Scottish/English Border
Sunday, June 20, 1193
There were really only two reasons that Graham Sutherland would ever enjoy finding himself crossing the English border from Scotland. One was if he was chasing the skirts of a buxom and deliciously tempting lass. And the second, but of equal enjoyment, would be if he was about to run his sword through the chicken-livered belly of a Sassenach.
Now, theoretically, he was crossing the border to put his sword against some English flesh, and he was also chasing after a woman—however, neither in this case was what he would consider fun.
If one were to be honest, he felt a bit like he was being tormented. Like the devil himself had lassoed him from hell and was dragging him down into the fiery depths to endure hours, weeks, years, an endless amount essentially of suffering. The woman he was supposed to take to wife was no doubt hideous and whiny and awful. She would put a damper on all of his fun, and the rest of his life would no doubt end up being completely miserable.
And yet, suffer he must, because despite being hellfire, the tourney was crucial to the survival of their clan. Their people had suffered long enough. Since they were unable to get the aid they needed from neighboring allies, it was time for Graham and his twin brother Cormac—the Chieftain of Clan Sutherland—to take what some might see as drastic measures.
And it had been Graham’s idea to come to the tournament, so he couldn’t really complain about it to his brother. Cormac wasn’t even good with ladies. Why the hell had Graham supposed he could get him to flirt with one successfully enough to steal her away from her potential husband, even if that husband was a bastard Ross? Everyone in the Highlands thought the Ross brothers—all five of them—were absolutely horrible people. Calling them people was an insult to other humans. Brodie and Baston Ross were at the tournament to gather up their brides and spill some English blood along the way, and Graham and Cormac were here to make sure the aforementioned didn’t happen.
But those in England were unsuspecting of the Ross brothers. For outwardly, they were able to exude charm, while on the inside, they were filled with the black slime of a bog.
Saints, how he loathed anyone of the Ross bloodline.
Graham was of the mind that if a lass was willing to sell herself into that vile lot, then perhaps, she wasn’t worth saving. Aye, saving, for though he and Cormac planned to rob the Ross bastards of their brides, they would also be doing the foolish women a favor.
And, in point of fact, their people—the Sutherlands—were worth saving. So, Graham and Cormac would suffer torment to save their clan. They could not watch more of their people die from hunger. Already, they’d lost too many.
So here they were, about to sell their own souls to the devil in order to lure a couple of lasses into an un-advantageous match, and more importantly their dowries, which should help bring their clan away from the brink of starvation and destruction. Easy enough, aye?
Graham slid his glance toward Cormac, who had the endless look of a man suffering greatly from a bout of food poisoning. Graham loved his brother to the deep marrow of his bones, but boy, did Cormac need to lighten up. Especially if he was going to gain the attention of any ladies present—specifically one intended for a Ross brother.
Rising up before them was Rose Citadel, as snobby a name as the man who sat his throne there, Lord Yves. The towers and battlements of the massive stone structure were littered with banners and ribbons proclaiming the tournament and the long bloodline of English bastards who resided there, but Graham didn’t give a fig about the castle. He was mostly interested in the tents that dotted the fields like spilled sugar on grass, and the many flags of the various men who’d come to fight, including their most hated enemy.
But if they were going to be successful, he was going to have to get his brother to stop his incessant frowning. Graham was tired as hell from their journey, and though he’d dried a little bit, he still felt soaked from the pounding rain they’d had to travel through. If he looked anything like his brother and the two Sutherland men that traveled with them—Lachlan and Duncan—then he’d have to step up the charm to win over any lady, let alone one betrothed to a Ross.
Luckily for Graham, wooing ladies was his specialty. It was even easier to woo them if they were already wed, or not saving themselves for a wedding night. Virgins took a lot more persuading, and he was going to have his work cut out for him getting Baston Ross’s betrothed to take a ride on the Sutherland side—but even worse was how he was going to help his brother. That was a challenge that was likely to wear Graham out faster than any lusty wench.
As if to prove that point, Cormac grimaced and let out a low growl at nothing in particular.
Graham shook his head and stifled a laugh. “Lighten up, brother, else ye’ll be sending Brodie Ross’s betrothed straight into his arms rather than yours.” Brodie Ross was the eldest of the Ross brothers and the current Chieftain of Ross. It made sense that Cormac, as a Chieftain himself, would go after another Chieftain’s woman. Though they hadn’t exactly agreed on that point quite yet. For them, it would be about which woman suited better, or which of the foolish wenches chose them.
Cormac slid an irritated glance at Graham. “This is never going to work.”
“Especially if ye look at it that way.” Graham pounded a hand on his twin’s back, taking note of the splash of water that came off with the smack. “Think of this conquest as ye would any other conquest—the only outcome is victory.” Graham shrugged. “Or if it makes more sense to ye, think of yourself as a twelve-point stag, and some young five-pointer has come along to steal your doe. Are ye just going to let that weaker, self-righteous arsehole get your lass or are ye going to skewer him with your superior rack?”
Cormac snickered. “By rack do ye mean his antlers, or my bride-to-be’s breasts?”
Graham laughed. “That’s more like it, brother. Show Brodie what he’s going to miss out on.”
Cormac scowled. “I’ll no’ be showing that bastard my wife’s breasts, brother. Nor any man.”
Graham’s eyes widened, and he held up his hands in surrender, trying to keep from laughing once more. “That’s right, ye’ll no’, so ye’d best quit with all the scowling, else she’ll no’ be showing ye either.”
“Point taken.” Cormac shook the water from his hair. “Let’s go find a place to set up, preferably well away from the bloody Ross bastards.”
“That’s the spirit.” Graham grinned at the Lachlan and Duncan, who returned the gesture, all of them becoming serious again as soon as Cormac speared them with his regard.
“Enough nonsense, brother. We are no’ here for fun.”
“On that account, I never doubted.”
They rode through the throng of tents, gaining glowers from some, nods from others, and what Graham liked most—being ignored—from yet another batch.
Graham picked the best location he could find in the few empty spaces. Having entered the tournament last minute, it looked like they were nearly the last to arrive in this godforsaken country.
Lord, he hoped there were going to be more Scots about than just them and the Ross clan. The machinations they had planned for those rotten scoundrels would more likely be noticed if they were the only Scots in attendance. And they couldn’t have that messing up what they’d come here to see done.
Come hell or high water, they would return to Scotland with wealthy brides to save their clan from starvation—even if they literally had to steal them away. Highlanders had done so before, and they’d do so again, he was certain. Graham did, however, hope their plans at wooing worked, because stealing a wench away would make his personal future bleaker than it already appeared.
Dismounting from his horse, Graham was immediately nudged on his thigh by the snout of a medium-sized hound. He rubbed a hand over the dog’s mud-colored head and matted spine, his palm coming away with a stain of brown.
Seemed like Graham was not the only one in need of a bath.
The owner of the hound looked just as worn and dirty, though he nodded at them with respect. “Are you looking for a mercenary?”
Graham tried not to laugh. Silly Englishman, didn’t he realize that Graham and Cormac were basically mercenaries themselves?
Cormac brushed away the man with a swift denial of their need to hire him, and the two brothers ducked into their newly built tent to prepare for the feast. They stripped out of their miserable clothes and washed, redressing in their finest garments that were mercifully dry.
“Are ye going to meet the lass tonight?” Cormac asked, affixing the Sutherland pin to his tunic.
“Aye, as should ye, brother. We’ve only a sennight to make the lassies fall in love and leave their intended matches. ’Tis a tall order on our parts, but also theirs.”
“Should be easy for ye, Graham. The lassies are always dropping at your feet like flies on honey.”
Graham raised his brow skeptically. “Aye, but what if in this instance, the flies wish for vinegar?” Lord help them if the brides actually wanted the Ross brothers instead.
“I dinna see that happening.”
Graham shrugged. “I didna see the Rosses giving aid to the MacDonalds and look where we are.”
That was a sad fact. After several bad harvests and not enough food coming in, the Sutherland brothers had begged aid from the Rosses, who always seemed to have more than enough. But in a vile twist, they had refused and instead gave aid to the hated MacDonalds, who would not share. Most of the other clans in the area were either in the same boat as the Sutherlands or had only enough to feed their people.
Cormac ran a hand through his dark hair, the same shade as Graham’s. He let out a long sigh that told of the enormity of their situation. If they didn’t win the battles they’d come here to fight, there was a lot more at stake than their pride. Lives would be lost.
Winning even one bride would make things better, but two would put their clan back on a path to prosperity for generations to come.
“I believe in ye, my laird.” Graham squeezed his brother’s shoulder. “To the feast, where we’ll make a lucky lass believe in ye, too.”
Lady Clara de Montfort had promised herself that the second day would be better than that first, which had been boring to the point of tedium and also fraught with nerves.
She’d had to travel all the way from her family home in Normandy, where she’d lived a relatively comfortable life unaffected by the drama in England and court of her Aunt Isabella, who was married to the strange Prince John. The sailing across the Channel had been awful, and she’d been sick nearly the whole of it, only to land and find herself feeling sicker with what was to come in a sennight—a most unwanted marriage.
Today, Sunday, everyone had started to arrive at Rose Citadel.
With her father’s health suffering as of late, he’d not been able to attend, and her mother had stayed by his side. But remaining in Normandy did not leave Clara without her mother’s long reach wrapped around her neck. With her father, the once virile Count de Evreux, she’d often found an ally against her mother’s plots, but now, there was no buffer. And the countess had schemed with her sister and Prince John to marry Clara off to some savage in the Highlands. A brute that she was going to meet today. Baston Ross.
Nay, thank you very much. I shall not like to take you as my husband.
Just how was she going to work up the nerve to say it?
Somehow in the next sennight, she had to figure out a way to get rid of the brute. She’d never met him before, but everyone knew that Highlanders were only a step above wild hogs. Clara might even go so far as to say that a wild hog had mated with a beastly bear and thus created Highlanders.
Of course, it wasn’t ladylike for her to think this way, but neither was it ladylike of her to try and get out of the betrothal, which she wholeheartedly intended to attempt. Starting today.
All day long, she’d paced in her chamber, trying to come up with a viable plan. And all day long, she’d tossed each idea out the window and thought about pitching herself out too.
That hog was going to get a massive dowry from her father, given she was his only child. A veritable treasure that would raise up even the richest of nobles to infamy. And it was going to a man she’d never met, nor had she agreed to wed. The unfairness of that fact was infuriating. She growled at her fisted hands and then threw them up in the air.
“My lady?” Her maid raised a brow. “Are you unwell?”
That was a nice way of asking if her head was on straight. “I am fine.”
“Suppose ’tis time for you to head to dinner before your betrothed comes to find you.”
Clara resisted the retort prepared to roll off her tongue, and instead nodded. If Baston Ross came to claim her, she’d not have the chance to choose a seat at the feast well away from him. Even his name was stupid. Baston. So close to Bastard. Maybe that was what she’d call him by accident. Nay, nay. She was willing to work on getting rid of the boar, but not on insulting him so openly. Who knew what he might do, and she didn’t want to have to defend herself from him.
This entire tournament was just as stupid as Baston Ross. Men pounding at each other with weapons for a prize. Didn’t they have anything better to do? And at the end, she’d be tossed over a horse and dragged away to Scotland. Clara didn’t even want to get married. What she wouldn’t give to be back home in Normandy, practicing with her arrows, and laying in the field with her pets. She’d been forced to leave behind her four hounds, two sheep, three pet rabbits, a squirrel, two cats, and her ducks who lived on the fishpond in the castle courtyard.
The only pets her mother had allowed her to bring were her horse and her hawk. Those were considered regal and ladylike. Everything else was too much trouble, the countess had claimed.
And Clara had cried all the way to England. There wasn’t a way she’d be able to replace the irreplaceable. Her new husband wasn’t going to allow her to have them, of that much she was certain. Baston Ross would probably eat them!
Nay, not her new husband. She shook her head. She couldn’t think of him in such terms. Her soon-to-be-ex-betrothed.
“My lady?” Again, her maid interrupted her thoughts. “Are you ready? Every step outside has me jumping that it is he.”
That was enough to get Clara’s attention. She hurried to the door of her bedchamber, a special suite set up just for her, which would be the place she’d be mauled after the wedding if she wasn’t successful in getting rid of the Bastard Hog.
If only they would allow women to participate in the games. She might have had a chance at accidentally shooting him with her arrows. Now that would have been a real treat. She didn’t have to kill him, just maim him a little, and then he certainly wouldn’t want to marry her.
The idea had merit; however, she was fairly certain the outcome would only give her grief.
“How do I look?” she asked her maid.
“Beautiful, my lady.”
“Then perhaps we should mess up my hair or rip my skirts?” She lifted the hem of her green kirtle and gave her maid a teasing smile.
“I know what you’re about.”
“Do you?” Clara played innocent with a cock of her shoulder.
“I do not blame you.”
“You’d be the only one.” Clara stepped out into the hall, plastered on a bright smile and followed several other ladies to the scaffold—or rather to the great hall.