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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.