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.
2
The great hall at the Rose Citadel was mass chaos. There was really no other way to describe it. Men and women took up more space than air, and what air there was had been filled with the sounds of music, cackling and the overly loud voices of those pressing to be heard. Pipes and strings fought against the din of humans, and Graham could swear even a few hounds were trying to get in on the action.
Alan, the mercenary, had loitered outside their tent while the twins dressed. Since he seemed desperate for work, Graham figured he could aid them at least for the night, as they were essentially working in the dark. They didn’t even know what the women looked like, and it wasn’t as though they’d be wearing labels. And so, Alan had agreed to lead them here, and the coin Graham gave him seemed to motivate the man as he searched the sea of faces for the two ladies in question. No need to search out the bloody Ross brothers. Baston was holding court at one table, his foot up on a bench as he waved his arms about madly, telling some great story that was no doubt a lie. He swung his dingy-looking blond hair out of his eyes in a move that was meant to woo ladies but only had Graham grimacing in disgust.
“There is Lady Clara Galveston. Daughter to the Norman Count de Evreux.” Alan’s voice was low as he pointed to a stunning lass at Baston’s table who was rolling her eyes with the woman who sat beside her, and though she laughed with everyone else, there was something about the way she did so that had Graham grinning. She wasn’t laughing with the vile Ross lad, but at him.
Graham couldn’t take his eyes off her. Her long chestnut hair had been pulled back at the temples but cascaded down her back in shining waves, and her green eyes flashed mirth. She sipped casually from a wine goblet with a tempting bow-shaped mouth that crooked into a smirk when she was finished. She had high cheekbones and an impertinent set to her shoulders. And her green kirtle, from this distance, hugged her curves.
The lady was not at all what Graham expected. His blood heated with interest.
Alan was pointing out Lady Isolde to Cormac, but Graham couldn’t even be bothered to look. He was mesmerized and terrified by Lady Clara all at once. The way she carried herself, so confident. And the way she plainly wasn’t falling for Baston’s charm was exciting.
Ballocks…
All those thoughts he’d had on their long journey to England, and not one of them had prepared him for the possibility that Lady Clara would be beautiful, enticing, and… cynical. Bloody hell, his heart beat faster. He wanted to walk over to her right now and ask her to dance, even though no dancing had started, and he didn’t even like dancing.
Cormac elbowed him. “Shall I take Lady Isolde?”
Damn right because his brother better not be trying to claim the cheeky Lady Clara. “And I’ll help myself to Lady Clara,” Graham hurried to say, with a wiggle of his brows at his brother, taking off in the lady’s direction before Cormac changed his mind.
Along the way, he grabbed a leg of fowl off a platter and tore into it, eating hurriedly before he approached the table. He discarded the bone to a dog sniffling about, then swiped a mug of cider and washed away the meat from his mouth. Swiped a serviette to wipe his face. All the while, observing the lady in her environment as she spoke with those in her vicinity, and the way she made side glances at the others. She laughed prettily but was, at the same time, quite observant. Smart. Calculated, even. Almost as if she were playing a part. Interesting. He ran his tongue over his teeth one more time to make certain they were clean, so he didn’t present himself to her with a big hunk of meat between them. Satisfied, he moved forward.
Just as he reached the table and her sly glance slid toward him, the room silenced, and a loud booming voice began speaking from the dais. Graham turned to see a man stand and welcome everyone to the castle. Had to be Lord Yves, the baron who was hosting the tournament.
Graham did not give a damn about one word the man had to say. So, as he made no attempt to listen, he backed toward Lady Clara’s table, wondering if when he got close enough, Baston would try to shove him off. Only the baron’s speech seemed to have silenced Baston’s booming, irritating voice.
At last, Graham was standing just behind her. He reached over her shoulder to grasp a jug of wine and then poured it gently into the half-empty pewter goblet she twisted in a circle, surprising her.
Lady Clara looked over her shoulder, her green eyes wide.
He winked at her. “Ye looked as though ye needed a refill.”
“And you thought to do so yourself rather than allow one of the servants to help me?” One eyebrow lifted in a perfect arch as she managed to look down her nose at him.
He bowed slightly at the waist, feeling a tingle of excitement at how she obviously thought him inferior. Bloody hell, this was going to be fun. “I am always willing to help a beautiful lady in need.”
She rolled her eyes so far into the back of her head that the meaning could not have been clearer if she hadn’t just come out and told him to go to hell. Graham kept his smile at bay when he wanted to grin like a fool. This was almost as if he’d met his equal, but she had breasts. Mighty fine breasts too, that pushed plushily against the green gown.
“I’m afraid you’re barking up the wrong tree,” she said with a sniff.
He grinned then. “Are ye calling me a hound, my lady?”
“Better than a hog.” Her eyes twinkled and flicked toward Baston, and it was all Graham could do not to burst out into a booming laugh.
“And so, I shall take it as a compliment then.” He bowed once more, though this time it was much more mocking.
“I would not if I were you.” She took a sip of wine, staring at him over the brim of her cup.
“May I sit?” Graham pointed to the small amount of space beside her that was plainly not a seat, but he didn’t care—he only wanted to make it evident he was interested despite her saucy insults.
Lady Clara looked down at the spot, and her eyes slowly rose to meet his, a sardonic brow raised and a pert smile on her very kissable pink lips. “Are you daft, by chance? In case you did not notice, there’s barely enough space for a babe to sit, let alone a man as large as yourself.”
Graham grinned. “I’m flattered ye noticed, my lady.”
She gave a long blink and a sigh that sounded pained. The more irritated she was, the more he was starting to like her. At least she wasn’t a high and mighty thing, or a simpering fool. What would she do if he leaned in right now and said she was going to be his wife by the end of the week?
“Trust me, I am not noticing anything other than that I have no idea who you are.”