“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 daft—” 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.”
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.
“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.