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.
And then her gaze settled on Graham, and even though he wore his helmet, she could see through the narrow eye slits that his regard was on her. Her belly did a flip at the realization; the intensity of his stare enough to make her palms start to sweat. All she could think about was the kiss they’d shared, and how she wanted to leap over the side of the platform and fall into his arms, begging him to kiss her again. To ride off with her to Scotland, where she’d never have to lay eyes on any of these people ever again.
The ladies were all atwitter about the handsome knights, and Clara wanted to pinch them into silence, for they were breaking her concentration on the one true man who mattered—Graham Sutherland.
Somehow over the past couple of days, he’d gotten under her skin. And to make matters direr, knowing that he didn’t want to wed her, that he was only helping her because he hated Baston Ross, made the ache of longing all the more potent. How was she going to be able to part with him in just a few days’ time when she headed back to Normandy? Or worse, when her plan failed and Baston dragged her by the hair back to his dark lair. That thought had a shudder passing through her.
At last, Lord Yves called for the knights to approach and gain their lady’s favor, and Clara was up for the task. Drawing in a deep breath, she steeled herself for what would happen next. She’d practiced the scene in her mind over and over again. But a plan in her mind was not always the same when executed.
She stared down the line of knights, counting those that came by, and stilled, a chill creeping up her spine. This might not work, for there was a big problem.
Baston was closer than Graham, though he’d not yet looked her way. It was possible he’d not seen her, didn’t know where she was sitting. Should she duck down, hide, pretend she’d dropped something and crawl around the platform until Baston gave up and passed on? Hope when she popped back up that it would be Graham settled before her, his lance raised? If she did so, she’d thoroughly soil her gown, given they’d all walked here in the mud-slicked grounds and the floor of the platform now evidenced that.
While she ruminated on the best course of action for her plan to work, Graham urged his horse forward, managing to get to her at the same time as Baston. The tips of their lances pointed toward her—men prostrating. A lion’s head and a simple knight. The choice was clear on her part, and she pulled the blue ribbon from her sleeve, the fabric waving in the wet breeze.
“Get the fuck out of here, ye bastard,” Baston growled, his harsh and vulgar words not lost on several of the ladies present, who gasped.
The simple helmet turned slowly toward the lion, and though she couldn’t see Graham’s expression, she could picture it. He would be looking down on Baston as though he were dung on the bottom of his shoe.
“That is no way to speak in present company,” Graham admonished, which had several of the ladies sighing and pressing their hands to their chests. He was winning all of the chivalry points right now, which would make what she was about to do all the more plausible. While Baston continued to hurtle insults, Graham let each one bounce off him like pebbles being tossed at a high wall.
Graham turned to face Clara, and she tied the blue silk to the tip of Graham’s sword, her heart squeezing.
Baston let out a low growl, but before he could utter another insulting word, Lord Yves called for the joust to begin, and for the knights to disperse. Graham gave her a subtle nod as he turned his horse away, and she felt that small gesture all the way to her toes.
“Oh my, Lady Clara,” said one of the ladies on her right. “I’d say your betrothed has a contender.”
Clara let out a nervous laugh and sat, smoothing her skirts with her sweat-soaked palms. She perched on the edge of her seat, feet bouncing as she waited through the jousts until it was time for Baston and Graham to go up against each other. Thunder continued to roll, along with the occasional flash of lightning, and she feared the streaks of light would hit Graham and wondered if it was a sin to hope they hit Baston.
There was one man who appeared to be dominating, Sir Julian. He fought fiercely against another when a sharp crack of thunder spooked their horses. The situation escalated quickly, with one horse rearing and landing on its rider.
Clara feared that knight would never be able to joust again.
Fear skidded along her spine. The horses did not have as good a footing, and men did not have as tight a grip on their lances. She glanced at Lord Yves, wondering if he would call off the remaining jousts, but he made no move to do so. Oh, God… She prayed that Graham would be all right.
At last, the two names she’d been waiting for were called.
On opposite sides of the list, they presented two entirely different men. Baston, with his flashy lion’s head helmet and his horse snorting and pawing the mud, looked as if he would eat anyone who came in the way of what he wanted. While on the other end, Graham sat his horse straight. His lance was steady in his arm, and his horse did not move, as if they were both assessing the opponent and how they would take him out.
Funny enough that Baston was attempting to exude dominance and put fear in the eyes of anyone who looked, while Graham simply was the fear. The way he appeared so calm and confident reminded her of how he’d been the night before when Baston forced him into the arm-wrestling match. He’d simply waited, knowing he would win. And he was doing the same thing right now.
A herald cried out the two men’s lineage and talents, and then the flag was dropped. Baston took off first. His horse charged forward in leaping gallops, mud splattering the squires behind him. Graham was only a second later. The elegance and strength of his steed was impressive, but more so was the control of the horse and the seeming lack of mud spatter. Where Baston’s horse thundered in a heavy lope, Graham’s mount merely glided with power.
Both of the men leaned forward, lances poised, and struck at the same time, the splintering of wood echoed by the thunder in the sky. Baston’s lance hit Graham in the shoulder, exploding on impact, but Graham barely moved, as if he’d pushed his body into the blow to take the impact. While at the same time, he thrust his lance into Baston’s gut. The sounds of the lance’s splintering and the thunder were almost as deafening as the crowd’s cheers.
Neither of the men fell from their horses. Squires ran forward to grab broken pieces of lances and to fit the knights with new ones for the next round. The second round went very much like the first, although this time, Baston hit Graham in the gut.
For the third and final round, Clara was fairly certain she was going to faint. She wanted so badly for Graham to win, but Baston did not appear to be budging at all. The cheers from the onlookers were mixed, nearly half shouting out for Baston and half for Graham. She could shout for neither. Already she’d done a major faux pas by fashioning her scarf to Graham’s lance when she was betrothed to Baston, but that was her plan, and given the very unchivalrous way in which Baston behaved, it could be explained away easily. It would be even better for her if he were to lose—then he would believe she, his lucky charm, had failed, and that was a great incentive to think he’d be unlucky wedding her.
The sheer force of their blows was deafening as wood splintered everywhere. Both men fell backwards, looking ready to tumble from their horses.
And Baston did, but at the last second, Graham caught himself, and slumped forward—the unmistakable victor. A cry pierced her lips, but she quickly clamped her mouth shut, fearing what those in the stands might think of her. Instead, she pinched herself.
It had worked! Graham had won!
Baston would be finished with jousting for the day, but Graham would move on to the second round. If she left the stands now, she risked running into Baston, an encounter she was terrified of and with good reason. He would blame her for his loss. But if she stayed, she also ran the risk of watching Graham fail or get hurt, not something she thought she’d be able to handle, and already her stomach twisted into knots.
If Graham ended up going against Sir Alexander de Mandeville, the fierce knight dubbed the Devil’s Blade, he would lose for certain.
But just then, the herald announced that Graham Sutherland had forfeited his next round, and she knew that was a call to action for her. She excused herself for a moment of privacy with no intentions of returning, and hurried down the stairs of the stands, keeping her eye out for Baston, but it was hard to see above the heads of everyone and the rain falling into her eyes.
Where was Graham? And a better question, where was Baston?
Clara bit her lip, trying to make the right judgment call. Should she try to find Graham, or hope that he found her?
Without an escort, it could be dangerous seeking him out among the dozens of knights who were enrolled in the joust. And it would be equally dangerous if she ran into Baston. Already he felt that he owned her—what if this latest loss pushed him over the edge? What if he meant to claim her for his own before they were wed?
Making up her mind to head back to the castle, she felt a nudge at her calf and turned to see the little mangy hound wagging his tail and panting up at her with a dog smile.
“Hello there,” she patted him on his wet head.
“He likes ye.” It was the same man whom she’d spoken to near the practice field and the same one who’d unknowingly saved her so she could steal Baston’s good luck token.
“He is very sweet.”
“I’ve got a message for ye.”
“Oh?”
“Sir Graham would like to speak with ye.” He nodded his head for her to follow.
Clara wanted very badly to speak with Graham, but could she trust this man? “How do I know you speak the truth?”
The man grinned and handed her the blue scarf. “He said if ye asked that to return this to ye.”
Clara stuffed the silk up her sleeve and nodded. “All right, sir, lead the way.”
“Name’s Alan,” he said to her. “Dog is Pip.”
“I’m Lady Clara.”
“I know. Got a lot of men bellowing about ye just now.”
“Do I?”
“Well, two, Graham and some other bastard.”
“What would you do if you were in my position?”
“Well, I’d no’ go near the other fella. He seems ripe to bust. But Graham, he seems nice enough. Never heard him insult a woman. Though I’ve only known him a couple of days. Lots of these knights are spending every waking moment doing one of three things: fighting, drinking or whoring. I ain’t seen Graham do the latter. In his tent to bed every night.”
Clara didn’t say anything, surprised that he would offer up so much and also shocked. Was Baston visiting the wenches willing to provide pleasure?
“Pardon me if I’ve said too much,” Alan continued. “I tend to run my mouth a bit when I’m around a pretty lady.”
Clara smiled, rain dripping down her nose. “Never fear, sir, I am not easily offended.”
“Well, that’s good.”
They reached Graham’s tent, and the man bowed to her as he whistled to his hound and disappeared back into the thick sea of tents.
She pushed back the flap, happy to finally be out of the rain. Entering the tent, she let the flap drop back behind her, shutting off the world. And she stopped short, seeing Graham standing in the center of the makeshift hut, his back completely nude, hose hugging his muscular behind and legs…
Dear God, he was practically nude, and his skin was slick from sweat and rain.
Her mouth went dry, and her heart started to beat so fast that she wasn’t certain she could keep up with the breaths forcing themselves in and out of her lungs. And so, she stood there in a slowly growing puddle as water dripped from her hair, her gown.
“I’m sorry,” she stuttered and started to leave as he turned to face her, the nakedness of his chest assaulting her senses.
The man was beautifully built. There had been very few occasions she’d seen a man without his tunic on. One was her father, but he was shaped built this way. Then a few wounded men from time to time, but she didn’t make it a habit to watch the men train, which was where a lot of younger ladies saw their first bits of male flesh.
“Dinna be sorry, lass, I invited ye. I just didna expect ye to come so quick.”
“I left the stands.”
“I hoped ye would.”
This was a bad idea. They shouldn’t be alone. Last time they were alone in this tent, they’d shared a passionate kiss. One she’d not been able to stop thinking about. And now, here he was, his skin glistening, and a devilish look in his eyes.
“I can remain like this if it pleases ye,” he said softly, stalking toward her as a lion would his prey. “Though I think ’tis only fair if I’m to be half-naked, so should ye.”
Clara’s mouth fell open in shock, and she gasped. He was only a foot away—six inches now, and she felt the heat coming off his skin. She started to reach for him, to touch him, only to ball her hand into a fist and force it back to her side. A dark sprinkling of hair graced his torso, and corded muscle rippled beneath skin that was tanned from the sun. What would it hurt run her palms up his abdomen to his chest, to slide them over his broad shoulders and to press her breasts against the hardness of his body?
Her gaze rose from his naked skin to his eyes, seeing the hunger and curiosity mirrored in his gaze. Graham lowered his face, and she tilted hers up, certain now that he was going to kiss her, and she was going to let him. Considering this moment to be his prize for a job well done on the list field, and a prize for her too because she wanted his kiss. Wanted him as she’d never wanted anything before. Every inch of her skin was drawn toward him, reaching, searching, needing. Her breath hitched right before he reached her mouth, and he plucked at the waist of her gown, whispering, “Take it off. ’Tis only fair,” followed by his laughter.
Clara took a shocked step back. Had his entire seduction just now been a joke? Was she a joke to him?
“I jest, I jest.” He chuckled and turned away from her, tugging a tunic over his head, and every inch of his tempting skin disappeared along with the heat in her body.
Good lord, but she was a wanton for thinking she could march into his tent, touch his naked skin and have him kiss her. He’d firmly told her he didn’t want to marry her, and she was betrothed to another man. If anyone were to walk in, it would be the end of her reputation. Her aunt and uncle would be mortified, and likely her mother would demand she be disowned.
She’d go back to Normandy humiliated—and unmarried.
Although, it would also be the end of her marriage prospects. Her father wouldn’t toss her out, even if her mother did insist. The idea had merit.
Clara shook the thoughts away, managing to pull her emotions together, and swiping her slick palms on the skirts of her equally slick gown.
“I wanted to congratulate you,” Clara said, though her voice did not sound like her own.
Get it together, she admonished herself.
Graham flashed her one of his intoxicating smiles. “And ye too, my lady. It took a lot of bravery not to tie your favor to your betrothed’s lance.”
The scene flashed before her eyes. “Aye, you have no idea. I fear I have yet to see his retaliation for that course of action.” The latter she mumbled, more to herself than to him, picturing Baston ripping the fabric tent apart in an effort to locate her.
Graham frowned, crossed his arms over his chest. “Ye fear Baston will retaliate?”
“I’m not certain, but it is something I’ve thought about.” She shook her head. “Besides, it is not a burden you need to bear. This is my problem, and I should never have drawn you into it. For that, I do apologize, and I hope that you will find it in your heart to forgive me.”
“We’re friends, Clara, and friends help each other.”
There he was, reminding her again they were only friends. Though her brow wrinkled in a frown, she managed to force herself to smile so he couldn’t see how much his words bothered her.
“I’ll tell you what then, Shield, if I feel in danger, I shall let you know.” This was a complete lie. Already she’d put him in danger by pulling him into her scheme. And hate for a man didn’t seem enough gratification for it to be worth it to Graham.
“As ever, Phoenix, I am at your service.” He bowed low before her, and she tried hard to smile, but the emotions, the desire and something like despair welled inside her.
Without a word of reply, she fled his tent into the rain and made her way back to the castle.