mine, mine, mine.”

  The thing was, Clara’s plan was working on Graham, too. And that was unprecedented where he was concerned.

  Frustrated at the jealous monster churning in his gut, Graham focused his attention on those in the great hall, spotting his brother with Lady Isolde. They both looked miserable. He was going to have to speak to his brother about his flirtation tactics.

  “What do ye say, Graham?” Baston slammed his elbow on the table, offering Graham his hand as if he were proposing a challenge of strength.

  Bloody hell, what had he missed?

  He flicked his gaze to Clara, who looked uneasy, and mouthed silently, “Arm wrestle.”

  What the devil? Was he serious? Baston was grinning like a vengeful fool, and the rest of those in their immediate vicinity appeared eager, anticipating the arm-wrestling match.

  Graham forced himself not to grunt out an insult and placed his own elbow on the table. Baston gripped his hand, squeezing harder than was necessary, but Graham didn’t take the bait. The Ross rat might have been larger, he’d give him that, but he was not necessarily stronger. And for that matter, Graham was no wee lad himself.

  “Prepare to be defeated,” Baston boasted with a smirk.

  “I’ll be prepared, but defeat is no’ my purpose,” Graham responded, to which Baston narrowed his eyes, looking confused.

  There was so much stone behind that bastard’s eyes—a bit too much rock to comprehend basic insults. Och, oh well.

  Graham put all his strength into holding still. Baston pushed and pushed, and Graham would not budge. He wasn’t even trying to win yet; nay, he just wanted to tire the whoreson out, and damn, the idiot was falling for it. Perspiration startled to bead on Baston’s brow, and he was grimacing as if taking a giant shite. Graham found it hard not to laugh and resorted to biting his cheek to keep from making a single sound. When the first drop of sweat slid down the bridge of Baston’s nose, Graham went for it. Swift and unexpected, he applied a massive amount of pressure to Baston’s clammy paw and slammed it down onto the table in victory.

  Baston let out a bellow and glowered at Graham, shock and anger on the man’s face at having been so soundly beaten.

  Graham took the opportunity to wink at Clara as he stood. The lady blushed prettily and ducked her head, but not before he saw the pleasure in her smile. Ah, good. She was on his side.

  Nay, not his side, her own side.

  Ballocks.

  Her plan was going accordingly.

  With an exaggerated bow to those at the table and a silent “fuck ye” to all who’d thought Baston would win, Graham strolled from the great hall, head held high and a confident swagger in his step. He’d beaten Baston in every task set before him so far.

  “I’ll see ye on the list field, tomorrow, noon. We shall joust to see who is truly victorious!” Baston called after him, but Graham didn’t respond. Hell, aye, he was going to see him on the jousting field, and damn if he was going to let that bastard win.

  6

  Clara sat nervously while her maid wove her hair into a long braid threaded with a light blue ribbon to match her gown, then topped her head with a veil and gold circlet. The gown was one of her finest, and the circlet was usually only worn in official settings. Today, since she was representing her family and would be sitting in the stands with the other nobles, it was necessary to wear.

  She’d taken her breakfast in her chamber that morning, feeding most of her morning ham and biscuit to her hawk, who perched by her window. Her nerves were already on high alert after last night, and she did not want to see anyone this morning. After Graham had beat Baston in the arm-wrestling match, her disgusting betrothed had become all the more swollen-headed than he had been before, in his need to prove himself to be the best. It made no sense. He’d lost. One would think he’d cower. But not Baston.

  The night had been filled with one boasting event after another. There was an ale-drinking contest to see who could down their mug the quickest. This was followed by an eating contest, in which he challenged every man at the table to finish their fare in record time, resulting in not only Clara gagging but several of the ladies.

  His antics reached such a height of ridiculousness that when he stood and demanded she dance with him, he was practically swaying on his feet, and not in a good way. She’d bid him goodnight and started to retreat from the hall—only for him to follow her and stop her on the stairs. Clara’s heart had thudded in dread, for what could he possibly be after, stopping her on the way to her bedchamber?

  He’d gotten down on his knees and begged her to forgive his rotten behavior, claiming that he was only trying to impress her. His actions were surprising, but that didn’t make Clara respect him. And in fact, she’d been so irritated at that point that she’d snapped at him, the memory of those words still ringing in her ears, along with the shock on his face ingrained behind her eyes.

  “If you want to impress me, Sir Baston, you can stop acting like a fool, and start acting like a grown man.”

  The words themselves were only mildly insulting, but it had been enough to make him mortified and angry all at once. She’d expected him to slap her. To toss her over his shoulder and find the closest dungeon. But instead, he’d stood and glowered down at her, growling that he was twice the man of any she’d ever met and that when they were wed, she’d know for certain just how much of a man he was.

  The man was a fool with a loudmouth.

  So, nay, the idea of breaking her fast with him possibly present, or anyone else who might have witnessed any of his antics, had not appealed. The idea of sitting with the nobles to watch the joust also did not appeal.

  But she would have to make the most of it. She had no other choice but to feign illness, which would only likely draw Baston to her chamber door, and she wanted him well away from her.

  Her morning ablutions complete, Clara left her chamber and went in search of the other ladies who would be attending the joust. Lady Annora greeted her and they made their way together to the list fields, accompanied by several of Lord Yves’s guards who carried long swaths of fabric tented over them to shield them from the rain.

  Clara was too nervous to speak with any of the ladies as they walked, beyond murmuring a few ayes and nays and inserting a couple of carefully placed laughs. Hidden up her sleeve was a blue silk scarf that she’d embroidered her initials on. A favor for a worthy knight. This was the next move in her list of ways to drive Baston away.

  So far, nothing was working, and every step she’d taken only seemed to pull him in closer. Or make him more determined to keep her if last’s night's antics were any indication.

  She was not senseless enough to believe he wanted this betrothal because he liked her or loved her, however. The dowry alone would make any man rich as sin, and that was what Baston was after: coin.

  Riches were an inevitable draw for any man she might marry, and if that were going to be the case, she wanted to
at least have a part in picking him. If only her mother hadn’t been a part of the scheming. With her father being sick, her mother would have been her only ally. How sad that her mother had not wanted to help her. Oh, how Clara wished she could have stayed home! Could have avoided this entire situation. She missed her father, and this was just another reason she was eager to return to Normandy. Clara had barely had a chance to say goodbye, and soon it might be too late.

  Tears sprung to her eyes. A daughter’s duty was to wed whom she was told, but Clara was weary of all that nonsense. She wanted to go home now.

  The trumpets blared, shocking her from her emotional moment. It drew her attention to the list field where the knights were parading down the line in their livery, their lances held high and their horses prancing proudly, despite the rain. Their surcoats were soaked, and mud was starting to churn in the fields. Why did they have to go on? Why not postpone? This kind of weather made a joust more dangerous.

  Thunder cracked overhead as if to bolster her thoughts, but it seemed not to deter any of the knights, and Lord Yves started the competition as if nothing were amiss.

  It wasn’t hard to spot Baston. His surcoat was red with yellow stars, and the helmet he wore had been fashioned to look like a lion’s head with water dripping off the sharpened teeth. Several horses back, she caught sight of Graham. He also wore a red surcoat, but his was dotted with white. Were those lion paws? His helmet was not as elaborate as Baston’s, and she found that to be endearing. Graham didn’t need to impress everyone with his garments and headgear. The strength that exuded from him, the way he sat his horse with such confidence, was enough to draw the eye, more so than any flashy helmet.

  Baston Ross was all about having eyes on him, whereas Graham was perfectly happy just being himself, which had on many occasions in the past few days proven to be far superior.

  The line of knights circled the list fields and then came toward the lord’s platform, pausing in lines to face Lord Yves, who began a long-winded speech that Clara had no interest whatsoever in listening to. Instead, she watched the knights. Baston wasn’t even looking at her but had his eyes concentrated on Lord Yves as if willing the man to call him the victor before the jousts had even begun.