She gave a shy laugh. “Forgive me. I didn’t expect my legs to be so weak.”
He shook his head. “Ye’re no’ used to riding as hard as we just did, nor for as long.”
She straightened in his arms and glanced over his shoulder, inadvertently pressing her body nearer to his. “Yer back.”
His heart slammed like a drum against his ribs. “’Tis fine.”
But it wasn’t. Something at his back drew tight and had snapped when he moved so swiftly to keep Clara from falling. Most likely, the plastered poultice at his injuries had cracked. Or something had torn. Either way, it wasn’t good.
Not that he would pay it any mind, especially as long as Clara was in his arms.
All that mattered was her.
With him.
In this moment between them and where it might lead.
Damn, but he sounded like a romantic fool.
“Nay,” she protested. “I’ll not have ye hurt yerself for me, Reid. Come, let me see to it.”
He tried to brush her off, but she was indeed as stubborn as she was kind. While she agreed to set up camp first and allowed him to assist with the horses, she kept her sharp eye on him the entire time. With an admirable efficiency, she had their bedrolls laid out and her bag of herbs at the ready while he coaxed a fire to life before darkness could leach away the last of their visibility.
She motioned for him to sit on the bedroll she’d unfurled by the flames and took the place behind him. “’Tis cold, I know. I can lift yer leine over the injuries if that would be more comfortable.”
Warriors didn’t care about comfort.
Aye, there was certainly an icy nip to the March air, but it seemed prudish for him to lift the bit of his shirt like a shy maid. He shrugged out of his gambeson, the absence of its weight already a relief, and peeled his leine over his head.
“That isn’t—”
He squared his back against the chill. “’Tis no’ that cold,” he lied. “And ye’ll be able to see better, aye?”
She said nothing as her fingers lightly spread over the skin near his wounds. Her touch was so gentle, it was nearly unnoticeable, even against the ache of his injuries. “Yer fever has returned.” The sound of the bits of willow being tossed into a boiling pot followed her observation.
Her concern for him was considerate but also somewhat disquieting. While he appreciated her worry, he was not used to being tended to in such a manner. He’d been on his own since his family was killed when he was but a lad of seven. There had been much he’d known in those years: the unfairness of life, the brutality of village streets, how those who helped often did so with selfish intent. It all had taught him to rely wholly and completely on only himself.
He was not on familiar terms with the kindness Clara exhibited, and certainly, he had never been coddled as she seemed set on doing. Naturally, there had been camaraderie among William and the other men of their raiding party and respect. But no one had ever given him anything without asking for something in return.
Which was all Clara had been intent upon doing since she first helped him to safety.
Mayhap with a soul as pure as hers, she was ideal for a convent. She would bring godliness to one of the places that oft saw corruption despite an origin of well-meaning intentions. After all, his experiences with those who meant to help had not been pleasant.
“I hope that didn’t hurt too badly.” Her breath brushed against his back, and her fingers lightly caressed the area near his wound as if she intended to take away his pain.
And she had, in a way, with that brief moment of tender attention. She could do so for others out in their cruel world, those who were in dire need of her earnest regard. Children who had lost their parents too young, like he had, would benefit from her goodness, as would young women in need of protection and lost souls seeking succor. There were far too many in need and, sadly, far too few ready to give.
He turned toward Clara, his heart heavy with the memory of his reaction when she’d told him of her plans. “I was wrong when I said ye were no’ the type to join a convent.”
She gave a shy smile and shook her head, her mouth opening to protest.
“Ye’re exactly the type of woman people should find among the nuns,” he said earnestly. “I only meant…”
She nodded for him to continue, her eyes wide as they fixed on his.
He hesitated before continuing, “I only meant ye’re too bonny.”
It was something he didn’t often tell women as they took his flattery with a determined resolve to make a husband out of him. He wasn’t the marrying type. He wasn’t the stay in one place type, either.
What was the point of having a cottage when it could be burned down? What good was having a family when they could be slain? And why bother with love when its departure left your heart ripped out and your chest raw and aching?
Nay, he kept his affections to himself.
Clara smiled up at him, so sweet and so damn alluring that he wanted to draw her into his arms and show her everything she’d never find in a convent. His groin stirred with longing.
“Ye told me before ye thought me beautiful,” she replied.
His brows lifted with genuine surprise.
“Well, ye didn’t have yer wits about ye at the time.” She bit her lower lip and shrugged one shoulder.
“Wits or no’, I was correct.” His hand acted of its own volition, reaching out to the softness of her cheek and stroking down to the line of her jaw. “Ye are beautiful.”
She tilted her head higher in response. The way a woman did when they wanted to be kissed. It was an age-old reaction, one he would do better to ignore.
And one that he found, he could not resist.
Not when it came to Clara.
Clara had never been kissed. There had never been a man who caught her attention or made her pulse go even a whisper offbeat. At least, not until this moment. Until this man.
Her heart thundered in her chest, and she found herself locked on his hazel eyes. The beautiful flecks of green and brown and gold were lost in the glowing firelight, but she knew they were there and searched to find them now.
His hand remained on her face, cradling her jaw as if she were made of spun glass. His fingers shifted slightly, his callused thumb grazing the underside of her chin, and she tilted it upward toward him. Toward his mouth.
His touch was hot with his fever. She should pull away from him to pour his tea. Except she was held in place by his stare.
The moment his face lowered to hers, the breath caught in her chest in an exquisite moment of anticipation, unlike anything she’d ever experienced, and the heat of his lips closed over hers.
He smelled of wet wool and horses and an underlying spiciness that made her heart throb faster still. His mouth pressed to hers, and she leaned into the fire of his strong, solid body, grateful she was sitting down lest her legs gave way from beneath her.
His chest was firm beneath her hand, his skin feverish. She should stop. He needed tending to, not kissing.
Heat pulsed between her legs, and her fingertips moved of their own volition, smoothing over his muscular chest. She parted her lips, mirroring what he had done and kissing him back. A low groan vibrated beneath her hand, and he slowly drew back.
“I should be fetching yer tea.” She quickly turned to the boiling pot of willow bark, its earthy scent heavy in the damp air.
Reid shook his head and ran a hand through his auburn hair. “I shouldna have done that.”
The burning sensation in her cheeks slid down low into her belly as she poured the tea into the mug. What a ridiculous mistake she’d made in kissing him. In allowing him to kiss her. He regretted it, and she now looked quite the fool.
“Forgive me. I didn’t…that is, I thought…” The stilted apology stammered from her lips. Dumbly, she thrust the mug toward him.
He accepted it, his stare level with hers. “Ye’re to be a nun, Clara,” he said in a low voice.
Shame simmered under her skin—skin that still crackled with awareness at his proximity, at the pleasure of his mouth moving over hers. Somehow her resolved endeavor to join the abbey had wildly deviated at that moment.
And all it had taken was a single kiss.
She was grateful for his respect for her future path, even if she had so readily forgotten her purpose. After all, the reason for becoming a nun was to ensure her family would not worry about her. Traveling alone with a warrior whose body was riddled with scars and wounds and bruises did not bode well for a peaceful future, or for ensuring her family would not have cause for concern.
“I am to be a nun,” Clara stated, more brightly than she felt. “It was good of ye to be so considerate.”
He gave a tight nod and tore his gaze from her. She gathered her healing supplies with trembling hands. Her nerves had left her clumsy, and she accidentally knocked over stoppered jars and dropped a roll of linen, causing it to uncurl onto the ground.
Once she had secured the last of her materials into her bag, she looked up to find him wearing his leine once more. The neck of his shirt hung open, revealing the place where his muscular chest met his collarbones and strong throat. Her fingers tingled with the memory of how he had felt beneath her touch, and her lips still hummed from the caress of his lips. Heavens, even her heart still beat too swiftly.
But he was right. She was to be a nun, and it wouldn’t do to lose her head over a man—especially not a warrior.
His life was one of danger, and she needed one of peace. One of safety.
They shared a meal of dry salted beef, stale bread and a bit of hard cheese, all washed down with wine, in silence. Though the meal was cold on a chilly night, it still filled her belly and left her groggy with the need for sleep.
Reid was correct when he’d stated their ride was more rigorous than she was used to. She’d pressed a hand to his brow after they’d supped, confirming his fever had indeed receded. It had been intimate while she remained close enough to touch him as she gauged the tea’s effects. Before she could allow herself to be tempted to lean into him once more, she made her way to the opposite side of the fire and slipped into her bedroll for the night.
Despite Clara’s fatigue, sleep would not come. It wasn’t only the riotous tumble of thoughts through her mind but also the firmness of the ground beneath her and how even the burn of humiliation at that kiss was insignificant against the frosty spring night air. The frigid dampness managed to wriggle into her bedroll at the gaps near her neck. It settled deep into her bones until her joints ached from the tight ball that she’d curled into to preserve her body heat.
A log thunked onto the fire behind her, followed by a rush of welcome heat and light. Amid the pop and hiss of fresh wood being licked by greedy, glorious flames, Clara finally relaxed into slumber.
It wasn’t to last, unfortunately.
As soon as the fire began to wane, so too did its heat, and fingers of cold crept into her bedroll, rousing her from slumber. Another log was added, and then as the log dwindled, the chill came back. This happened twice more before the rustle of a person moving sounded in the dark.
Clara fingered the hilt of the dagger she’d brought to bed with her, fully prepared to defend herself if need be. Footsteps approached. She tensed and opened her eyes a slit, regarding the fire and the emptiness around her.
Where was Reid?
The air stirred as something lightweight landed beside her, and the bulk of a man settled atop it.
Ah, there he was.
His familiar scent mingled with the smoky campfire as he lay close enough to her that he was nearly touching her; his heat immediately began to warm her frigid limbs.
“This isn’t necessary,” Clara said through a clenched jaw.
“Yer chattering teeth were keeping me awake.”
Clara ought to apologize, but she was too exhausted and too cold. Instead, she melted against him, letting him thaw her from the back as she was heated from the front by the fire. He shifted slightly and his large arm eased over her.
It was an intimate embrace, putting them in a position she should have protested. But she could not help but revel in the way he held her. Not only the additional heat it provided, but how it appealed to something deep inside her she’d never explored before, a yearning she’d never even known existed. It made her relive that kiss they had shared and left her craving far, far more.
She slept on without waking again and did not rouse until the sun tipped its head over the horizon to bid them good morrow with its gilded light. Reid’s arm was still slung over Clara, hot and heavy where it dropped across her shoulder.
Never had she thought to share sleeping space with a man. She rolled toward him, careful not to disturb his slumber. While she had meant to touch her hand to his forehead to gauge his temperature, she found herself drawn to his relaxed face. Fine lines creased his brow, and the skin at the corners of his eyes looked as though he’d spent much time squinting against the sun, but the rest of his face appeared youthful, his expression blank and his lips soft. The whiskers at his jaw caught the morning light and winked with a coppery brilliance.
Suddenly, her palm itched for the prickle of those stiff hairs. She reached up and settled her hand on his face, slightly too hot, which meant his fever had returned in the night.
She slipped from her makeshift bed and prepared more tea for him, as well as a meal with their meager rations. The firewood had nearly all been used, most likely to keep the cold at bay—for her. A small wooden figure lying in the dirt beside the fire pit caught her attention.
Curious, Clara bent to retrieve it and found it to be a whittled image of a fox. And quite a well done one at that. Had Reid made it?
She glanced to where he still slept and put the carving into her pocket so it wouldn’t be left behind before she set about waking him. Once he had some willow bark in him and had broken his fast, he would do well enough. Or rather he should, so long as the weather held.
No sooner had the thought completed itself in her mind than the sky overhead rumbled with an angry growl and the promise of rain.
5
The day was bloody miserable with the Scottish rain at its most terrible. The rain came at them in torrents, lashing from all sides, leaving them drenched to the skin and chilled to the bone.
Reid clung to his horse, his body numbed through from the cold. Except for his back. The wounds Clara had tended to so carefully that morning felt as though they were being stabbed all over again.
For her part, Clara said nothing during their journey. She did not complain as other lasses might. Indeed, she did not so much as scowl or even glare malice in his direction for subjecting her to such dismal weather, rather than being within the dry, hallowed walls of the convent. Nay, she remained under the cover of her cloak and kept the pace he’d set, never once faltering, no matter how the lightning flashed, or the thunder cracked.
In all this time that he’d wondered about Clara after seeing her at the market, when he’d known so little about her. What he knew now caused his fascination to grow. Her compassion, her unending patience. How she seemed so petite and delicate in his arms despite her mercenary’s skill with her daggers. And the way she had been so innocent when he kissed her, so eager to return his affection.
It had been the tentative kiss she’d pressed to his mouth that made him recall his senses. She was meant for the convent. Not for him.
And it was just as well. He wouldn’t do as a husband. Especially not to a woman like her. If she were to wed, she deserved a man who could give her everything Reid had vowed a long time ago never to possess.
The rain intensified, and a flash of lightning was followed almost immediately by a crack of thunder that made the earth shudder. Clara’s mare reared up on its hindquarters, its front hooves stabbing frantically at the air.
“Clara,” Reid cried out as he urged his horse toward her. There wasn’t time to get to her, let alone an opportunity to take
the reins of her steed and calm the beast.
By some miracle, she held on. She leaned her body forward against the mare’s powerful neck. When the horse’s front hooves returned to the sodden earth, Clara was once more upright in her saddle. Her hood had been thrown backward, her dark hair plastered to her face with rainwater, her eyes wide with what she had just endured.
“We need to find shelter,” he said over the roar of the storm.
She did not protest and instead nodded, urging her horse to follow his once more.
It wasn’t simply that she had nearly fallen or that the lightning was too close for comfort. It was also that the mud was too deep and would freeze over as soon as the sun began to set. Already, the chill of dusk was beginning to settle in the air.
Reid led them to a nearby village, if the collection of rundown cottages and shops could be referred to as such, and found the solitary inn. Every man from the village seemed to have congregated in the tavern's smoky main room, their voices boisterous in a collective rumble, and the air hot and thick with so many people pressed into one room.
The tavern owner was not easily found, and when Reid located him, the man was bleary-eyed with drink.
“Two rooms,” Reid said.
The man gave a long, slow blink. “We’ve only got the one.”
Reid flicked a glance at Clara at his side. “We require two.”
“Well, we’ve got one,” the man repeated with a little smile as though he was laughing at his private jest.
Clara’s face remained impassive, but Reid’s heart thudded hard. They’d slept near one another in the cave when he’d been injured and again last night out in the open. But in the close confines of a room, the proximity seemed inappropriately intimate. Especially for a woman who was intending to become a nun.
Reid turned a desperate glance to the tavern owner.
The old man shrugged his bulky shoulders. “There’s always the stable.”
“Aye,” Reid readily replied. “I’ll take the stable. Give the lass the room.”
Clara’s Vow Page 4
