Clara’s Vow

by Madeline Martin

  If this was the only way to save him, so be it.

  “I can walk,” he muttered.

  “Thank heavens,” she gasped, releasing his arms.

  He pushed upright and swayed. His auburn hair hung down to his shoulders, dotted with bits of leaves and grass. There was a sharpness to his golden-hazel eyes as he studied her. “Ye stabbed me?”

  Heat effused her cheeks. “Well,” she hedged. “Now I’m saving ye.” She went to his side so that he could drape one sizable arm over her shoulder and she could assist him to her horse.

  He did not apply much weight on her despite his size. No doubt he was trying to walk more on his own than relying on her. “My destrier,” he gritted out.

  “Is he by the cottage?” she asked.

  The man nodded, and his weight began to rest more heavily upon her as they walked.

  “I’ll come back for him,” she said. “Only a few more steps.”

  He straightened somewhat, easing the bulk of his frame once more. Perspiration shone on his brow as he looked behind them with obvious concern over his steed, but he did not utter a single complaint of discomfort as he swung up on her horse. It was indeed a far preferable option to dragging him. She remained vigilant as she led her horse to the cave. Fortunately, no more English appeared.

  She led her horse into the mouth of the cave, and he managed to stagger from the old mare. The air inside was dank and held a clammy chill to it. But it was better than being exposed out in the open.

  He leaned against the wall and slowly began to slide down to the ground. “I need to rest a moment.”

  She didn’t try to keep him awake as his eyes slid shut. It was for the best, as she would likely have to stitch him up. After starting a fire with the remnants of what she’d used the night before, she lay a clean blanket on the ground beside him and reached for the bag still slung over his shoulders.

  His large hand gripped her wrist as his eyes flew open, bright with awareness. “What are ye doing?”

  She left her fingers curled around the strap, the worn leather smooth to the touch. “I’m seeing to yer wound.”

  His brow furrowed in obvious confusion.

  “I need to remove yer gambeson and leine,” she explained.

  His face smoothed in a subtle grin. “Ach, aye, but only because ye’re so verra beautiful.”

  She ignored his flattery as his eyes fell closed once more. He was not the first injured man to pay her compliments, and she paid them little mind.

  This time when she drew the bag over his shoulder, he did not wake. Nor did he rouse when she unfastened and withdrew his gambeson and eased his dirty leine over his head. Her gaze skimmed over him, noting the bruises and partially healed wounds marring his muscular torso.

  This was a man who had seen battle, and often.

  The wound at his back from her dagger still bled, but beside it was another wound, older, the skin around it inflamed. Perhaps it was not one of her daggers that had sent him to the forest floor but a number of injuries. She touched the former wound and gasped at the blazing heat there.

  His skin was hot. Too hot.

  A jolt of panic shot through her. It hadn’t been a weapon at all that felled this great warrior, but a fever.

  She poured out whisky from her wineskin and rinsed his new wound.

  “’Tis a fine thing ye’re sleeping,” she quietly said as she set to work cleaning the fresh injury and the one that had gone bad with infection.

  The poultice of plantain and calendula on his turned wound would help leach out the contamination while it kept the fresh injury clean and healing in a healthy manner. She carefully covered both with a strip of linen about his torso, and then she steeped some willow bark in the water she’d boiled in her small pot. Once the tea had cooled enough, she dribbled the brown liquid into his mouth with careful, patient drops until he’d had enough to reduce his fever.

  Hopefully.

  As she’d anticipated, he’d remained unconscious through her ministrations. Indeed, he continued to sleep on even afterward, as the sun sank in the sky and firelight played over his finely featured face. Rather than try to wrest his leine back on and undo her work, she laid a plaid over his chest to keep him warm.

  Though she didn’t intend to, her gaze continued to wander toward him. It had been impossible not to notice how attractive the man was with his auburn hair, straight nose and a strong jaw that warned her he’d likely be as stubborn as he was alluring. Equally inescapable of her notice was his strong physique. Even in his relaxed state, his torso was rippled with banded muscle beneath his scarred skin.

  Perhaps it was foolish to remain in the cave with him, a man more than double her own weight and emanating raw power. Just because he was Scottish didn’t mean he was good. And there were many with prejudice against her due to the English inflection of her accent.

  Except there had been kindness in the mysterious man’s eyes when his gaze fell on her after she’d thrown her dagger at him. She knew it made her seem whimsical, but something about the way he had looked at her touched a place deep inside her.

  He thought her beautiful.

  An indulgent warmth swelled in her chest. Surely, he meant her no harm, and even if he did, she was not defenseless. Not with her daggers within reach.

  And anyway, she could scarcely toss him out in such a state into the forest where Englishmen might happen upon him. If his fever were not tended to, he would most assuredly die.

  Therefore, it was easy to justify staying in the cave with the man as he slept, leaving only to obtain vegetation and a snared rabbit to make a stew for them both and reclaim his destrier. With luck, he would recover soon, and she could resume her travels to the Paisley Abbey, where there would be no more chances of encountering handsome, mysterious men in the forest.

  Her gaze slid to him once more, and her cheeks went warm.

  Foe he was truly fine to look upon.

  The savory aroma of cooking meat coaxed Reid from a deep slumber. His stomach snarled with hunger, dissatisfied with the hunk of old cheese he’d eaten some time ago. How long ago?

  He blinked his eyes open to find the world had gone dark save for the cheerfully burning fire, which reflected an orange-red light off the jagged walls of what appeared to be a cave. A pot hung from a strip of metal over the flames, its contents bubbling with whatever had roused him.

  Sweat clung to his skin beneath a thick plaid. His mouth tasted like ash, and his throat was dry as stone. Sleep tugged at him, even with the promise of food so near. His eyes slid closed once more when several questions assaulted his mind.

  Where was he?

  How had he come to be here?

  Where was his bloody leine?

  He jerked awake and pushed up on one arm. The injury at his back screamed in agony, but he brushed it aside, the same as he’d been doing since he’d been struck the past fortnight. ’Twas only a flesh wound, after all.

  The blanket fell away, leaving his damp skin chilled despite the nearby fire.

  “Ye’re awake.” A feminine voice pulled his attention to the right, where a striking woman approached him with a flagon. Her long, dark hair was pulled back in a thick braid, and the eyes that met his were a pale shade he knew to be blue despite the muted light.

  His heartbeat quickened with recognition.

  Clara.

  “Ye’re lucky to be alive.” She settled on the ground beside him and handed him the vessel.

  Liquid sloshed inside and made his parched throat burn.

  She nodded encouragingly. “’Tis ale.”

  He put the rim to his lips and tilted his head back as he drank deeply, reveling in the refreshing wash of cool liquid against his parched mouth. It ran empty all too quickly.

  Clara held out her hand for the flagon. “I’ll pour more.”

  “Why am I here?” He asked, his voice rough with fatigue.

  “Ye’re injured.” She cast her eyes demurely downward. “I fear I threw a dagger at ye
.”

  He stared at her, more with confusion than fascination. His thoughts were like icy mud, slushy, opaque and impossibly thick. “Why would ye do that?”

  “I thought ye were an Englishman.”

  It was a simple enough answer, and he nodded. After all, he’d have thrown a dagger as well if he thought there was an Englishman nearby.

  “Ye had an old wound near the injury I caused,” she continued. “’Twas inflamed.”

  He frowned. That was why the damn thing hurt like sin.

  “Ye had a fever.” She reached a slender hand toward him and hesitated, her gaze meeting his as though seeking permission to touch him.

  He nodded again. She could caress him any way, anywhere she liked. His loins twitched at the prospect.

  In the end, her fingers rested lightly against his brow. Worry pinched her brows together. “Ye still have a fever.”

  There was a clean, sweet fragrance about her, like lavender. The scent was as soothing as the cold press of her hand against his burning skin had been. He wanted to stay here, wherever they were, with her. Forever.

  He wanted her cool body against every blazing inch of him, those wide blue eyes staring into his own so that he might drink her like a reinvigorating ale. But he needed to leave. With haste.

  Why?

  He strained to think, his eyes narrowing with the effort.

  Clara rose from his side. Away from him.

  “Wait.” Without thinking, he reached for her, catching her arm.

  She startled but did not pull away. Instead, she met his gaze with a steely one of her own. “Do not mistake my kindness for weakness. I can easily put another dagger in ye to match the first.”

  Despite her bravado, her voice quavered. He had frightened her.

  He let go abruptly. “Forgive me.” He shook his head. “I’m no’ myself.”

  “I’ll bring ye some stew and steep a bit more tea.” She pressed her gentle touch to his brow once more. “For yer fever. Ye need more rest.”

  Food.

  Rest.

  Aye, that was what he needed. Except there was a reason that he shouldn’t. His thoughts churned slowly over the events that led him to have one of Clara’s daggers in him.

  The house. On fire. The mother and her child.

  His hand curled into a fist. He shouldn’t have stopped, but he did.

  Dumbarton.

  Awareness snapped through him. “I must go.”

  “I think not.” Clara leaned over him with a wooden bowl full of stew. A tendril of steam rose, alluring and aromatic. She handed him a bit of bread.

  He hesitated. “I’ll stay for a bit of stew first,” he conceded.

  She settled across from him, stirring a pot full of sticks and brown water. “And a rest.”

  “I canna.” He dipped the bread into the stew and began to eat. The meat was tender, the vegetables inside soft and the flavor beyond compare to anything he’d had in the last year on the trail.

  She studied him. “If ye don’t allow yerself to rest, ye’ll die.” Despite her tone's lightness, there was a certainty in how she spoke that made the hairs on his arms stand on end.

  There was no doubt in what she said.

  “If I dinna leave, hundreds will die.” He scooped up the last bit of the stew with the remaining heel of bread. “Better one than many.”

  “Better to not lose any at all.” She poured the brown water into a cup and held it out to him.

  “Ye’re a dreamer if ye think there willna be any death.” He eyed the concoction warily. There was an earthy aroma to it. Like dirt.

  He wrinkled his nose.

  “’Twill bring down yer fever.” She pressed it toward him, and this time, he took it. The pottery was hot against his fingertips, but he held tight and swallowed the scalding drink.

  “Are ye pleased?” He pushed up to his feet.

  The room tilted, and he staggered as he sought to find his balance.

  “I will be soon.” She rose in front of him and took his hands in hers, cautiously guiding him back to the makeshift bed—a siren leading a weary man to slumber. “Rest a bit,” she coaxed.

  Dizziness made the world swing around him; a discomfort eased only by lying on the blanket as she instructed. “I canna stay,” he muttered in halfhearted protest.

  He was so damned tired.

  “Ye must.” She appeared over him, her bonny face like a dream. An angel. A goddess.

  “I must go.” His tongue felt too thick to work properly, and his words came out slurred and broken.

  “Why are ye so insistent?”

  “I canna tell ye,” he said on a long exhale.

  She said nothing else, and in that brief lull of silence, sleep claimed him.

  Clara held her breath as the mysterious man relaxed back into a deep slumber. He was a fool to think he’d survive any journey in his state. What could be of such great urgency that it was worth the risk of his life?

  He’d said many would die if he did not arrive.

  Her gaze wandered to the leather bag that had been slung across his chest. The one he’d been so resolved to not part with.

  She looked back toward him, noting he now dozed soundly. A sheen of sweat glistened on his naked torso, the golden firelight masking his injuries. He looked powerful. Beautiful. Like something otherworldly.

  And she was a fool for trusting him so implicitly. The leather bag drew her eye once more. She wouldn’t allow him to die, but nor would she become a victim of gullibility.

  Resolve set firmly in place, she reached for the bag and pulled open the flap. The contents within were meager: a bit of cheese that time had left discolored with mold, some bread too hard to consider eating, a few coins and a missive with a bent corner. Though she tried to remain quiet as she unfolded the note, the parchment made a soft rustle that echoed off the stone walls, sounding impossibly loud. Her gaze skimmed over the closely written text and her heart stopped.

  He was correct. If he didn’t arrive in Dumbarton before the English raiding party attacked, many people would die.

  But how could he make the trip in his condition?

  She refolded the missive with quiet care and returned it to the bag. The flap fell back into place silently, its leather worn flimsy with age and use. A band of tension knotted at the base of her neck.

  Innocent men, women and children’s lives were at stake.

  She put her hand over the ache in her chest for the hapless souls. Their safety took precedence over anything else.

  The convent would still be there when the missive had been delivered into the hands of its intended recipient. Furthermore, Paisley Abbey was not expecting her, so there was little need for additional contemplation.

  She would journey to Dumbarton in the injured man’s place.

  3

  Fire licked at Reid’s back. His mind filled with memories of the cottage he’d once shared with his family, how he and his mum and wee Ewan had remained inside as long as they could. Until the heat was unbearable and the smoke choked their lungs and burned their eyes.

  Reid was ablaze now. His breath locked in his throat. He cried out in a harsh, gasping exhale.

  Gentle hands caressed his face, and the scent of herbs filled his nostrils.

  “’Tis only a dream,” a soft voice said.

  His eyes flew open, his body tensed for battle.

  Clara’s light blue gaze locked on his and held it, her expression so consoling that it smoothed the ragged place inside his soul. “’Tis only a dream, warrior.”

  But it hadn’t been when he was a lad. The fire earlier that day had brought on too many memories—more than he ever wanted to think on again.

  Clara’s touch glided over his brow, cool against the inferno of his skin. “Yer fever is breaking.”

  He closed his eyes in pleasure at the calming touch. The temptation to remain with her teased at him for a brief moment, to bask in her calming presence and compassionate ministrations.

 
Alas, he could not.

  He swallowed as he recalled why he was in the damp cave illuminated by a flicker of meager firelight. Nay, not only firelight but the gray tinge of pre-dawn outside. He needed to be back on the trail to Dumbarton.

  People would die if he did not leave.

  “I canna stay here.” He pulled away from her and pushed up to his feet, sending the blanket over him dropping to the ground. The cold air that rushed at him was glorious against the heat of his skin. The pain lancing at his back, however, was not.

  Abruptly, he realized where the burning at his back in his dream had originated. It wasn’t from a long-ago fire but his current wounds. Both the fresh one from when she’d thrown a dagger at him and the other she claimed had become infected.

  He braced the heel of his palm on the rough stone wall to steady himself on his feet. This time, the room did not dip and spin as it had before. The food he’d eaten earlier must have bolstered his strength.

  Good.

  He would have great need of it for the journey ahead. It would serve him well to eat a final time before his departure. Especially when one never knew when their next meal would be while traveling.

  Except there were no more bowls of stew that he could see, and the single pot on the flames held only a few sticks floating in a bubbling broth of murky water.

  None of the small satchels and jars of herbs were laid out as before either. In their place was a single, bulging sack. As though it had all been packed up.

  “Ye cannot go,” Clara said.

  He returned his attention to her. “I’m fine.”

  She studied him, and he was struck with how thick and long her lashes were. Lovely. She was even bonnier than he recalled from the first time he’d seen her at the market almost a year ago.

  Her brows furrowed with concern. “Ye’re not. Yer fever has only just begun to break and will most likely return.”

  “A fever willna keep me from my duty.” He pushed off the wall to prove his strength. If he could stand on his own, he could ride a horse. “I must go.”