Clara gestured to their surroundings. “This will help because—”
“I can’t tell you what that feeling means, Clara. But I can show you.”
13
“Show me?”
Clara’s heart thudded faster in her chest, and she inhaled deeply, taking in the familiar scent, a mixture of horse and hay. It was not unpleasant. She’d slept many nights in stables like this one, though the accommodations were vastly different than the soft feather mattress of her childhood.
“That feeling, lass, is desire.”
“Oh.” It came out as a strangled sound.
He walked toward her, straw crunching under his feet. “’Tis the same feeling I get every time I look at you. When you lie in my arms at night, the feeling is so strong I can hardly sleep.”
He nodded to her hat. “Take that off.”
A little thrill shot through her, but she said, “If I’m not your squire, then I don’t believe you’ve the right to order me as such.”
“You are—”
“What exactly?” It was the question she’d asked him earlier—the one he hadn’t answered. Because there was no answer. If she was not his squire. . . if she did not train with his men. . . she was no one to him. The incident back at camp proved that her disguise was still necessary.
“Clara, I said I’d answer your questions, which I cannot do with that ridiculous disguise in place.”
“But ’tis not safe here to—”
“We are alone and will remain so for the evening. None will be arriving at the inn this late, and I’ve ensured we will not be disturbed.”
“How could you ensure such a thing?”
“I paid for it. Now will you please. . .”
“Hush,” she said impatiently. She was curious. And there was no denying that she did want this.
Clara removed the hat and pins, shook out her hair, and bent down to the satchel Alex had carelessly discarded. She wiped her face as best she could without water and turned toward him once again.
“You’ve got smudges,” he said, taking the cloth from her hand, “here.” He wiped her cheek. “And here.” He did the same to her forehead.
Clara stood still, mesmerized by his gentle yet precise touch. While she watched, Alex finished his ministrations and then tossed the cloth aside.
“You see,” he took a step toward her, his head nearly touching the rafters of the loft that would be their home for the night. “When you look upon someone you desire. . .” He came closer still and lifted her squire’s tunic above her head. “Your body tells you in many ways.”
Tossing it aside, he touched the binding.
“When I first saw this—” he touched the cloth with his hand, “—I could not clearly see what was hidden beneath it. But my body already knew what it took my mind a moment to understand.” His second hand moved to help the first, unwrapping the tightly wound fabric from her body. She could see his expression thanks to a small window opening in the stables beneath them that let in the moonlight. She reached up to hold onto his shoulders, afraid she might fall.
“I desired you immediately, though not as I do now. I did not know you well enough to admire you then. And I was angry at your deception.”
Her breasts were finally fully uncovered. She moved her hands to conceal them, but he wouldn’t allow her to do so.
“But those feelings you mentioned were there, anyway. Just as they are right now.”
He cupped her breasts in both hands, and Clara thought for sure she might die. It was as if he’d branded her. She closed her eyes, luxuriating in his touch.
“Desire,” he said, his voice so low she could hardly hear him. And then his hands moved, his thumbs brushing across the tip of each breast. “’Tis a powerful emotion. One that makes people do unusual things.”
She opened her eyes. “Such as?”
He took a step toward her. “This.”
His mouth came down on hers in a rush of heat and warmth. Of pleasure. His tongue dove into her mouth and he hauled her up against him. This kiss was unlike the others. It was hard and fast, demanding. She gave what he asked for, tentatively touching her own mouth to his and then becoming bolder as the sounds he made encouraged her.
He broke away, moved her hair to one side, and began to kiss her neck. His tongue flicked against her skin, behind her ear and then lower.
“I want you, Clara, as I’ve wanted no other.”
“Want?” she managed to say.
He took her head between his hand and ran his thumb along her lower lip. He looked down, groaned, and took a deep breath.
“I want to make love to you. I want what I can’t have.” He licked his lips and left behind a trail of wetness she longed to trace with her own tongue.
“Give me your hand.”
She didn’t even think twice. Clara raised her hand between them. He took it, turned it over, facing her palm downward, and said, “Do you promise not to be shocked?”
“Aye.”
He guided her hand down their bodies until it rested. . . there! Even beneath the fabric of his tunic and breeks, she could feel it. Quite easily. It was hard, very much so.
“Desire,” he repeated. “The evidence is there.”
She’d heard talk, of course. Had been forced to look away many times, for the men who’d hired her to squire for them in tournaments had often changed in front of her. But she’d henceforth managed to avoid this part of a man. Now, she did not want to avoid it. Rather, she wanted to know more.
“’Tis hard,” she said simply.
Her hand pressed on her own accord, and the sound Alex made deep in his throat forced her eyes to his.
“It hurts?” she asked.
“Not precisely.” He moved her hand away. “Let me show you.”
He reached down between them and cupped her in the same spot. None had ever touched her there before, and at first it felt curious and strange. Leaving his hand in place, Alex kissed her again. This time, his touch was gentle. He teased her lips with his tongue all while continuing to press against her.
When she began to press her hips toward his hand, he abruptly pulled away.
“Does it hurt?”
“Not. . . exactly,” she said. And then she understood. “You felt the same way when I touched you?”
“I did, lass.”
“And when I sleep next to you?”
“Aye, then too.”
“Because you desire me?”
“Very much.”
Clara smiled up at him. “It seems I desire you as well.”
“Aye, it does,” he said, smiling back.
“So what happens next?” She tried to make her voice sound as if she was unaffected—when in truth she was anything but.
“That, my fair English lass, is the question I’ve been asking myself since the moment you demanded to come with me.”
He was hard, throbbing, and very ready. He could reach out and take her, show Clara the joys of lovemaking. Alex had never wanted anything more in his life. Almost every instinct urged him to touch her bare skin once again, run his hands along her breasts, tease those taut peaks, and take them into his mouth.
But he could not. Would not.
“I wish that we could continue our lesson, but I’ll not take the virginity of a maid. A woman whose name I do not even know.”
“I do not understand how that matters,” she said, leaning into him.
Ah God, this was going to kill him.
“It matters a great deal.”
Clara reached down, grabbed her shirt, and pulled it over her head. “Not to me,” she said.
She turned from him then and found the blanket in the corner of the loft. After arranging it on the ground, she promptly curled up on it, pulled the second one over her, and ignored him.
That she’d known the blanket was there, ready for the next guest to make use of it, proved she had taken refuge in more than one stable in her life. Disappointment coursed through him, but he did no
t go to her. No matter how much he wanted her, this was for the best.
As a second son, he was free to marry whomever he liked. But though he might desire her, though he certainly admired her, he could not take Clara to wife. It would break him if another woman he loved ran from him, and Clara had proven on more than one occasion that she had an inclination to do just that. She’d run from Toren at Bristol. She’d run from him after he’d discovered her secret. Nay, he would not be taking this woman as his bride so she could leave at the first sign of trouble. Which meant he would not be taking her innocence, either.
Alex climbed down the stairs, found their steeds, and pulled a bedroll from the saddlebag. Returning to the loft, he unfurled the bedroll well away from Clara and prepared for sleep.
He had finally convinced his body it was sleep, not pleasure, that it needed when the familiar sound of Clara’s nightmares began. Nay, he would not go to her.
Then she made another sound that confirmed she was, indeed, scared.
Muttering under his breath, he picked up his bedroll and moved it next to her. When he awoke the next morning, she lay in his arms, as relaxed and peaceful as a newborn babe. Of course, she was no babe and his thoughts for her were anything but motherly.
So it went for every remaining night of their journey. They slept in the open most nights except the evening before they were to reach Kenshire. That night they slept at another inn, though this time in a proper bed.
Ever since the night at The Anvil Inn, he’d kept his hands off Clara’s soft, creamy skin. . . with one important exception. He slept with his arms around her each night, even in the second inn. He’d fallen asleep on the floor that night, but he’d moved to the lumpy bed in response to her familiar cries. With hardly enough room for them both, he’d scooped her into his arms, and she’d promptly fallen asleep.
They never talked about their late-night arrangement or anything of consequence. Alex knew her favorite foods, the pastimes she’d enjoyed prior to becoming Alfred. He knew more about her, but there was an undeniable distance between them.
In truth, it was the longest, most torturous journey Alex had ever taken—the push-pull he felt toward Clara would be the ruin of him. At least they’d met with no further trouble along their path. Only a group of pilgrims and a sole English knight.
Arriving at the village of Kenshire, Alex and Clara wove their way through a crowd of peasants, merchants, and tradesmen until they came to a clearing that offered a most spectacular view. Though he’d been here once before, the sight before him affected him now just as deeply as it had then.
“’Tis so beautiful,” Clara said, riding next to him.
“Kenshire was once the seat of the king of Northumbria,” he said, repeating what his sister had told him on his first journey from Brockburg to Kenshire.
“I’ve been told about the trouble after the countess’s father died without a male heir, but I’m afraid I don’t know much else about Kenshire. Rumor tends to travel—”
She stopped abruptly, as if worried she’d reveal too much. He didn’t press her.
They wound their way through dusty but well-kept roads—a chapel on their left, a tavern on their right. It was a well-ordered village, much larger than Brockburg’s, and only after they passed the last of the buildings did the splendor of Kenshire Castle truly reveal itself.
Set upon a rock outcropping with the North Sea as one of its borders, the large stone castle had so many towers and buildings it rivaled Edinburgh Castle, though it was a wee bit smaller.
Curious glances followed them up the path to the guardhouse.
“—and Catrina told me there is quite a tale,” she finished.
“I’ll gladly tell Clara, but not Alfred.”
Alex wasn’t sure what had made him say that. The tentative truce between them relied on his relationship with Alfred. But he wanted to know the woman, not the boy she’d posed as for the last six years.
“We shall see.”
And although it was said innocently enough, the slight huskiness to her voice forced Alex to shift in his saddle. It was not a promise that held any more possibilities than a simple conversation, but. . .
They dismounted when the guard called down to them. After a brief exchange of words, the portcullis was lifted and they were admitted into the outer ward. Kenshire Castle boasted more paths and corridors than any castle where Alex had previously stayed. He prepared to be lost once again.
“Good day, my lord. And greetings to you—”
“Alfred,” Clara said.
“We’ve met before.” The steward bowed to Alex. “Under much more. . . “
“Tense circumstances,” Alex finished.
“My lord and lady are taking the midday meal and would be honored if you would join them. Are you hungry, or would you prefer a brief respite first? Oh, and I am the steward here,” he said to Clara. “Peter.”
“A meal would be most welcome,” she said.
This was another thing he loved about Clara. She ate nearly as much as he did. Though she was not thick around the waist, neither did he feel the outline of her bones, something he’d experienced with a few other lasses, who, in his opinion, were simply too thin. Clara’s body, what he’d seen and felt of it, was made perfectly.
They followed Peter through a second gate and the inner ward. Unlike Brockburg, where the buildings were close together, Kenshire was spread out. The small party finally arrived at the main keep, and once they’d relinquished their reins to a stable boy, Peter waved his hands.
“I give you Kenshire Castle.” Clearly he was quite proud of it. And well he should be.
They looked up, the four turrets of the keep towering above them and appearing to skim the clouds. But before they could enter through the doors Peter had just swung open, a woman appeared at the entrance.
“Alex Kerr,” the countess of Kenshire said, her voice firm and strong. “Why does your squire dress as a boy?”
14
Clara simply stared.
She was quite spectacular in every way. Lady Catrina was certainly lovely, but there was something about the countess that stunned her into silence—and not just her words.
Lady Sara was dressed in purple velvet with a simple string of beads hanging from her waist, and her long sleeves draped low and waved on their own accord when she moved her arms. She stood tall and proud, as if Kenshire was hers, which of course it was. The massive double doors that led to the great hall should have made her appear small, but this confident slip of a woman filled them easily.
And now, with a few simple words, Clara’s secret was out in the open.
“I’m not sure—” Alex began.
“I’ll forgive that you’ve spent the past several nights attempting to keep yourself alive on the road. I’ll even look past the fact that you’re a Scot.”
Clara’s eyes widened until it registered that the countess was teasing Alex.
“But if you think to lie to me before enjoying the hospitality of Kenshire for whatever purpose you’ve come here to serve, then leave the girl and return to Brockburg. If you do so, and stop at Bristol on the way, please tell Catrina I offer greetings and good wishes, of course. I do adore your sister.”
Despite the fact that she just had revealed her secret, Clara immediately wanted to be this woman. She wanted to shed her boy’s clothes, her past, her present, and become. . . well, not the Countess of Kenshire, precisely, but as brash and fearless as the woman who wore that title. Despite the fact that she just outed her.
“I’d not presume to do so, my lady.”
Peter cleared his throat. “Shall we continue the conversation in the hall? Our guests are much in need of sustenance, I suspect.”
Lady Sara turned from them, which was when Clara realized. . . she was pregnant. She was not so far along that it was easy to tell from the front. But from the side, there was no doubt the countess would become a mother.
Although it was easily the grandest great hall Clara
had ever seen, it nonetheless possessed a warmth that Brockburg lacked. Every wall was covered with colorful tapestries, the ceiling was spectacular in its height, and wooden beams crossed from one end of the hall to the other. What surprised her most was the number of people present. The trestle tables were filled with retainers, knights, and visiting nobles—or so she assumed.
As they walked toward the raised dais, Lady Sara reached out to touch her arm.
“Will you come with me?”
Clara looked immediately to Alex, not realizing she’d done so until Lady Sara glanced his way as well. Clearly agitated, he watched them closely.
“I will not hurt you, nor will I ask anything of you. I merely wish to speak with you.” Alex moved to follow them. “Alone,” she added pointedly.
Clara nodded her head in assent.
The lady of Kenshire led her toward an anteroom tucked at the front of the hall. A bench sat at the base of a rare stained glass window looking out into the courtyard.
“My lady’s maid, Faye, chastises me for wearing breeches,” Lady Sara said. “At least, a woman’s version of them.”
Clara looked down at her own attire. “You were in hiding as well?”
Her laugh was not the dainty laugh of a great countess but the hearty one of a woman who cared little about social graces. Clara already liked her. “There were days when I would have very much liked to be in hiding, but nay, I was not.”
Lady Sara pulled the long sleeve of her gown onto her lap and folded her hands. “Just this past year, this—” she swept her hands to indicate everything around her, “—was in jeopardy. My father had died, and his only male relative attempted to claim Kenshire for his own.”
Clara could tell by the quiet, serious tone of Lady Sara’s voice that she was sharing something important. But why? Why would she reveal herself to a stranger?
“But before his death, my father sent two reivers here to protect my inheritance.” She sighed. “And me.”
“Reivers?”
“Aye. And I was none too pleased. But it happened that one was a good friend of my father’s. The other?” The smile that reached her eyes told Clara all she needed to know. “Is now my husband.”
The Scot's Secret: Border Series Book 4 Page 11
