“First of all, brother, ye’re plenty good at it. Ye just need a wee bit of practice. First, let’s start with a smile. Lasses love a smile, and it rarely graces your face. Plus, we’re lucky.” Graham grinned widely and pointed to the dimple in his cheek. “We’ve got a secret weapon. This.”
“How is that a secret weapon?”
“Easy, the lasses fall head over heels for a dent in the cheek.”
“‘Head over heels,’ ye say?” Cormac did not sound convinced.
“Aye. I flashed my smile at a lass walking back here and had an instant invitation for bed sport.” Graham grabbed a handful of roasted nuts from the grain sack beside his brother.
“That doesna count if she was a servant or a whore.”
Graham shrugged, chewing around a devious grin. “Doesna matter to me as long as I’m sliding between silken thighs. But that’s beside the point.”
“Nay, brother, ’tis exactly the point.” Cormac looked pained. “Were ye asked to join Lady Clara for a slide between her thighs?”
“Nay, no’ yet, but she is letting me help her get rid of Baston Ross, and I call that a win for the night.”
Cormac’s mouth fell wide. “She’s asked ye to help her murder him?”
Graham nearly spat out his ale and chucked an almond at his brother’s head. “What in the bloody hell did I say that made ye think we were about murder?”
“Ye said, ‘get rid of’ him.”
Graham groaned. “Aye, as her betrothed, no’ to kill him. I mean, ’tis one thing to find him at the end of my lance on the jousting field, but quite another to plan murder.”
“I agree, planning a murder canna be a part of our plans.”
Graham narrowed his eyes, noting that his brother did not mention accidental murder. “Were ye thinking of murdering Brodie Ross?”
“Nay, nay.” But the way Cormac said it had Graham wondering. “No’ unless as ye said, I was to find him on the battlefield, and it was either him or me.”
“That’s a given for any of these bastards.”
“Aye.” Cormac let out a long-suffering sigh.
“So, as I was saying, ye need to practice your smile. Hone your skills and make that cheek dent work for ye, brother. Lady Isolde will stumble at your feet and practically beg ye to take her. Let me see ye smile.”
Cormac grimaced. “How’s this?”
“Are ye jesting?” Graham frowned and chucked another almond. This time Cormac caught it and popped it in his mouth. “That’s no’ even close. Try again.”
Cormac tried once more, his lips turning upward, but the grimace now had turned into a silent-looking scream.
“Bloody fucking hell, brother. Ye’re terrible at this.” Graham shook his head. “Watch me.” He flashed a winsome smile and added a wink for good measure.
Cormac clutched his chest and pretended to fall backward off the stool, his legs twitching dramatically. “Och, my heart. I canna take it.”
“Try it,” Graham ordered, kicking his brother’s stool.
Cormac snickered and righted himself.
“Ye see,” Graham said, “Ye do know how to smile—ye just did so. But try no’ to make it so… condescending.”
“I was definitely being condescending, brother. I was laughing at ye.”
“Exactly, that willna work with a lass. Pretend I am Lady Isolde.” Graham feigned flipping long hair over his shoulder and batted his lashes at Cormac, offering a flirtatious grin.
“This is stupid,” Cormac said.
“This is war, brother. Now give me a damn smile.”
Cormac set down his ale and took a deep breath as if he were about to act upon some massive feat of strength. He cracked his neck, his knuckles, and then with a quick turn of his head toward Graham, flashed a blinding smile that brought out the full force of the dent in his cheek.
“Ah-ha! Aye, ye’ve done it!” Graham leapt up from where he’d been seated with his arms in the air, and his ale went flying out of his cup, managing to splash them both in the face.
“Ye’re an idiot,” Cormac said, though he was grinning all the same.
“Maybe so, but I promise, if ye smile at her as ye’ve done now, she’ll melt like butter in your hands.”
“Do I want her to melt like butter?”
“Och, brother, ye know ye do. Dinna pretend to be a virgin. Ye’ve had a woman before.”
Cormac suddenly looked serious. “Never a woman like Lady Isolde.”
They were twins in body, and twins in mind, for hadn’t Graham just been worried about this very same thing? Never had he had a woman like Lady Clara, either.
4
The sun had not woken by the time Clara did. She stared out the arrow-slitted window in her chamber at Rose Citadel. In the bailey below, she could just barely make out what looked to be a bunch of lumps on the ground. Bodies lying alone, bodies lying together. Bodies that had imbibed in entirely too much wine and ale and fallen into sleep where they sat or stood.
She shook her head. Tournaments were dangerous for more reasons than weapons—even if they were blunted—for the men could not be in the best shape after a night of drinking. And it didn’t take much for a seasoned, strong warrior to beat his opponent to death with a blunted weapon.
After dancing with Baston, she’d claimed tiredness and retired early to her chamber, realizing too late that she’d not made any more plans with Sir Graham in regard to breaking her betrothal. Perhaps that was all well and good if Baston was going to try to fight him to the death.
Having Sir Graham ask her to dance, even if it meant nothing and had just been part of his plan to aid her in her escape, had been a genius move. One twirl and his hand at her hip and their fingers entwined, and Baston had been on them both as a fly to honey. Poor simpleton. But it wasn’t worth Sir Graham’s death.
Still, she would call the night’s actions a victory, one step in a race to get rid of the Hog.
There was jealousy in Baston’s actions, but not because he wanted her for who she was, or because he loved her. That notion was laughable. Nay, he’d been treating her as if she were his property. His to drag home and toss into his treasury—for that’s what she was to him, the massive dowry that came with saying “I do.” If he were smarter, she might have taken his words about the stairs and tumbling as a threat, but quite honestly, she believed he was not going to be a harm to her person, but rather her soul.
And good Lord, maybe his clumsiness would be an added bonus. How had he gotten as far as he had when he could barely handle a small thing such as dancing?
Clara let out a small snort of disgust. Now Graham, his dancing, though interrupted, had not been as expected. She would have thought him sturdy, aye, but graceful? Nay. A man his size, a man so masculine, so muscular… how had he been able to move his body so agilely?
Oh, stop thinking like that!
Her mind was taking a turn down a path that was best left untouched. She didn’t want to marry anyone and would much rather return to Normandy. And Graham Sutherland had made it very clear he didn’t want to marry her, but instead wanted to torture Baston Ross, and that was fine with her.