“I wish ye luck then.” The words themselves were meant to be dismissive, but the tone was quite different, intense and curious, perhaps.
She didn’t want him to push her away so fast. There were a lot of her own questions she wanted to ask, mainly, “Why did you allow him to speak to you that way?”
Graham grunted. “Baston Ross will speak however he wants. His words canna hurt me.”
The former was true; she’d had to endure it all evening. However, the latter, she’d seen that Baston’s words hurt, or at the very least, angered Graham.
“Besides,” Sir Graham continued, “I was speaking the truth. No offense, my lady. But I prefer to kick his arse on the battlefield.”
Now it was her turn to laugh.
“Do ye doubt it?” he asked.
She shook her head. “Oh, nay, ’tis only that I’ve just come into acquaintance with the man myself, and I already wish to call him to the field for a battle to the death.” She pressed her hand to her lips. “I should not have said that out loud.”
Graham chuckled. “As I said before, I wish ye luck in your future with him.”
“What would you do, Sir Graham, if you were told to marry a man like Baston?”
“Run.” He said it so quickly, without a single second of hesitation.
Clara’s shoulders slumped, and she was glad for the shadows so he couldn’t see her dejection. “I wish I could.”
“You can.”
“’Tis easier for a man.” She let out a deep sigh. “I fear my only way out of a marriage to the Hog is to make him think he does not want me as much as he thinks he does.”
“Have ye considered growing warts on your nose?” The suggestion was given the same way he might suggest she grab a cup of milk from the kitchens.
“Honestly, I have,” Clara teased back. “But it will take a longer amount of time than I have for that idea to take hold.”
“Ye could always find another to marry.”
She stiffened, suddenly alert for treachery, reminding herself she didn’t know Graham Sutherland at all, really. “And let me guess, you think that I should marry you?”
Graham laughed so hard she feared people would come searching for them in the shadows. “Oh, nay, my lady. I’m a second son and a man who enjoys tasting every biscuit in the basket if ye catch my meaning.”
Oh, she caught it all right. A particularly loud and distinct laugh came from inside the great hall, and she groaned inwardly. “That man thinks so highly of himself.”
“’Tis a miracle his head still fits on his thick neck.”
They shared a laugh, and then Clara stopped, afraid she was going to cry.
“How about I help ye?” Sir Graham offered in a surprising shift in the conversation.
Clara had a hard time not letting her mouth fall open to her feet. “Nay, thank you. I do not think that would be a good idea. Besides, you’ve already said you do not want to marry me, not that I’ve even hinted at a desire in that direction. Rather arrogant of you.”
“I was speaking the truth, lass, please dinna misunderstand. I dinna want to marry ye, but I think I can help ye get rid of that bonehead.”
Clara raised a brow and bit her lip, because she’d been racking her brain for days, weeks even, on how to make good on the promise to herself, and still was empty-handed of an idea.
With a slight nod, she said, “I have heard it said that two heads work better than one. What do you have in mind, sir?”
A cheer came from the great hall as the beat of the music increased.
Sir Graham bowed low, looking every bit as elegant as a courtier despite his large warrior’s body. He lifted his eyes to hers and said, “My lady, will ye do me the honor in allowing me to have this dance?”
3
Lady Clara stood silent in front of Graham, her fingers twisting before her. Her face was shifting back and forth from an expression of excitement and then to worry. He’d thought this would be an easy answer. All lasses wished to dance, did they not? Then again, as he was quickly learning, this lass was unlike any other.
“Ye want to cause a disturbance between Baston Ross and yourself, nay?” He cocked his head. “This will do it.”
Even in the shadows, he made out her subtle bite of her lip, and he wanted to replace her teeth with his own, blast it all.
“Aye, but at what cost?” she finally said, her words rushed.
“I’ll no’ fight the man in the center of the great hall if that’s what ye’re worried about.”
“But he might knife you in the back.” Lady Clara sounded genuinely concerned. How charming.
Graham grinned. “Och lass, I’m a warrior, and I’ve got eyes in the back of my head. There’s no need to worry for me. The man willna get close.”
Lady Clara flashed him a tentative smile. “How about we pretend we’re going to dance and see what happens?”
Graham shrugged. He’d agree to pretend, but he was also very much interested in putting his hands in hers, her body pulled close. Aye, he was a right cad, and he knew it. But what man wouldn’t want a chance to dance with such a beautiful lass?
He offered his elbow, and she slid her fingers around the crook of his arm, singeing him right there on the spot. Graham looked down at his arm to see if she’d put a flame to him but found only her fingers resting there.
“Are ye ready to begin the game of losing your betrothed?” he said with wiggled brows.
A nervous laugh escaped her. “Aye.”
“Good. Because I’m already having fun.” And that was not a lie.
She eyed him warily. “What’s in it for you?”
He never thought she’d ask. “I hate the bastard and would love to see him squirm.” Graham flashed her a jovial smile, so his words didn’t alarm her.
“Good enough,” she said, surprising him a bit.
They headed back into the great hall with Lady Isolde passing them on the way out. There was a frown marring her pretty features, and Graham wondered what had happened. Evidently, Cormac had been unsuccessful in wooing the lass. He’d have to talk to his brother about that later. This plan was only going to work if they were both on board.
Inside the great hall, the tables had been pushed aside to allow more room for dancing. The closer Graham and Lady Clara drew to the crowded dance floor, the more eyes started to turn on them.
Someone whispered as they passed, “I knew she was betrothed to a Scot, but I do not think that is he.”
Graham grinned. Then, taking Lady Clara’s hand in his, he spun her in a delicate circle before settling his hand around her waist, their other hands clasped and held up in the air as was the custom.
Just as they began to move, a hulking shadow pushed between them, and a meaty hand pressed to Graham’s chest.
“What do ye think ye’re doing?” Baston was glowering down at Graham so fiercely that if he were a lesser man, he might have pissed himself.
“Dancing with the lady.” He kept his tone neutral as if dancing with Lady Clara were nothing unusual, nothing to garner Baston’s ire, even though that was exactly his plan.
“That is my lady. Get your own,” Baston snarled, reminding Graham of a dog snapping after his bone.