The Scot's Secret: Border Series Book 4

by Cecelia Mecca

  “Can you swim there?”

  “Aye, though you’d likely freeze for your efforts.”

  She walked to the water’s edge and dipped her hand into the water. Indeed, it was quite cold. “Surrounded by trees and the rock’s shadow, the water has little chance to warm.”

  Clara stood at the water’s edge, watching as the last rays of sun lit the top of the grassy hill and surrounding rock at the center of the lake. She’d never seen anything quite like it.

  By the time she refreshed herself and returned to the small clearing behind them, Alex had already erected their tent. They traded places, and she started the fire while he ventured up near the water. Not long after the fire grew from just a few embers, he returned with two fish.

  “Trout,” he said.

  “How did you catch them so quickly?”

  His devilish smile told her his retort would be bold.

  “I’ve many skills, fair maid. Would you like to see some others?”

  She smiled. “You tease.”

  “Never,” he said, making quick work of removing the bones and cooking the fish.

  They ate in companionable silence, Clara content to enjoy the last remaining vestiges of an unusually warm Scottish day.

  “I’ve never felt so safe,” she blurted out, because it was true.

  “Never?”

  “Not since Gilbert and I left home.”

  He took a bite of the freshly caught fish. “You mean Sir Robert Kinney?”

  Of course, he thought the men were one and the same and that Sir Robert was not real. “Nay, Sir Robert was a vassal to my father. But he did not raise me, as you know.”

  “Nor were you orphaned as a young child.”

  “Nay, but I was orphaned nonetheless.” And since he’d already worked out most of the facts, she explained, “My mother died before I knew her. My father, nearly six years ago. ’Twas why Gilbert and I were forced to flee.”

  “I’m sorry, lass.”

  He stood, and for a moment Clara thought he may try to comfort her. Would he kiss her again?

  “Ale?”

  He handed her a flagon and sat back down. Foolish girl. He was simply sharing his drink. Mayhap he’d thought better of the kissing. After all, they’d just last night agreed it was a bad idea.

  “You’re lucky to have known your mother,” she said.

  Alex made a sound suspiciously similar to an epithet not suitable for her ears.

  “Tell me of her.”

  “She was lovely,” he said.

  That was not at all what she’d expected. Everything she’d heard about the woman who’d left her children was rather unpleasant.

  “You’ve met my sister?”

  “Aye, briefly. At Bristol.”

  “My mother had the same shade of red hair. But the similarities between the two women stop there.”

  He looked up into the sky as if he might be struck down at any moment for his words. “She was very. . . English. She complained of the cold. Mother grew up in a small village southwest of London, and apparently disliked Scotland from the moment she arrived.”

  “How did she meet your father?”

  Alex sighed. “A tale for another time. Suffice to say, when he was killed at Largs, she left almost immediately.”

  Clara simply could not imagine a woman leaving her children, especially at such a difficult time for the entire family. “And said nothing in parting?”

  He shook his head. “Nay. One day we had a mother, the next, we did not. She could have died for all we have heard of her since. . . until now. To my siblings, she is already dead.”

  The pain in his voice was evident. Clearly his mother’s desertion affected him still.

  “But not you,” she finished in a whisper.

  He frowned. “I’d come to accept that I would never see her again. And I may not. But if I could just. . .”

  He stopped.

  “What is it?”

  He looked as if he’d not continue. He stood and began to clear the area where they ate. Then he abruptly stopped and blurted out, “I would just ask her why.”

  He picked up a nearby log, tossed it into the fire, and walked away.

  How difficult it must have been for them to lose their mother that way. Clara prepared for bed, unable to stop asking Alex’s question. Why had she done it? If she’d hated Scotland so much that she felt compelled to leave, could she not have at least said goodbye? Or taken them with her to England? Something. Anything other than abandoning her children.

  Clara didn’t know the woman, but she disliked her nonetheless.

  Much the same as the evening before, Clara prepared for another night’s sleep on the hard ground of the small tent. This time, she lay awake for what seemed like hours, waiting for Alex to join her. She knew he would not have gone far, so intent was he on ‘protecting’ her. Part of her despised that she needed his protection at all. Another part quite liked it.

  She felt herself getting sleepy when a hand shook her shoulder.

  “Clara, wake up.”

  Wake up? She hadn’t even slept.

  “Clara.”

  She shook her head as if to clear it. “Was I sleeping?”

  Alex pulled her toward him, and she accepted his silent invitation. Nestling into the crook of his arm, she closed her eyes.

  “Dreaming, more like.”

  She tucked her chin into her chest for warmth.

  “This is quite comfortable.”

  Alex chuckled behind her. “You should try it in a bed.”

  She strained her neck to look up at him.

  “Sleeping?”

  This night was much darker than the last, so she could hardly see his face. But his eyes. . . those she could see.

  “Of sorts.”

  His voice had changed, and suddenly Clara was neither tired nor comfortable. Instead, she could feel his body next to hers. His arm under her head and his leg pressed up against hers, both nearly as hard as the ground they slept on.

  “I’d gladly do so if the opportunity presented itself.” She shifted backward to get a better look at his face.

  “And what exactly would you do so gladly?”

  Clara wasn’t sure what they spoke of anymore. She only knew she wanted Alex Kerr to kiss her—almost badly enough for her to tell him so.

  “Sleep.” She remembered now. “On a bed.”

  The hand that rested on her arm moved lower, sweeping across her back toward her buttocks. And that was precisely where it stayed.

  “But you don’t even appear tired.”

  Tired! How could she be tired with him looking at her like that? With his hand, oh dear.

  “I’m not.” She could no longer act the coy maid.

  “Good.”

  He moved so quickly, Clara had the briefest of moments to realize she now lay underneath him, but was not being crushed in any way, before she felt his lips on hers. This time, it was no light touch. His tongue forced her mouth open, and once she realized what he wanted her to do, Clara touched her tongue to his.

  She was lost.

  Utterly and completely lost.

  His mouth swept across hers, his tongue instructing her. She moaned and shifted under him, not because she was uncomfortable precisely, but because she wanted him to move closer.

  Clara reached her arms up and pulled him down to her.

  He made a sound that prompted her to pull away. “Have I hurt you?”

  “Not precisely.”

  Poised over her, his outline looming above her, Alex stared down at her.

  “This is a poor idea, lass.”

  “Aye,” she agreed.

  “As you say, you’re a virgin still.”

  “I am,” she admitted.

  “And I don’t even know your surname.”

  “That I can’t tell you. But—” she smiled, not ready for him to stop, “—I will share anything else, if it pleases you.”

  “You please me,” he said before he lowering
his head once again. The touch of his lips on hers, the sensual way his tongue moved. . . This was what all of those ribald jests and crude remarks were about. This feeling, it was. . .

  Indescribable.

  “Ah, lass, don’t move.”

  She hadn’t realized she’d moved at all, but when he rolled onto his side, moving away from her, Clara felt the loss immediately.

  “What have I done?”

  “Clara. . .”

  He pulled her toward his body once again, the warmth immediately welcome.

  “You’ve done nothing at all.”

  “Then why did you stop?”

  He reached around her and lifted her chin to him until she was looking directly into his eyes, the only thing she could see clearly in the dark.

  “If I did not stop, the sun may not have risen on a Scots’ second son and an English maid but on a scoundrel and the woman he forced from grace.”

  Forced from grace? How could he force something she’d freely give?

  Would she? To a man she hardly knew? Over the past several years, Clara had given more thought to safety than she had to pleasure or marriage. Neither had seemed like a possibility for her. Once, the loss of her virginity would have meant something; indeed, when she had stood to inherit Barrington Castle, it would have meant a great deal.

  But now?

  “Get some rest,” he said.

  Was he attempting to convince himself or her? Clara lowered her head back down and tried not to think of the man whose arms were wrapped around her. She closed her eyes and, much later, finally allowed sleep to claim her.

  This was perhaps the most foolhardy, misguided thing he’d ever done.

  If he found his mother, Alex could add this misadventure to the litany of things she’d done to torment him. Alex lay awake late into the night, contemplating whether or not they could reach The Anvil Inn the following day. He wanted to allow Clara to sleep in a proper bed, and he frankly wasn’t sure of how much more of this sweet torment he could take.

  Though clearly untried, her lips, so soft and gentle against his own, called to him, a siren’s song like nothing he’d ever experienced before. No woman had ever made him feel like this. He pictured her body beneath him, completely unclad, the way she’d been at the lake the day he’d discovered her secret. He could clearly see each curve in his mind.

  He tried to remind himself of his goals—find his mother. Return to ensure all had gone well with the Day of Truce. And yet, his last thought before sleep finally took him was of Clara and the soft sounds of pleasure she’d made before he pulled away from her.

  Alex awoke painfully hard and aware of every movement Clara made against him. Though he tried not to wake her, she stirred the moment he shifted out from under her, sighing softly, sensually. He was not going to make it to Kenshire at this rate.

  “’Tis morn already?” she asked.

  “Aye,” he said, standing. He had to put some distance between them. Alex stood, wanting to take the covering with him. It was as cold as an autumn morn. He’d just as well lay back down with Clara in his arms. . .

  Nay, not that.

  “Wait!” She cried out as his hand touched the side of the tent.

  He turned. The wide opening of her boy’s shirt had become untied, revealing part of one shoulder. That long stretch of smooth, creamy skin demanded his attention.

  Until he saw her expression.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I slept!”

  She stared at him, her eyebrows lifted and her eyes wide.

  “Aye lass, ’tis a common thing for a person to do at night.”

  “But my dream. . .”

  He shook his head, indicating that he didn’t understand.

  “Did I call out while I slept?”

  “Nay, you did not.”

  She shook her head, as if to dismiss their conversation, so he turned once again to leave. Some instinct stopped him and he turned back to face her.

  “How long have you had that dream, Clara?”

  Her head was bowed over her lap, and he found himself walking toward her rather than away. Bending down, he lifted her chin. Tears escaped from under her closed eyelids.

  It seemed he’d get his wish. Alex sat beside her and covered them both. He held her to him, comforting her as best he could. She cried openly against him, her shoulders shaking.

  “Shhhh. . .”

  She sniffled and wiped her eyes with the edge of her sleeve. He moved away for long enough to reach into his satchel and retrieve a dry cloth, but as soon as he handed it to her, he pulled her against him once more.

  “He. . . he. . .”

  She continued to cry while attempting to speak. The pain in her voice pierced Alex through.

  “He did it on purpose,” she managed. “For me to see.”

  Alex remained quiet as her sobs subsided.

  “I could not see his face. The men. . . they came prepared for battle. I should have listened to my father. I should not have come back.”

  So, this was what she watched each night; she was forced to relive her father’s death.

  “How could I leave him? He was all I had. If only I had been trained. If I’d been armed. . .”

  “You’d likely be dead too.”

  Her head was cradled against his chest, and her tears continued to make quick work of wetting his tunic.

  “I ran back from the secret passageway. They were everywhere by then. They’d breached the walls, and as soon as I pushed open the door in the floor and climbed up through it, I knew I’d made a mistake. But I was never afraid.”

  Alex lifted her shirt over her bare shoulder and rubbed it, listening.

  “I would have been,” she amended. “But there was no time. The man who walked up behind my father saw me. His face was helmed, but I always imagined his sneer behind it. He lifted the knife and plunged it into my father’s neck beneath his helm before I could even call out. He slumped to the ground.”

  She turned, her face streaked with tears, and looked at him.

  “’Twas the last I ever saw of him.”

  She blinked and returned to her previous position on his chest. Which was just as well. The pain in her eyes was something no words, no gesture of comfort, could ever take away. He felt helpless and inadequate in the face of it.

  “How did you get out?”

  Clara’s father had been killed in the hall of the castle where she’d lived. Her description of the secret passageway confirmed something he’d suspected. She was an English noblewoman. One who was lucky to be alive.

  “I could hear his voice, yelling at me to get to safety. Then the man. . . he saw me. Sometimes, in the dream, my father is still alive—lying on the ground, telling me to get out.” She swallowed. “That night. . . whether the man who saw me was killed or simply never bothered to chase me, I do not know.”

  She’d stopped crying. Taking a deep breath, she finished her story. “He was so angry that I’d gone back. I remember him emerging from the trees and pulling on my hand. . . Much of the rest is a blur.”

  “And then started your life as a lad.”

  She moved away from him as if she’d only then realized the intimacy of their position.

  “Nay. The idea came to Gilbert later, when he realized that while peasant’s clothes could hide my identity, they did not keep me from another kind of danger.”

  “Another kind of danger?” The words had hardly left his mouth before he already understood.

  “Men are not quite as discreet in their attentions to a woman in my new station.”

  He could imagine as much. Anger at the unknown, faceless men welled inside him.

  “Gilbert joked that ’twas as much for his safety as mine.”

  “When I asked you to remain as a woman, you feared being recognized.”

  Clara jumped up so fast, Alex didn’t have time to grab her. She fled from the tent, and he did not attempt to stop her.

  She’d clearly not expected to r
eveal so much. But though he knew part of her story, he still had so many questions. Why had they been attacked? Why did she still hide her identity? Could she not attempt to reclaim her rightful inheritance? Who was Clara, the most enticing, innocently fierce lass he’d ever met?

  Clara’s scream pierced his soul. In one fluid movement, Alex grabbed his sword and pulled back the tent flap.

  An overpowering rage coursed through his body at the sight before him.

  12

  He would kill them both.

  One man held his hand over Clara’s mouth while the other reached for her. Reivers by the looks of them. English or Scottish, he couldn’t tell. Nor did it matter. Both would die.

  “Hold or she’s—”

  Alex would do no such thing. Not giving either man time to recover from the shock of seeing him emerge from the tent, he moved on them so fast that his thoughts never caught up to his actions. He removed the most imminent threat first, the dagger wielded by the man who held Clara. Kicking it from the man’s hand, Alex ran his sword through the blackguard so quickly that his only reaction was to fall backward on the cold ground where he would remain.

  The second reiver was already upon him, but Alex had watched his movements from the corner of his eye and easily ducked the thrust of his lance. Alex spun to the left, away from Clara, and held up his sword in defense. Now fully prepared for a fight, the reiver came toward him once again. As he’d done to the man’s companion, Alex quickly found the exposed area beneath his leather jerkin. With one thrust of his sword, the man fell backward. But unlike his companion, this one did not die immediately.

  “We just wanted a turn with the wee lass,” he foolishly croaked up at them.

  Scottish. For today, at least. Though some reivers were honorable, others simply lived to prey on the instability of the border, making a living from others’ hard work. Scottish one day. . . English the next. . . whenever it suited them.

  These were the second sort of men.

  Alex saw the movement, as did Clara apparently. When the reiver grabbed the lance at his side, Clara’s sword arm darted toward the same spot Alex had already injured him.

  “This lass,” she said, “is neither wee nor Scottish. Know ’twas an Englishwoman who ended your life.”