Graham bowed slightly. “Allow me to introduce myself then. I’m Sir Graham—”
“Sutherland, what the bloody hell are ye doing here?” Baston Ross’s voice rose above the din of music and chatter that had picked up right after Lord Yves’s speech ended. The obnoxiousness of his tone had more than a few eyes turning their way.
“I was in the neighborhood,” Graham said with a straight face. “Thought I’d stop in and say hello to a few friends.”
Baston put his meaty paw on Lady Clara’s shoulder. “She’s no’ your friend. And ye’d best no’ talk to her at all, else ye’ll find yourself in an early grave. No’ that ye willna already, given your idiot brother is starving his clan to death.”
Fire erupted in Graham’s belly, and he saw a murderous red before his eyes. It was one thing to insult him. But to offend Cormac, when all he’d tried to do since gaining leadership of their clan was keep as many alive as he could through droughts and bad crops, was quite another, especially when they’d come to the Rosses for aid and been denied. It only made Graham want to take Lady Clara away from him all the more.
He couldn’t even look at her, for fear of the pity he’d see in her eyes. Ballocks, but what had been getting off to a great start had quickly turned sour, and it was all this rotten bastard’s fault. What Graham wouldn’t give to pull his always-present dagger from his boot and shove it into Baston’s gut. It took every effort to restrain himself from doing just that.
Clara could not believe what she was hearing. She’d been a bit stunned from the moment the handsome Scotsman had leaned over her—with a devilish smile on his face, a dimple in his cheek that was making her melt, and a voice that had her sighing—and poured her wine, Of course, she couldn’t show him how much she was enjoying their conversation. Quite the opposite, in fact. She had to act tart and put out, if not just a tiny bit sarcastic, but underlying it all was a hearty curiosity and a bit of a mischief.
Lord, he was handsome.
For a moment, she’d pretended not to be next to Baston Ross, her dreaded betrothed, with his foot hiked up on the bench, so his nether region was inches from her face. Disgusting. She was fairly certain that had been a pre-planned move on his part, and one that made her want to punch his unmentionables repeatedly.
Now his thick and heavy-handed talons were possessively hooked on her shoulder, digging into the sensitive skin there, and she’d curled her fists into the skirt of her kirtle to keep from dealing him a blow he wouldn’t soon forget.
Sir Graham Sutherland was glaring daggers, his lips thinned, and he had a murderous look in his eyes. Baston deserved every bit of whatever retaliation this new stranger was planning. Still, if he were to go through with his dangerous plot, she would likely not see him again, and then the next week would continue to drag on interminably when she might have been able to sneak in a few fun conversations at the very least.
Should she intervene?
Nay, as much as she wanted to, that would be a terrible idea. For one thing, she didn’t really know Sir Graham Sutherland. He was just another warrior in a sea of warrior faces, though he had a nice smile, and she liked the way he teased. If she was to offer her support, Baston would believe her to know him more than she truly did and perhaps accuse her of something. That could be treacherous for them both, but what did she care about being accused if it got her away from Bastard Hog? Hmm…
In that case, maybe she should suggest they knew each other already. If Baston thought her already involved with another, maybe he would let her go?
Hah! That was a funny jest she was telling herself. Baston wasn’t wedding with her, for her. He wanted her dowry, the riches beyond riches of a Norman count, and the alliance he’d gain with Prince John from wedding with her.
What to do, what to do? Suddenly Sir Graham smiled, the dimple winking in his cheek. Baston stiffened behind her, his grip a little tighter at the unexpected gesture from his enemy. But she found herself staring harder at the Sutherland knight. If possible, he was even more handsome than before.
“I see no’ much has changed, Baston.” The way Graham said her betrothed’s name was just the way she thought of him in her own head as if every syllable were a bloody curse.
“Likewise,” Baston sneered.
“I say ’tis rather a good thing we are here then on similar terms. And I look forward to meeting ye out on the list fields where we might settle it like men who is the best of the two of us.” Graham said all of this with a charming smile that had the power to make a woman melt and forget that he was actually threatening a man.
He was incredible.
Clara let out the breath she’d been holding, not realizing how nervous she’d been that Sir Graham would slap Baston with his glove and demand a fight to the death. They’d have to get it approved by Lord Yves, but she doubted he’d deny them. Every man in this great hall was fairly foaming at the mouth for a chance to fight. To prove themselves more worthy than the next. Pathetic.
Admiration for Sir Graham’s tactic was soured by Baston’s demeanor. He kept his hand on her and snorted.
“That is no’ a contest, Sutherland. It is evident already.”
Sir Graham shrugged as if he didn’t have a care in the world, and then his gaze fell on her. He bowed slightly, and she wished to offer him her hand but worried Baston would growl and bite her if she did. Instead, she offered him the one thing she could, a smile of encouragement.
“’Twas a pleasure to make your acquaintance, my lady.”
“My regards, sir.” Though her speech was formal, she kept her face pleasant in hopes he would see some bit of comradery dancing in the depth of her gaze.
He gave a curt nod and turned away from her, Baston and the entire table, and threaded his way through the crowd toward the exit.
A few moments later, when Baston was once more enthralling himself and his company with another brutish tale, his groin again near her face, Clara quietly excused herself and headed in the same direction as Graham.
What was she doing? Following him?
He had likely already gone back to his tent or the tavern, perhaps. This was foolish. She didn’t even know him, and she shouldn’t be trailing him, and yet her feet wouldn’t stop moving forward.
He hadn’t gone far. There was a slight hiss from the shadows when she ducked into the corridor, and his hand flicked out into the light. Without thinking, Clara took his offered grasp and was pulled into the shadows. His hand was large, rough, engulfing hers in a protective rather than possessive hold.
“Ye shouldna have allowed me to do that,” he pointed out.
She shrugged, their hands falling apart naturally, and she found she missed the subtle touch, which made her question her morals once more. “I should still be at the table with my betrothed.”
Graham gave a short laugh. “Why did ye leave?”
“I’m not entirely certain.” She chewed her lip, for this was true, and she really ought to go.
“So ye’re to marry that man?” Sir Graham said it casually as if he were asking if she was going to finish her plate.
“It has been decreed.” Clara couldn’t help the dejection in her tone. She feared it would never vacate as long as this was to be her fate. A fate she was desperately trying to change.