She whipped her head around. How had Alex come to be behind her?
“May I speak with your friend, Lady Emma?”
She appeared to consider it.
“Mayhap, sir. Are your intentions honorable?” she teased.
Clara giggled.
“Perhaps. And if they are not?” he teased in return.
“Then you most certainly may not speak to Lady Susanna,” she said.
Clara turned to watch the exchange in full.
“Well, then you give me no choice. You have my word, Lady Emma.”
Emma was not to be put off so easily. “You forget, Scotsman, I was raised with three brothers. I will have your word your intentions are honorable. Or your word they are not?”
This time Alex laughed aloud and Clara joined him.
“Very well. You have my word my intention is simply to speak with your friend.”
Apparently satisfied, Emma moved her chair away so that Clara could stand.
Since their hosts had already left the dais and were currently dancing to the harpist’s soft melody, she and Alex were free to move about the hall as well.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
In answer, he led her around the corner at the far end of the hall. A cushioned seat sat in the middle of a circular cutout in the wall, softly lit by a torch. Alex waited for her to sit, then sat opposite her.
“Lady Susanna.”
“’Twas Sara and Emma’s idea.”
“I’m surprised you went along with it.”
“Not as surprised as I am.”
“But I’m glad you agreed.” He sighed, his eyes intent on hers. “Tell me all, Clara. Let me help you.”
She didn’t know what to say.
“Do you think I’d ever harm you?”
“Nay, of course not,” she said, and knew it to be true. “But Gilbert. . .”
“Is no longer here to protect you. But I am.”
“For how long?” she asked.
“For as long as you need me.”
Clara leaned forward, wanting very much to reach out to him.
Alex seemed to understand and took her hand.
“I cannot put you in danger—”
“Clara,” he said and then lowered his voice. Though their conversation was private, neither could see around the corner. “I am in danger, you are in danger—every single person who travels or lives along the border is constantly in danger. But no more so than a woman travelling in disguise from tournament to tournament. You are competent, capable, and stronger than any woman I know. But someday the wrong person will learn your secret, someone stronger than you. You needn’t be alone any longer.”
She wanted to tell him. To trust him.
“Not here,” she said. “’Tis too exposed.”
“I will come to you tonight.”
Her heart leapt, but she couldn’t tell whether it was alarm at the thought of revealing her secret to him or excitement at the thought of being alone with Alex once more.
“Tell me of your journey,” she said.
He sighed and sat back, crossing his legs in front of him.
“She was nowhere to be found. Either the merchant was mistaken or Elkview is not
where she calls home.”
“So what will you do?”
He grinned, but Clara had learned to distinguish Alex’s genuine smiles from the ones he presented to the world to convince them he was truly happy.
“Geoffrey believes we should stay here for at least a few days. That someone will respond to our inquiries. But I’m not as sure.” He looked at her. “What do you think, lass?”
“Do you still want to find her?”
He looked thoughtful. “I don’t know,” he finally said, and Clara knew it was the most honest answer he could give her.
“You’ve said Toren and Reid have everything under control at Brockburg.”
“If Reid starts a war in my stead at the Day of Truce, we’ll get word of it soon enough,” he joked.
“Then mayhap you should stay.”
He lowered his chin, staring at her with intent eyes. “We should stay.”
She didn’t answer immediately.
“Clara?”
“Aye,” she agreed. For now. Maybe she would have to leave him, but she wasn’t ready yet.
“Then it’s settled.” He stood and took her hand, leading her back to the hall, but not before he leaned in close and whispered, “Tonight.”
When he squeezed her hand, Clara squeezed back.
Gilbert, I hope you can forgive me.
Alex led Clara back to the hall. Or Lady Susanna.
Whomever she was this eve, she certainly was not Alfred.
The moment Clara descended the stairs, Alex had known he was in trouble.
It had almost felt as if he was seeing her for the first time. Clara was more herself tonight. He could see it in every movement. Even her speech, which was nearly always guarded, seemed less stilted. The gown, her hair. . . they certainly drew the eye, but it was the ease with which she’d walked into the room that had grabbed his attention. And her voice which had so easily become one of a highborn lady.
He’d watched her throughout the evening, talking happily with Emma and Sara, and it was more evident than ever that Clara had been nobly born. Though she’d been remarkably adaptive out of necessity, she was meant for gowns and good graces, not smudges of dirt and a constant feeling of apprehension.
And he was determined to give her what she deserved. Permanently.
He could hear his brother laughing at him now. Alex was not too stubborn to admit Toren had been right. It mattered little that she was English. Or that they would have plenty of difficulties to work through together.
“Here,” Geoffrey handed him a mug of ale.
They stood to the side, watching as the ladies circled one another in dance, the wives of Kenshire’s retainers joining them. It seemed they’d scared the males back to their seats, or perhaps the others were as content as he and his host to simply watch the festivities.
“Gillian’s friend seems quite nice.”
Nice. He would use many words to describe Clara, and though ‘nice’ was certainly one of them, so many others sprang to mind.
“She appears to be getting along well with your sister,” he said.
“It appears so,” Geoffrey commented as the two women in question locked arms and laughed as if they had not a care in the world. She deserved this. Alex was glad the women had talked her into the ruse, even if it only lasted for a few days.
“I was so consumed with the search for my mother, I don’t believe I’ve offered my congratulations,” Alex said, nodding to Lady Sara.
Geoffrey beamed. “If it weren’t for the dangers, I would be even more overjoyed.”
They continued to watch the women, each buried in his own thoughts, until Geoffrey broke the silence.
“Does she know?”
Alex could pretend not to understand. But the effort would be futile.
“I believe so,” he said. As if she divined they were speaking about her, Clara glanced over at him. “But she doesn’t trust me completely.”
“Then earn her trust.” Geoffrey said it as if it were the easiest thing in the world to do. “But know your intentions if you don’t care to hurt her.”
Alex looked at his host.
“I fell in love with Sara well before I was prepared to do so. And nearly lost her because of it.”
“What happened?” he asked, genuinely curious.
“I finally decided to value myself as much as I did her,” he said as Sara approached them.
“Dance with me,” Sara said to her husband.
Their conversation forgotten, Geoffrey handed Alex his mug and scooped Sara up into his arms. “Gladly,” he replied, carrying his wife from the hall amidst cheers and the banging of mugs.
Alex couldn’t help but smile. He wasn’t sure if she’d referred to that kind of dance.
&nbs
p; He leaned against the cold stone wall, two mugs in hand, content to watch the scene from afar. Once the cheers died down after the lord and lady of Kenshire made their unconventional exit from the hall, the trestle tables were moved to the sides of the room to make way for more dancers.
Alex barely registered the goings-on, his mind fixed on Clara. How had his feelings for her grown so strong in such a short period of time?
More importantly, what the hell was he going to do about it? What kind of life could he offer her living as a second son at Brockburg? Assuredly, it would be better than travelling from place to place as a squire, but he wanted more for her than that. He wanted to give her the life she deserved.
He would not claim Dunmure Tower. He wished to have nothing to do with the place.
And then she looked at him. He noticed the stolen glance because he’d not taken his eyes from her all eve. Who was his former squire? What secrets did she hide?
He would finally find out. . . tonight.
18
Though Emma’s chamber was just one floor above the great hall, Clara couldn’t hear any of the festivities below. The main keep had been constructed for defense, and the walls were thick. Though modifications had clearly been made over the years, the original intent of the winding stairs which she had just climbed were to prevent attackers from ascending to the second floor. The thick oak door she closed behind her was both ornate and purposeful, its iron lock meant as a last defense—which, according to Sara, had never been tested.
But tonight she left the door unlocked.
She sat on the edge of the bed, grateful for the fire that crackled in the stone hearth in the corner of the room. She had begged Emma to reclaim her bedchamber, but neither she nor Sara would hear of it. They’d insisted there were plenty of empty chambers for Emma. Though the lord and lady had retired earlier, she’d left Emma in the hall. Her new friend had insisted she would not retire until the musicians stopped playing.
“If there’s music,” she’d said, “there’s dancing. Sleep can wait.”
Clara had never met someone so full of life as the youngest Waryn, and she liked her immensely. But Alex’s departure from the hall had pulled her attention away from her conversation with her companion.
“You’re not thinking of going after him, are you?”
Emma’s tone had been merely curious, not accusatory.
“Heavens, no!”
It wasn’t quite a lie, for he would be coming to her.
“Oh Susanna,” Emma said, tsking softly. “Don’t deny that your head has been turned in Alex Kerr’s direction every time you thought no one noticed.”
“Was I so obvious?”
Emma stood on her tiptoes, stuck her neck in the air, and peered at the place where Alex had last stood in such an exaggerated fashion that Clara couldn’t help but burst into laughter.
“I did no such thing.”
In answer, Emma pretended to peer around an invisible barrier, first to the right and then to the left. “Pardon me while I stare at that tapestry,” she said.
Clara placed her hands firmly on her hips. “But ’tis such a fine-looking tapestry,” she said.
The remembered laughter echoed in Clara’s ears now as she sat in silence, waiting.
She had Sara and Emma to thank for this night. And Alex as well, for it was he who had first encouraged her to discard her disguise. And even if this escape only lasted a few days, Clara would be able to hold onto these memories the next time she pinned her hair up and—
A quick knock and the door swung open.
Alex wore only his breeks and a linen shirt with its sleeves rolled up. He closed the door and moved toward her with long, purposeful strides. Without a word, Alex reached out to grab her hands, pulling her from the bed.
“I—”
He lowered his mouth to hers, covering her lips with his own. His tongue quickly followed, and Clara’s thoughts lost any semblance of coherence. She wrapped her arms around his waist and he pulled her closer, his hands settling gently on either side of her head.
When he pulled his head back, Clara felt the loss immediately.
“You are so beautiful.”
She looked down at her gown. “Aye, Emma choose it—”
“Not the gown, you.”
His hands continued to hold her as she drew her brows together. “But—”
“This was the first time I’ve seen you like this.”
He dropped his hands and backed away from her.
He gestured toward the gown. “Tis lovely. But your smile. Your laughter. ’Twas as if I saw you, Clara, for the first time.”
He blinked. “Though I still don’t know who you are.”
She took a deep breath, confident in her decision but nonetheless frightened to say the
words.
The overly large Scot, who was in charge of a small army, who fought like the devil himself, sat down on the edge of the bed and pulled her down next to him so gently Clara thought her heart might break. He cradled her hand and looked into her eyes, beseeching her to open herself to him.
Gilbert had told her to keep this secret above all else. But he’d also told her to trust her instincts, and she would follow the latter piece of advice now.
“My name is Clara Wheaton, daughter of the late Edward Wheaton, Lord Barrington, a once-favored baron and second of that name.”
“Barrington. . .” he repeated.
“’Tis a small castle with no village to speak of. The closest establishment is three days’ ride from the northern border of our land. And even that is isolated, for Keston House is known for—”
“Smuggling.”
“Aye.”
“Your father was a border lord.”
“He was. And unfortunately. . .”
She couldn’t do it.
“Tell me,” Alex said, his voice barely a whisper.
“A supporter of de Montfort,” she blurted.
She watched his face, which stayed remarkably neutral despite the implications of such an admission. de Montfort had led a revolt against the King of England. And her father had supported such a folly.
“My father fought for his king,” she tried to explain, “and was injured, nearly fatally so, for his efforts. But after he lost my mother—” Clara was grateful for the gentle squeeze of his hand, “—those who knew him said he changed. The father I knew grew angrier, more bitter with every passing year. To me, he was the gentlest and kindest man alive. But he also sheltered me more than necessary to my way of thinking. In his final years, he became nearly crazed with fear that something would happen to me, and though he wanted no part in the First Barons’ War, by the end, he was firmly in de Montfort’s camp.”
She closed her eyes, remembering the man she had loved above all others. It still hurt that someone she so respected and loved had allowed fear to override his good sense. “He was nearly killed at the Siege of Kenilworth,” she said, almost as an afterthought. Of course, it was not. That siege was the end of the baron’s revolt against the king as well as her life as Clara Wheaton.
“They came for him,” Alex guessed.
“Aye, and for Barrington Castle. The king’s armies were relentless in their pursuit of the traitors. My father returned to me safely just in time to be murdered by the king’s henchmen.”
He squeezed her hand once again. “I’m sorry, Clara.”
Now that she started, she just couldn’t seem to stop.
“I watched it happen, saw the blade slide into his neck. Watched him crumple to the ground.” She’d told him this part before, but the words wouldn’t stop gushing out of her. Tears threatened to spill onto her cheeks. “I didn’t scream. I didn’t try to stop it. I stood there watching, immobile.”
“You could not have—”
“When Gilbert grabbed me, I thought he was an attacker. I turned and hit him with such force, his shoulder hurt for days. Or so he said.”
Her cheeks tingled, the scene so clear in her mi
nd it was as if she were experiencing it anew. “My father, the proud man who kept me safe all my life, who survived the bloodiest of battles only to die in his own hall, a traitor to the crown.”
She let the tears flow. Alex pulled her close as she kept talking. Mumbling really. “As I said, I see it every night. Most nights. Not with you, though. But last night.”
“Shhh, lass.” He held her so tightly against him that Clara could feel the knot in his tunic pressing against her cheek.
“Sometimes, I’m running across the hall. Other times, I simply stand there, as it truly happened. Still others, we’re on a battlefield. . . not that I’ve been on a battlefield before. . . but ’tis what I imagine one would look like. Every time, the man stands beside my father, his face hidden. And Father never looks. He never turns his head, no matter how loudly I scream for him to do so. It ends the same way every time.”
She couldn’t continue.
“No one should be forced to witness such a thing.”
The sounds Clara made were hardly recognizable as her own. But she didn’t care.
He pulled her hair away from her face, rubbing her cheeks with the back of his hand.
“I’m so sorry,” he repeated over and over.
Eventually her sobs became sighs. She would finish the story. The whole story.
“Gilbert pulled me away from there, and we used the secret passageway to escape.”
“You had no time to leave before they came?”
She shook her head. “It was as if they’d followed my father, and the others who’d escaped, directly from the siege.” She rushed to continue, “Our people were lucky. Barrington was seized, and my father killed, but most of our household was spared. Some of the ‘traitors’ lost everything. Everyone. The price for revolt was more than being stripped of titles and land. Some lost their entire families and all of their supporters to death or imprisonment.”
“And the ruse?”
“You’ve heard of Margoth?”
“Was she the woman responsible for Simon de Montfort’s loss at Kenilworth?”
“Aye. Rumor was that she disguised herself as a man and warned Prince Edward of the earl’s unguarded state. ’Twas his foolishness, and her cunning, that led to the end of his misguided campaign.”
The Scot's Secret: Border Series Book 4 Page 15
